one
another good-bye with "Gott strafe England." I saw the gem of the
collection in a Friedrichstrasse window. It was entitled: "Our
Allies Brand," on a bright label which displayed the flags of Great
Britain, Prance, Russia, Italy, Belgium and Japan.

In Germany you feel that the drama of the battlefield has changed
to the drama of the larder. Hope and despair succeed one another
in the determination to hold out economically while soldier and
sailor convince the world that Germany cannot be beaten. People
laugh at the blockade, sneer at the blockade and curse the blockade
in the same breath. A headline of victory, a mention of the army,
the army they love, and they boast again. Then a place in the food
line, or a seat at table, and they whine at the long war and rage
against "British treachery." Like a cork tossing on the
waves--such is the spirit of Germany.

The majority struggle on in the distorted belief that Germany was
forced to defend herself from attack planned by Great Britain,
while the minority are kept in check by armed patrols and
"preventive arrest."

The spirit of "all for the Fatherland" is yielding to the spirit of
self-preservation of the individual. Everywhere one sees evidence
of this. The cry of a little girl running out of a meat shop in
Friedenau, an excellent quarter of Berlin, brought me in to find a
woman, worn out with grief over the loss of her son and the long
waiting in the _queue_ for food, lying on the floor in a
semi-conscious condition. It is the custom to admit five or six
people at a time. I was at first surprised that nobody in the line
outside had stirred at the appeal of the child, but I need not have
expected individual initiative even under the most extenuating
circumstances from people so slavishly disciplined that they would
stolidly wait their turn. But the four women inside--why did they
not help the woman? The spirit of self-preservation must be the
answer. For them the main event of the day was to secure the
half-pound of meat which would last them for a week. They simply
would not be turned from that one objective until it was reached.

And the soldiers passing through Berlin! I saw some my last
afternoon in Berlin, loaded with their kit, marching silently down
Unter den Linden to the troop trains, where a few relatives would
tearfully bid them good-bye. There was not a sound in their
ranks--only the dull thud of their heavy marching boots. They