On Friday April 31 Charles Vanderlinden collected from Edith Cavell three Frenchmen and two young Belgians who wanted to get over the border to enlist. On May 5 the Countess Jeanne de Belleville from Montigny sent a young neighbor, Raoul de Roy, to Edith Cavell. He too wanted to enlist in the Belgian army. She gave him her usual form to sign, saying he had been “operated on” successfully, and introduced him to a guide called “Anicet.” With ten others he traveled via Malines, Antwerp and Bergen op Zoom. But helping Belgian civilians enlist was qualitatively different from helping British men escape. The net closed around Edith Cavell, as she knew it would. “Suspicious people have been to ask for help to leave the country either in the form of money, lodging or guides,” she wrote in her diary. “People have been taken in this way several times.” She asked Jeanne de Belleville to “tell all the helpers not to send any more men here for the present, as my situation is becoming more and more strained every day.”
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WATCHED
At the time General Baron Moritz von Bissing was appointed Governor General of Belgium by the Kaiser, in December 1914, General von Luttwitz had been replaced as Military Governor by General von Kraewel. He was a small man with cropped hair and a little white mustache. He had lived in England and liked to talk about horses and jockeys. Von Bissing found him too lenient.
Each day, whatever the weather, a long bedraggled queue waited outside the Kommandantur, the headquarters of the military police—civilians trying to comply with the endless regulations, to register, obtain an identity card or travel pass, to find news of a missing friend or relative. Brand Whitlock said of this constant queue, “There was something degrading and shameful in the spectacle, as there is in any reckless and irresponsible use of mere brute force.”
In the nearby offices of the secret police, Lieutenant Bergan was head of espionage. He was about forty, tall, red-faced with a large nose, dark eyes and bushy brows. He spoke no French and had worked in the Düsseldorf police force before this war. His senior officer was Sergeant Henri Pinkhoff, a German Jew, thick-set with a black mustache and a large purple naevus between his left ear and nose. He had joined the British army when there was allegiance between the two countries. He then moved to Paris for fifteen years, ostensibly as a traveling salesman for an umbrella firm in rue du Paradis, but at the same time serving as a spy for the German government.
Thousands of casual spies, informers and agents provocateurs were in the pay of the secret police—about 6,000 of them in Brussels by the spring of 1915. They were of both sexes and all nationalities. Before the war they had been merchants, gardeners, butchers, prisoners. They rode on trams, hovered in alleyways and side streets, insinuated their way into groups or gatherings, intercepted post, ransacked homes, gave bribes, false gifts and promises, and turned their prey over to the military courts, the prisons and the firing squads. Any perceived crime against German troops or soldiers, any infringement or neglect of decree or edict, was punishable by these courts which rendered “extraordinary justice,” and chose what penalty to apply. Within a year of the occupation 600,000 Belgians had been taken before them, fined, sent to prison, deported or shot. New crimes were defined each day. Il est défendu … was pasted on the city’s walls. Men and women were indicted for housing wounded Allied soldiers, refusing to work for the Germans, assaulting secret agents, preaching patriotic sermons, disseminating or reading foreign newspapers, trying to cross the frontier into Holland, aiding men to join the Belgian army, distributing La Libre Belgique, mocking the goose step, whistling “La Brabançonne” the Belgian national anthem, “looking insolently at a German woman,” providing information for Les Petits Mots du Soldat. No household in the land knew, if there was a knock at the door in the morning or at night, that it was not the Polizei come to ransack the place and drag away one or other of its residents. A man might leave his home in the morning and not return or be seen again. A woman might return to her home in the evening and be arrested as she tried to go through her front door.
Such trials as followed were a charade, a perverse display of the procedures of justice with its spirit warped, a spectacle that sought by blame to justify its own wrongdoing. “Important” cases went to the senate chamber before a court of high-ranking German officers. The prosecutor gave his evidence and whatever penalty he asked was invariably given. The accused were seldom granted counsel, and if they were, the attorneys were not allowed to see their clients before the hearing or receive details of the charges against them. No case for the defense could be prepared. The attorneys could follow proceedings in court and say what they would, which was not of much use because the outcome was prejudged.
Such was the substance of criminal justice in Belgium under German occupation. The rules were these: power is ours because we took it by force. We are the lawmakers now. You must do as we say and go where we tell you or we shall punish you even by taking your life. Dissent is a crime. What you want and believe is irrelevant to us. We have the guns, the bullets, the uniforms, the keys. We will arrest you if we choose, imprison you if we please, kill you if you obstruct us.
Edith Cavell, Herman Capiau and Louise Thuliez discussed the likelihood of arrest. They knew they were watched. By June 1915 their work had become too difficult and dangerous, and the numbers of men who wanted help to escape had increased. Edith Cavell’s view, recorded by Louise Thuliez, was, “If we are arrested we shall be punished in any case, whether we have done much or little. So let us go ahead and save as many as possible of these unfortunate men.”
So they continued, undeterred by consequence to themselves. Messengers still ran from town to town distributing La Libre Belgique and Les Petits Mots du Soldat. The “girl guides” Louise Thuliez and Henriette Moriamé continued to search out lost soldiers and take them to the château at Bellignies. Jeanne de Belleville walked 30 kilometers one day, looking for an English officer “somewhere in Feignies.” (He had left for Brussels with a safe guide.) She got lost in the woods near Montignies when night came, and did not get home until morning. She could not think of what she would say if apprehended.
At the Bellignies château the Princess de Croÿ still sealed fugitive soldiers into the windowless staircase of its tower for three weeks at a time. Guns and ammunition brought in by them were still buried in an arsenal in the garden, then planted over with fir trees. The Germans seldom searched before 7:00 in the morning, so the soldiers washed and shaved early. But the searches became more frequent, random and thorough. Forty soldiers at a time would open books to look for money, purloin wine, sound walls and floors with iron bars to find hollow hideouts. “I was thankful that the tower walls were so thick that even near the hiding place they gave out no hollow sound,” the Princess wrote in her memoir.
Unconvincing strangers called at the château and at rue de la Culture. In June, Otto Mayer called, and told the Princess he was an escaped British soldier, and while hiding in Brussels had heard from a priest that she would help get him to England to rejoin his regiment. Mayer worked for the secret police. He was fifty, born in Alsace, had been a waiter in England and India and a guide for the travel agent Thomas Cook. He was fluent in French and English and married to a Belgian woman he met in India. The Princess advised him his wisest course was to give himself up to the German authorities.
Before the fugitive soldiers set off from the château at night for Brussels, the Princess de Croÿ’s dog, Sweep, would patrol the grounds and bark if he smelled or heard a stranger. When all was clear the men crossed fields to the first safe house. But by June 1915 such safe houses, convents, and abbeys, increasingly were raided and anyone suspected of complicity arrested. Guides were warned to divulge nothing to the fugitive soldiers that might identify the people with whom they stayed, or the routes they took.
Reginald de Croÿ continued to need money from the British army for guides, food, lodging and bribes for border guards. As suspicion about him from the German military grew, it became increasingly difficult for him to g
et a pass to travel to Holland.
Routinely and without warning the Nursing School was searched. In June two Frenchmen arrived and gave the password. One of them, Georges Gaston Quien, said he was an officer wounded in the foot at Charleroi and that he needed to get to Holland. He was tall, thin, blue-eyed, soft-spoken, ostensibly charming, but in reality a fantasizt, wily and odd, a thief, with a scant hold on the truth. He had an ingrowing toenail which Edith Cavell treated. Next day he said he was not well enough to walk far. Edith Cavell took the other man, a M. Motte, and a group of English soldiers, to the guide Victor Gilles. While she was out, Quien ingratiated himself with the nurses in the School, with the cook’s daughter Léonie, with Marie, Edith Cavell’s maid, and with Pauline Randall.
Two days later Quien left, Nurse van Til saw three strangers questioning the people gleaning vegetables in the opposite field, a uniformed German officer called at the School to ask for a room for his son who he said was ill, and Victor Gilles called to say M. Motte had disappeared from the group he was guiding to Antwerp and that he suspected he was a spy.
On the day after that Nurse van Til was asked by Edith Cavell to take an unaddressed letter to Philippe Baucq. In Chaussée de Waterloo, Quien approached her and invited her for a drink. She declined. At Porte de Schaerbeek he appeared again. Instead of going to Baucq’s house she went to a friend. She was followed by another man. Three hours previously the friend’s husband and father had been accused of sheltering French soldiers and arrested.
Quien, when the war began, had been in prison at St. Quentin in Picardy for spying against the French. The Germans freed him and he resumed work for them. He incriminated many resistance workers by preying on their kindness and by pretending he was helping Allied soldiers escape. He fed information about the de Croÿs to the secret police. He took two young men to a Mme. van Damme and asked her to help them escape. In good faith she and a friend guided them to the frontier. He convinced Mme. Bodart, who gave him lodging and a package of road maps, annotated with directions for a safe route to the border, to be delivered to a Mme. Machiel. A priest, Father Bonsteels, believed him and gave him a railway map which detailed the latest German modifications. Everyone whom Quien betrayed was subsequently arrested.
Edith Cavell feared turning genuine freedom seekers from her door, so she erred on the side of trust. After Quien’s visit a man by the name of Jacobs was brought to her by people who lived at 45 rue de la Culture. He said he had not known the number of her house, that he had escaped from a German prisoner-of-war camp near Maubeuge, and that villagers near Mons had told him of the help she gave men such as himself. He stayed a week, then left with a group who were crossing the border. Sister Wilkins found shredded papers in his room. He was Armand Jeannes, an agent for Bergan.
In mid June Otto Mayer, in civilian clothes, called at the School. Two Frenchmen and two Belgians were in one of the basements. Sister Wilkins managed to say “German” to José, who got the men out via the garden. Edith Cavell was in rue Bruxelles, a kilometer away, inspecting the progress of the new Training School. The deadline for moving in May had passed, and she was unsure if all would be ready even by autumn. Mayer showed Sister Wilkins his police badge. She answered his questions and was non-committal. He wanted to see the patients, so she took him to a men’s ward with genuine civilian cases. He asked her if she had any more Tommies. She pretended not to know what he was talking about. She was taken to boulevard de Berlaimont and questioned for three hours then released.
When Edith Cavell returned she burned a great many papers: her diary, addresses, records of the men who had stayed, letters. Next day Mayer came back with four other policemen and searched the place. They found nothing significant. On June 14, after such scares and warnings, Edith Cavell wrote the last letter to reach her mother, whose birthday was on July 6. It was careful, measured, and had a tone of valediction:
My darling Mother
Very many happy returns of your birthday & my best love & good wishes—I have always made a point of being at home for July 6, but this year it will not be possible. Even if one could leave the country, to return takes a long while for I heard England expects 2 months notice before giving a passport. It is still a long while to your birthday but I am not sure of having another occasion of sending, & letters probably take a long while to arrive—I still have no more recent news of you than your letter of Jan 24—except a word from a lady who crosses sometimes & who says you are very well—for this I am grateful.
Do not forget if anything very serious should happen you could probably send me a message thro’ the American Ambassador in London (not a letter). All is quiet here as usual. We are only a small number so many being at the front nursing the Belgian soldiers—but also we have less work for no one can think about being ill at present.
Our new School is still unfinished and I see no prospect of moving in—the little garden in front flourishes but the ground at the back cannot be planted as it is still encumbered with bricks and rubbish … If you will reply to the address which will be sent with this letter I shall perhaps hear from you in 3 or 4 weeks time.
We have had some fearfully hot weather followed by severe thunder storm—It is cooler again now & windy. You will have read of the exploit of Lieut. Warneford. We were awakened by the noise and saw the smoke & flame—I should like to say more but leave all the interesting things till I see you again—all was true and more—the next two days newspapers from Holland were suppressed. I should be glad to know whether Mr. Jemmett has sent me the £50 I asked for thro’ the Embassy. If not I hope he will do so at once—as we are needing money. We have not heard a word from him or Mrs. J. for many months.
I do hope you will get a little holiday at the sea or in the country this year. How does the garden look and have you a good maid? Pauline flourishes but is small—as she is 16½ now I am afraid she won’t grow any more.
My dearest love—the post is here.
She was daring to say much less than ever, though she needed to say a great deal more. She was in peril and now expected to be apprehended and imprisoned. She knew she would need help, but she did not want to alarm her mother. The something “very serious” was imminent arrest. The only communication possible when that happened would be via the American Ambassador in London, and Brand Whitlock at the American Legation in Brussels.
Reginald Warneford and the newspapers were more thorns to the German military. Warneford was twenty-three and a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy. The previous week in a two-seater plane he had chased a Zeppelin from Ostend to Ghent, flown above it, and dropped bombs on it. The Zeppelin crashed to the ground in flames and its crew of twenty-eight were killed. Allied newspapers were full of his heroism. He was given the Victoria Cross and the Légion d’honneur. The German military responded with more intimidation of Belgian citizens and threats of death for anyone found with arms or ammunition.
Many German soldiers had themselves had enough. Levels of desertion were high. The Forêt de Soignes near Brussels was searched for deserters. One day the rue du Commerce was closed, and all houses searched, because six German officers were thought to be hiding there. German soldiers brought back from Russia to fight on the Western Front were said to be “half mad with terror.” This war was not the joyride the generals had anticipated. In a year of fighting the front had barely moved a few meters.
At the end of June the Princess de Croÿ visited Edith Cavell, traveling with a homemade identity pass, to tell her they must stop their work. Sister Wilkins let her in. Edith Cavell was attending a surgical operation upstairs. The Princess waited:
I sat in her little sitting room whose sole ornament was two shelves containing books of devotion and works on nursing, until Jack, a big shaggy dog of whom she was fond, but who was anything but friendly to strangers, bounded in, followed by his mistress. Nurse Cavell was slight, but very straight, with large earnest grey eyes which seemed to see through one, and a quiet dignified manner which commanded respect. In her g
entle voice she said, “I wish you hadn’t come. I am evidently suspect. Look at those men cleaning the square in front; they have been there several days and are scarcely working at all. They must be set to watch the house.”
The previous day the place had again been searched. When armed police broke in she threw papers in the grate, doused them with alcohol and set fire to them. The men searched her office and took hospital records. She worried how she would explain the School’s finances to Dr. Depage.
The Princess spoke of how the château was surveilled and searched. She said they must stop. Edith Cavell looked relieved, but then asked if there were more hidden men. The Princess told her Louise Thuliez had found another thirty in Cambrai. Edith Cavell said if that was the case they could not stop: “If one of those men got caught and shot it would be our fault.” They agreed at least that no more would be sent to lodge with her. The thirty men must be found safe houses. She would supply and direct guides, and communicate information as to how they could get to Holland.
When the Princess left, Edith Cavell told her to go down to the corner where a shop window would reflect the road behind her. Check in this, she said, then turn left where there was a pastry shop by the tram stop. Hesitate, as if about to go into the shop. When the bell sounded for the tram to start, jump on it wherever it was going.
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