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8 WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST
where sausage and wienerschnitzel, dunkles or helles may
be had in abundance. I entered and sat down at a table,
overhearing scraps of talk from all sides—all about the war,
about brothers and sons who are fighting, one hardly knows
where, as the field post has brought no news for a long time.
But perhaps the next day will bring a greeting from the front.
Maybe a son who has been reported in the papers as missing,
has turned up again. But nevertheless the personal sorrow
and anxiety is thrust into the background. Every sacrifice
must be gladly made, and the loved ones may lie dead on the
field of battle so long as Germany wins her fight against almost
the whole of Europe.
On the 13th September the lingering summer came to an
end, and autumn suddenly asserted itself. It poured with
rain, it was dark, windy, cold and raw. Shallow puddles
covered the asphalt in Unter den Linden, which resembled
an enormous river bed still drenched with the flow, and from
which the tide had just ebbed. The great avenue now looks
desolate with a vengeance. From my balcony I can only see
a few solitary individuals sheltered under more or less elegant
umbrellas, Berlin’s inhabitants prefer to keep in their com-
fortable homes, and not even the longing for war news can
tempt them out in such weather.
The rain falls thick and heavy and patters down on the
dripping limes outside my balcony. Berlin is dull and miserable
in the autumn when the rain sweeps its long, monotonously
straight streets with their heavy, dark houses. Not even the
trooping of the colours and the march past at midday raise
the drooping spirits, and only a few pedestrians with open
umbrellas join the band and march in step with the soldiers.
The motor-cars buzz past over the asphalt, flinging up a spray
of water as they rush along. They are plainly far less numerous
than usual. No calls are made, no visits paid, for the whole
of the aristocracy is in mourning for lost relatives and every-
body’s thoughts are centred on the war. Nobody feels inclined
for the futile pleasures of ordinary times when the newspapers
speak of a father who has lost four sons at the front, or of a
mother whose three sons have each died a hero’s death for
Emperor and country. But no complaints are heard, no tears
seen. In the streets one seldom sees signs of mourning.
There is perhaps a tacit convention not to express in black and
white the sorrow which is felt at the bottom of the heart, but
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