Chapter VIII: A Prison and a Prisoner

One afternoon one of the young doctors in the American hospital invited Barbara to go with him to visit one of the German prisons. These prisons sheltered a number of wounded British and French soldiers. There were scarcely a sufficient number of hospitals to take care of the German wounded alone.

Dr. Mason, the young American surgeon, was about twenty-five years old. He had been sent into Belgium by the Red Cross societies in his own village in Minnesota. So, although his home and Barbara Meade's were many miles apart, at least they were both westerners. On this score they had claimed a fellow feeling for each other.

The truth was Dr. Mason felt sorry for Barbara. She seemed so young and so much alone in the unhappy country they had come to serve. She did not seem to wish to be intimate with the other American nurses at their hospital and her two former friends evidently neglected her.

So only with the thought of being kind, Dr. Mason had issued his invitation. He was not attracted by Barbara. She seemed rather an insignificant little thing except for her big blue eyes. This was partly because Barbara so seldom laughed these days. There was little in Belgium that one could consider amusing. Just now and then she did manage to bubble over inside when no one was noticing. For there is no world so sad or so dull that it does not offer an occasional opportunity for laughter.

Certainly an excursion to a prison could scarcely be considered an amusing expedition. Nevertheless, Barbara accepted the invitation with alacrity, although she had previously declined far pleasanter suggestions from Dick Thornton and the two girls.

But she had several reasons for her present decision. She liked Dr. Mason and she was interested to see the inside of a German prison. Moreover, it was not unpleasant to have her friends find out that other persons found her agreeable.

Have you ever been in the ridiculous state of mind of secretly yearning to be intimate with an old friend and yet refusing the opportunity when it is offered you? It is a common enough state of mind and usually comes from a curious combination of wounded pride and affection. Yet it is a difficult mood to get the better of and often one must wait for time to bring the adjustment.

If Barbara had not been a Red Cross nurse she would never have been allowed to accompany the American surgeon to the German prison. But as he might need some one to assist him in cases of severe illness among the prisoners, Barbara's presence would not be resented.

The prison was a short distance out from the city of Brussels. It had formerly been used for persons committing civil offenses, but was now a military prison.

The building was of rough stone and was situated in the center of a large court yard. It was built around an enclosed square, where the prisoners were sometimes allowed to enjoy air and exercise.

But conditions were not so unpleasant here as in many other places, although the discipline was fairly severe. For the Germans were making their prisoners useful.

In the early spring crops had been planted by the imprisoned men upon many of the waste spaces of conquered Belgium. Now the prisoners were employed in reaping some of the harvests. Only a small proportion of the food would ever fall to their consumption, yet the work in the fields was far better for the health and spirits of the captured men than idleness. It left them less time for thinking of home and for fretting over the cruel fortunes of war.

Barbara and Dr. Mason drove out to the German prison in one of the automobiles connected with their hospital. On the outside frame of the car was the Red Cross sign with their motto: "Humanity and Neutrality."

The German commandant of the prison was a big, blond fellow, disposed to be friendly. Straightway he invited the two Americans to investigate the prison, declaring that the Germans had nothing to conceal in the treatment of their captives.

Dr. Mason, however, was a strictly business-like person. He insisted upon seeing the sick men first. After doing what he could to relieve them, if there were time, they would then be pleased to inspect the prison.

So Barbara and the young physician were shown into a big room on the top floor of the building. A sentry sat on a stool outside the door. Inside there were a dozen cots, but not another article of furniture. The room was fairly clean, but was lighted only by two small windows near the ceiling and crossed with heavy iron bars.

On the cots were half a dozen French and as many English soldiers. Several of them were evidently very ill, the others were merely weak and languid. A heavy-footed German woman, more stupid than unkind, was the solitary nurse.

Once again Barbara had a return of her half whimsical, half sorrowful outlook upon life. This excursion with Dr. Mason was in no sense a pleasant one.

For no sooner had she entered the sick room than she moved with her peculiar light swiftness toward the bed of a young soldier. His arms were thrown up over his head, as if even the faint light in the room tortured him.

Barbara pulled his arms gently down. As she did this he made no effort to resist, but murmured something in French which she could not comprehend. Yet at the same moment she discovered that the boy's eyes were bandaged and that he had a quantity of yellow hair, curling all over his head in ringlets like a baby's.

The German nurse strode over beside them.

"He is blind; no hope!" she announced bluntly.

At the same instant Barbara's arms went around the boy soldier. For hours he must have been fighting this terrible nightmare alone. Now to hear his own worst fears confirmed in such a cold, unfeeling fashion swept the last vestige of his courage away.

Barbara literally held the young fellow in her arms while he shook as if with ague. Then he sobbed as if the crying tore at his throat.

Barbara made no effort not to cry with him. She kept murmuring little broken French phrases of endearment which she had learned from her year's work in France, all the time patting the boy's shoulder.

He was a splendidly built young fellow with a broad chest and strong young arms. Even his injury and the confinement had not broken his physical strength. This made the thought of his affliction even harder to bear, to think that so much fine vigor must be lost from the world's work.

"I don't believe it is true that you are going to be blind forever," Barbara whispered, as soon as she could find her voice. She had no real reason for her statement, except that the boy must be comforted for the moment. But he had covered up his eyes as though the light hurt them, and if he were totally blind neither light nor darkness would matter.

Dr. Mason had at once crossed the room to talk to another patient. But at the sound of sobbing, he had turned to find his companion.

Certainly Barbara was entirely unconscious of the charming picture she made. She was so tiny, and yet it was her strength and her sympathy at this moment that were actually supporting the young soldier.

Never before had the young American physician looked closely at Barbara. Now he wondered how he could ever have believed her anything but pretty. Her white forehead was wrinkled with almost motherly sympathy. Then even while her eyes overflowed, her red lips took a determined line.

With a glance over her shoulder she summoned the physician.

"Please tell this boy you will do everything in your power to see that his eyes are looked after before it is too late," she pleaded. Then she stood up, still with her hand on the young Frenchman's shoulder.

"I am a Red Cross nurse. This is Dr. Mason, one of the surgeons who is giving his services to the American hospital in Brussels," she explained to the boy, who had by this time managed to regain control of himself. "Miss Winifred Holt is coming over from New York just to look after the soldiers whose eyes have been injured in this war," Barbara continued. "Besides, I know there are eye specialists here who must be able to do something for you." Barbara's tone each instant grew more reassuring. "I am sure Dr. Mason and I will both persuade the prison officers to let you have the best of care. They are sure to be willing to have us do all that is possible for you."

By this time the young fellow had straightened himself up and taken hold of Barbara's other hand.

"You are more than kind," he answered, speaking with the peculiar courtesy of the French, "but it is useless! A shell exploded too near my face. No matter, it is all in the day's business! I was only thinking of my mother and our little farmhouse in Provence and of the French girl, Nicolete, who used to dance before our soldiers."

Suddenly Barbara smelt the odor of pinks and mignonette. For odors are more intimately associated with one's memories than any other of the senses. Then the next moment Barbara saw Eugenia and herself standing near the opening of a trench in southern France. As usual, they were arguing. But they were interrupted by a French soldier boy, who stood beside them holding out a small bunch of flowers. He had light hair and big blue eyes and rosy cheeks like a girl's.

"Monsieur Bebé," Barbara whispered.

Relieved that Dr. Mason and the German nurse had both been called to attend to another patient, Barbara now climbed up on the cot and sat beside the French boy.

"I want to tell you something that no one else must hear," she went on, lowering her voice until it was as mysterious as possible.

"You do not know it, but you and I are old friends. At least, we have met before, and that is enough to make us friends in war times. Besides, you once gave me a bouquet. Do you remember two Red Cross nurses to whom you gave some flowers that you and the other soldiers had made grow in the mouth of your trench? Then afterwards we both watched Nicolete dance and you threw her a spray of mignonette?"

"Yes, yes," the boy answered, clutching now at Barbara's skirt as if she were a real link with his own beloved land. "It is the good God who has sent you here to help me. You will write my mother and say things are well with me. It will be time enough for her to hear the truth if I ever go home."

"You are going to get well, but if you don't you shall at least go home," Barbara returned resolutely. "The Germans are exchanging prisoners, you know. But I have another secret to tell you if you will promise not to tell."

The boy, who had been crying like a cruelly hurt child the moment before, was now smiling almost happily. Barbara could be a little witch when she chose.

She put her own curly brown head in its white nurse's cap down close beside the boy's blond one.

"What would you give to have that same little French girl, Nicolete, talk to you some day not very far off?" she whispered. Then she told the story of Nicolete's coming into Belgium with Eugenia and of her living not far away in the house which Eugenia had taken. But she also made the boy promise not to breathe to any one the fact of Nicolete's identity. She was not supposed to be a French girl, but a little Belgian maid under the protection of a wealthy but eccentric American Red Cross nurse.

By the time Barbara had finished this conversation she was compelled to hurry away. But she promised to come again to the prison as soon as she was allowed. Dr. Mason needed her help.

There was far more work to be done than he expected. For the next two hours Barbara assisted in putting on bandages, in washing ugly places with antiseptic dressings, in doing a dozen difficult tasks.

Nevertheless, whenever Dr. Mason had a chance to glance toward his assistant she managed to smile back at him. It was a trick Barbara had when nursing. It was never a silly or an unsympathetic smile. It merely expressed her own readiness to meet the situation as cheerfully as possible.

But before the afternoon's work was over the young American doctor had become convinced that she was the pluckiest little girl he had ever worked with. What was more, she was one of the prettiest.

However, though the nurse and doctor were both worn out when their service for the day was over, they were not to be allowed to return to the hospital at once. The German officer in command still insisted that they be shown about the prison building and yard.