The Return of the Burgomaster

YOU feel the pulse of Brussels at her Place de Ville. Since Sunday, November 10, I have wanted to be there day and night. Again and again in the four terrible years, we tried to picture the Place de Ville on the Day of Liberation. The reality of Sunday, November 17, makes all our imaginings pale.

Just one week before, Sunday afternoon the tenth, the two thousand German Reds had gathered at the Gare du Nord, then separated into squads of about fifty, and with red flags flying had set about their work. They opened the doors of Saint-Gilles and other prisons, and tattered, vermin-covered English and Italian and Russian prisoners staggered into the streets, where Belgians hastened to offer them baths and clothes and food.

Other squads went to the house of the arch-brute Rupprecht of Bavaria, fired on it, and compelled him to renounce his command.

The word oftenest used by the Belgians this week is pitoyable — contemptible. They almost forget their hate in their unutterable contempt. They would have been glad, for the sake of human dignity, to recognize in their slave-drivers at least some single fearless gesture. You should hear them describe the flight of the cowardly Rupprecht to the Spanish Legation, where he begged for a bed.

The Marquis de Villalobar, ever fearless, went promptly to the Reds (council of soldiers and sailors) to announce that since, as protecting minister, it was his duty to shelter those in danger, he proposed to keep Prince Rupprecht at the Legation until he could send him in the Spanish car to Holland — which he accomplished on Tuesday. Governor-General von Falkenhausen fled to Germany.

The Reds then took over the Kommandantur, or German police headquarters and place of infamy. In Paris, on the Tuesday before, we had read that German Reds in Brussels had t hrown Imperial officers from windows. They had not, because it was not necessary. Officers tamely lowered their shoulders and bowed their heads to facilitate the stripping off of their military emblems.

Some soldiers near the Gare du Nord were too drunk to resign, so the Reds turned machine-guns on their headquarters, with the result that one hundred persons, including Belgian civilians, were killed that Sunday night.

The following day one white and trembling Imperial ran into the office of the Commission for Relief in Belgium, to beg for civilian clothes. It was a supreme moment for Mr. Baetens, the Belgian Director of that office.

Von der Lanken and Rieth, despised members of the Political Department, slipped quickly into civilian clothes, and got out to Holland Thursday.

So the Revolution progressed, very quietly on the w hole. On Monday, the 11th, the Reds were in control; the submissive Imperials wore white bands on their arms. To avoid difficulty, however, the German officer who later conducted Mr. Jacqmain to the frontier, to search for Burgomaster Max, wore a Red band on one arm and white on the other.

Tuesday the work of freeing prisoners continued; they were coming into Brussels from all directions. At the same time the Germans were gathering what they could, and getting ready to evacuate. And daily King Albert and the Belgian army were pressing toward Brussels.

I had left Paris the Wednesday before, by night train to Calais, and from there fought my way by special military train, American Army motor, broken-down hack, Belgian military car, General Headquarters car, and finally by a blessed C.R.B. car already working in Ghent (under Robinson Smith, who was arranging for the distribution of flour-sacks to cover t housands of windows recently smashed in East Flanders), through the Belgian lines and into Brussels by eleven Saturday morning.

In Alost, just free, ablaze with flags, and tearful and smiling, we passed Burgomaster Max, who had reached Brussels at nine the night before after four years in German prisons, and was on his way to his King, who was at G.H.Q. at Ghent.

Nearer Brussels, in Assche, there were no flags; people were trying to carry off the heaps of tile and brick and glass in front of their wrecked houses. In the street were many large guns and wagons which the Germans had had to leave, though they had taken time to remove the breech from each gun. Little Belgian boys and girls, despite the cold, were climbing over the war-monsters, and with especial delight were whirling the wheels of a great anti-aircraft gun.

A little farther on we began to run into Germans, and despite their sodden appearance, I breathed more freely when my little open car slipped finally inside the city and I saw a few Belgian police. There were crowds, quiet crowds, near the Bourse, where English prisoners had arrived.

I read, later, the posters on all the city walls, exhorting the people to preserve their calm and dignity till the last instant. But despite the calm, things were happening fast. Saturday afternoon we were told that we might expect Brussels to be clean of the enemy by half-past two o’clock Sunday. I say ‘clean’ because that is the word that passes. ‘A dirty, contemptible lot; only let them get out, so we may disinfect — pray for rain to help cleanse the city.’ That is the word on the street.

Early Sunday morning they began to move — Hindenburg directing from Headquarters. I was awakened about seven by the rumble of their wagons under my window, Boulevard du Regent. They were going — trains of wagons pulled by fine Belgian horses, — I had passed human horses all the way from Bruges to Brussels, pulling their pitiful refugee carts, — and piled high with sacks and bundles, gray army coats thrown over the top. There were two or three men riding on each wagon, and four or five walking beside, their coats bulging over their heavy packs. There were little carts with stoves and pails, closed hacks and open carriages, smart little Roumanian horses, groups of five and six cows — the cows of Belgian’s children. I hear they have not left one in Theilt, where tuberculosis is rampant. Between the wagons, companies of about fifty, marching four abreast, cyclists or cavalry running the linesome of these groups were trying to sing, but it was a sickly kind of singing.

Rumble and tramp, they were going, going! I kept behind a curtain, so that I might not spoil by even so little as letting them know I was looking, the superb attitude of the city. There were many Belgians on the boulevards, on their way to church; but, for them, this retreating army was invisible. They did not turn their heads to look.

When I reached Brussels in July, 1916, the thing that impressed me first and most was the Belgian’s capacity to obliterate his enemy. His hatred and contempt set up a wall and put the Boche on the other side of it. He never saw him.

And again, in November, 1918, this is the thing that first strikes me. All tense with unutterable emotion inside, on the outside no sign. The German may stay or go: on the street, to the Belgian, he is invisible. This is the supreme expression of his hatred and contempt.

About ten Sunday morning some workmen told me that the last Boche had left the Gare du Nord, and that they were already washing the station. All along the streets windows were opening, flags were flung out — Belgian, the Stars and Stripes, French, English, and a few Italian ones; while down at the Place, from a balcony of the Hôtel de Ville, the Liberation of the city was being proclaimed by Burgomaster Lemonnier, who so bravely carried on Max’s work, and who has himself a year’s prison record behind him.

In the marvelous way that things happen in Brussels, almost immediately a great procession formed: the city trustees, schools, the people, made their way to the Place des Martyrs, which commemorates Belgium’s independence. I had seen this square on their Independence Day, July, 1916, flanked by bayoneted Boches — no Belgian permitted to approach it, or drop a flower near it. And now, after four years, they marched again to the Place des Martyrs, solemnly singing the ‘ Brabançonne’ as they laid their wreaths at the foot of the statue.

Things were moving so rapidly that it was impossible to keep in touch with them. Belgian soldiers were slipping in by twos and threes ahead of the army; there were a few French officers, and always more released prisoners. People wanted to be at the Place, or on the boulevards; yet those who for four years had been cut off from loved ones sat anxiously, tremblingly at home. Many have not left the house for a few minutes in over a week — at any minute he may return!

Max was again in the city, and would be received at the Hôtel de Ville at halfpast two. The acting mayor, Lemonnier, and the échevins would welcome him, and he would take once more his place at the head of the Bruxellois. By rare good luck, I received an invitation to his historic reception — and Échevin Anspach called for me at half-past one. Inside the Hôtel de Ville we were met by other échevins, who helped guide me into the already densely crowded Gothic Hall — the most beautiful in that whole beautiful building. There were a few chairs on the platform for the échevins: a row just in front of it for the burgomasters of the suburbs; two rows of red-upholstered benches for women principals of the schools; but everywhere else people were standing — I should say, men were standing, for there were no women except the few on the red benches. On the platform, at the left, was a group of British and American and French officers, and at the right other guests fortunate enough to squeeze in.

There was a little table toward the rear of the platform — there Max would stand; and behind it, against the exquisitely carved oak wall, hung two handsome flags the flag of Belgium, and the brilliant red-and-green one of the city. Above them the gilded SaintMichel triumphed over the dragon, and all along the carved oak walls were ancient flags of the provinces, and historic statues.

Soon the échevins began to take their places on the platform. Lemonnier, the acting mayor, stood behind the table, with the Dutch minister, Von Vollenhoven, at his left. I know many were wishing, as I was, that Brand Whitlock might have been there. The Marquis de Villalobar was absent, too, having been summoned by the King, to G.H.Q. Next to the Dutch minister stood M. Jacqmain, the Director of Education and Beaux-Arts, one of the most conspicuous defenders of Belgium’s liberty, as his prison record testifies. All were cheered, but the great cheer was being reserved for the slight little man, with brown hair and French beard, — nervous, intense, and keeneyed, — who now slipped to the side of Lemonnier. As Max, in brown business suit, stepped toward the table, the few who had been seated leaped to their feet, and all joined in one delirious cry of welcome, which ended only when he raised his hand. Despite his control, the drawn lines about his eyes and forehead, his pallor, above all, the look in his eyes, suggested something of the torture of the four years. He stood against the red and green of the Brussels flag, his thin hands gripping the table as if to steady himself.

In dramatic and solemn language M. Lemonnier reviewed Belgium’s four years and two months of slavery, and the four years of personal humiliation and suffering for Max. As he followed him from prison to prison, and to dark cell for nine months, there were hissings and execrations. And when he said, ‘N’oublierons jamais’ (We will never forget), his listeners answered with a shout. And just then, from the seething square below, we heard an echoing cry, as if the whole city were joining in that pledge—‘We will never forget!’

As the cry died away, Lemonnier continued, ‘And now, we feel there is no more fitting gift that we can offer to you on your return than —’ And two gold-braided officials, who had been almost hidden behind the tapestried chairs, held high the framed originals of the two famous proclamations that had helped to send Max to prison. The first was to the people of Liége, declaring that the Germans lied when they said France had announced that she would not fight; the second called on the people of Brussels to take down their Belgian flags, as the Germans had commanded, — although Von der Goltz had promised that no such order would be given, — to martyrize themselves individually for the good of all — secure in their faith in their day of Liberation.

The applause finally ended, and a letter from the Spanish minister was read, welcoming Max, in the name of Brand Whitlock and for himself, and offering as a gift a book of gold in which are inscribed the names of those who from time to time demanded of the Germans the freedom of their Burgomaster. Then followed other addresses and a poem, all marked by a common sincerity and solemn dignity. As we listened, we heard strains of the ' Brabançonne’ from the square below, and then terrific explosions from somewhere nearby. They sounded like the booming of big guns on the line — what could this mean? Then again the ‘Brabançonne,’ and shouts from below.

And then Max. Slowly, distinctly, he spoke of his emotion, on returning to his family, to his city, after four years, and finding his house banked with flowers; of the welcome that almost frightened him. He spoke of the enduring courage of the people of Brussels, and then, as detonation followed detonation, ’As we talk,’ he said, ‘pillagers are engaged in their ignoble work, and we know who encourages them.’ (Lemonnier nodded assent.) ‘ With infinite regret we recognize that a few lawless ruffians are sullying the nobility and purity of our hour of victory. Our first duty ’ — his voice rang out — ’is to restore order to our city. This we shall proceed at once to do.’

Again, terrific explosions of the munition wagons left by the Germans, between the snatches of song from the Place.

Max paused a moment before he added, ‘I can almost say that I do not regret Belgium’s martyrdom, since it has saved her from a pacifist’s rôle in this war of civilization. She may be proud for all time that with her blood she has helped assure the future of humanity. The hour before us is immense.’

He spoke briefly of the problems of reconstruction, of commerce, and of industry; and as we were clapping and waving, two little girls and a boy were helped forward, with their great basket of flowers, tied with the national and capital colors. A happy moment for the children — and Max turned to hurry out to the balcony, to let the thousands who had been waiting there for hours have their glimpse of him.

And from that balcony I realized how pale my imaginings had been — that incomparable square, framed by the gold-topped buildings of the seventeenth-century guilds, all floating their corporation flags: the Gothic Hall of Roi Albert, — once the baker’s guild, — the Hôtel de Ville, on whose balcony we stood, with its fairy spire lifting the gleaming Saint-Michcl high above the city — all still there. And from every window people were leaning out, — free people, — while all the rest of the free city seemed to be packed into the square below. They appeared almost to be clinging to the walls.

Nothing could describe the cry of the Bruxellois, as the man who typified their fearless endurance, their four years of torture, appeared once more above them. How they cried out their hearts to him! Then all together we sang the ‘Brabançonne’ and the ‘Marseillaise’ and ‘God Save the King’ and ‘Yankee Doodle!’ A gay patriotic air followed, and since they could not move laterally, these happy thousands began to dance vertically. Never before have I seen people dance straight up and down.

We turned to say just a word to Max; then I hurried away, stopping only to talk with a mother, who had been crying as others were singing. After four years she had prepared the house for her boy, and an advance cyclist had just brought her word that he had been killed in the last fighting near Ghent.

Explosions and red sky — either accidentally or purposely, the pillagers, who were looking for any kind of loot, had set off German munition wagons, shattering houses near the stations and wounding and killing more innocent people — on the very day of their deliverance! However, by the next morning (Monday, the 18th) the explosions had ceased. Max has been putting the city in order. Not only ruffians are being imprisoned, but also those who have been suspected of selling willingly to the enemy: a sausage-shop keeper has just been taken off.

This morning (Tuesday, the 19th) I passed the King’s Palace, where workmen are scraping the moss of four years from the paving-stones, and cleaning and decorating with great zest. I learned that the Queen had sent word that the wounded, to whom the palace had been hospital, should not be moved. So like this splendid Queen! On both sides of the street in front, the cobblestones have been lifted and sixteen big holes dug for flag standards. We hear that the King, the Queen, and the two princes, and the beautiful little Princess Marie-José, will all ride in on horseback.

The Park, between the Palace and the Chamber of Deputies, which has been shut away from the people and used chiefly by German cavalry officers, will be opened, but not until every square foot of its soil has been cleansed — perhaps not until Friday, the day of the return of the King. Many a time in the black days I have watched hungry people reach defiant hands through the iron gat es of this Park to scatter crumbs to the sparrows.

Every hour brings more people — some lucky ones have been brought in a military or government car; many come on foot. The hotel-keepers are distracted, — there is yet no day of rejoicing for them, — no mattresses, no sheets; and even if they could get these essentials, they could not clean and disinfect under weeks. Every Belgian regards a place where the Germans have been as a place of pollution, and you have but to look inside to understand why. So all those who will crowd into the city must be taken into private houses; most will bring their own sheets and blankets. The first detachment of artillery is just rattling by.

The Whitlocks will come in to-morrow — perhaps Mr. Hoover and my husband. And on Friday the King will come back to Brussels!