The Belgian, keenest of all the peoples at war for news, having less occupation to keep his mind off the war, must read the newspapers established under German auspices, which fed him with the pabulum that German chefs provided, reflective of the stumbling degeneracy of England, French weariness of the war, Russian clumsiness, and the invincibility of Germany.  If an Englishman had to read German, or a German English, newspapers every morning he might have understood how the Belgian felt.

Those who had sons or fathers or husbands in the Belgian army could not send or receive letters, let alone presents.  Families scattered in different parts of Belgium could not hold reunions.  But at mass I saw a Belgian standard in the centre of the church.  That flag was proscribed, but the priests knew it was safe in that sacred place and the worshippers might feast their eyes on it as they said their avis.

A Bavarian soldier came in softly and stood a little apart from the worshippers, many in mourning, at the rear; a man who was of the same faith as the Belgians and who crossed himself with the others in the house of brotherly love.  He would go outside to obey orders; and the others to nurse their hate of him and his race.  This private in his faded green, bowing his head before that flag in the shadows of the nave, was war-sick, as most soldiers were; and the Belgians were heartsick.  They had the one solace in common.  But if you had suggested to him to give up Belgium, his answer would have been that of the other Germans:  “Not after all we have suffered to take it!” Christians have a peculiar way of applying Christianity.  Yet, if it were not for Christianity and that infernal thing called the world’s opinion, which did not exist in the days of Caesar and the Belgse, the Belgians might have been worse off than they were.  More of them might have been dead.  When they were saying, “Give us this day our daily bread” they were thinking, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” if ever their turn came.

A satirist might have repeated the apochryphal naivete of Marie Antoinette, who asked why the people wanted bread when they could buy such nice cakes for a sou!  For all the patisserie shops were open.  Brussels is famous for its French pastry.  With a store of preserves, why shouldn’t the bakeshops go on making tarts with heavy crusts of the brown flour, when war had not robbed the bakers of their art?  It gave work to them; it helped the shops to keep open and make a show of normality.  But I noticed that they were doing little business.  Stocks were small and bravely displayed.  Only the rich could afford such luxuries, which in ordinary times were what ice-cream cones are to us.  Even the jewellery shops were open, with diamond rings flashing in the windows.

“You must pay rent; you don’t want to discharge your employees,” said a jeweller.  “There is no place to go except your shop.  If you closed it would look as if you were afraid of the Germans.  It would make you blue and the people in the street blue.  One tries to go through the motions of normal existence, anyway.  But, of course, you don’t sell anything.  This week I have repaired a locket which carried the portrait of a soldier at the front and I’ve put a mainspring in a watch.  I’ll warrant that is more than some of my competitors have done.”