[From Time Stood Still by Paul Cohen-Portheim]

IX LIFE IN WAKEFIELD

I HAVE described what seems to me to have been the atmosphere of Wakefield and, indeed, of any prisoners' camp when one comes to look back at it after a number of years, when one is far enough from it to overlook the details and see the great outlines only. But, needless to say, I had no such clear and general conception of it after a few days there. I had realized I was a prisoner and I was very unhappy ; I should say that the first few months at Wakefield were the worst of my whole captivity. Everything seemed just hopeless and futile and any effort senseless. If I ever was in danger of definitely 'giving in' it was then, but just at the beginning one could not sit still and await the end, for one had got to learn all about one's new surroundings, which differed a good deal from those one had got used to in the Isle of Man. They might be the same in their great outlines, but every trifling difference seems of great importance where there is so little possibility of variety.

Each day began, of course, by a parade, but here each but was assembled and counted separately, and - an important privilege - if it was wet one was counted inside the hut. Then one dressed, and that again was different, for one could wash in the hut if one bought the necessary implements, and most people did. Then came breakfast-and then came nothing. One walked round that square camp till one got sick of it ; one walked round it so often that one developed a habit of automatically going off at a right-angle after fifty yards or so. [91]When I first regained freedom I found it quite an effort to keep on walking in the same direction for any greater distance. Dancing mice always remind me of Wakefield. Dinner was provided in the middle of the day, letters were distributed at four or five p.m., supper was at eight and lights out at ten. Those were the daily events. Twice a week one could write one of those empty letters and once a week one made out one's washing list. If letter­writing and washing-list coincided, one felt, after some months of this regime, that too great a strain was being put on one, too much of an effort demanded of one's brain. There was nothing else one need do ; one could idle all day, all the year. As, after all, no one forced one to eat or sleep, it might be said that all that was demanded of one was that one should put in an appearance twice daily in order to be counted.

One need do nothing, but doing nothing is possible only to very wise or to half-witted men, and even then only if they live in a warm climate, or in comfortable surroundings if in a cold country. So everyone almost did something and occupied himself in some manner. Time here really had to be killed, for it was the arch­enemy, and everyone tried to achieve this as best he could and according to his nature. The great thing was to try to forget the truth that no effort was worth while, that the work there could have no purpose, and as human nature is instinctively self protective, whatever people did, soon became an end in itself. It was quite extra­ordinary what a manifold and complicated organization a prisoners' camp could become. The general mood underwent changes, of course ; there were efforts and then disappointment with the results and realization of the futility of all efforts, and then renewed efforts after a period of gloomy idling. Only each new effort had less push and energy behind it, until in time they ceased altogether.[92] My first months at Wakefield, however, were a period of great energy in the camp though they were one of deep depression to me personally. More particularly in our West Camp a good deal of energy was expended. When we had got there, it was a sandy waste and the interior of the huts as good as bare, but the people's ambition was aroused by comparison with what had been achieved in the two older camps. First of all they got busy with the grounds, built paths, planted shrubs, laid out a tennis-court. The huts became places of separate 'rooms' containing furniture, curtains, books. One half of one but was set aside for the musicians - of whom there were many - and housed a piano. When the Y.M.C.A. presented the camp with a large tent it was used as a reading-room and a library was founded.

Soon we had lectures like the other camps had ; everyone who thought he had something interesting to relate, or merely liked to hear himself speak, gave a lecture. One man who had lived many years in Russia lectured on conditions there ; others knew all about the Dutch Indies, about the habits of migrating birds, or about the chemical industry in the U.S.A. It did not matter much at that time what a lecture was on or what it was worth, people were only too glad to while away an hour. Then people began teaching and learning, languages chiefly, but there were also courses in history and various branches of science. And after a year or so the camp became ambitious and decided, together with the two other camps, that Wakefield was the seat o£ a university ! All the lectures, lessons, etc., were grouped into a sort of more or less coherent whole, and there were hundreds of students. Young men studied at this university with a view to their future and older men there were who had quite decided to change their profession and become men of learning. [93] There was a half-hearted but loudly-voiced belief that the German Government recognized Wakefield as an official seat of learning : men were not wasting their time there, the terms of studies would be counted, they would all receive degrees. It was a pathetic delusion.

Religious services there were for the different denominations, but religion played an astonishingly small part in the men's life. That is, I imagine, one aspect in which a German prisoners' camp in England must have differed a great deal from an English camp in Germany. I remember that on one occasion I wished to look up something in the Bible ; I was unable to find a single copy of the Bible amongst all I knew and all they knew ! We had art exhibitions, art consisting chiefly of inlaid wood­work which a number of people went in for ; the things were very neatly executed and mostly quite atrocious. There were next to no artists among the prisoners. I know only of one portrait painter in the North Camp, and of one young fellow in the South Camp who did stage scenery and called himself an artist - besides myself. But musicians were plentiful, on the other hand, and of all varieties. There were a few very good professional musicians, a 'cellist, two violinists, one of whom was Hungarian while the second would be a Jugo-Slav nowadays ; a very good pianist with a Polish name, all of whom gave recitals ; there was a professional tenor who refused to appear in public, but had a pupil whom he allowed to perform. Amateur musicians were innumerable, from quite good to excruciatingly bad, and between them all they managed to form an orchestra which became quite creditable in time. It performed twice a week or so in the different camps, being one of the very few institutions which was common property of the three. Music was one of the saving graces of camp life, but, unfortunately, practising music was one of its worst drawbacks. [94]Of the stage I shall have more to say presently ; it was the only part of 'public life' I ever took a part in, though even that was on one or two occasions only.

In this I was one of a small minority, for nearly everyone seemed to have some sort of 'official position' he was proud o£ It was a true Beamtenstaat : everyone was administering and there was very little to administer ; it was nearly all government and nothing much to be governed, and so really everyone administered the others by virtue of his office while being administered by them in their official capacities. I do not know whether this was characteristically German or whether the same phenomenon would be found in camps of different nationalities, but I think it was mainly due to the need for some sort of activity, for any activity in fact, of people unable to continue their real work in life and who felt they would go mad without some sort of occupation, the importance of which they grossly exaggerated in self­defence, for they could not have gone on with it if they had admitted the futility of their labours to themselves or to others.

So there were the captains and the chief-captains and their adjutants - very great men indeed, and as such exposed to the envy of the masses which often brought their downfall after a time. I remember the excitement in our camp when the first chief-captain there fell out of favour. He was, of course, accused of a Schiebung ; I say 'of course', because that was what invariably happened, but I don't remember any of the details. I do remember, though, that there was a conclave of the captains to talk the matter over which was interrupted by a man who had no business to be there at all, being quite an anonymous commoner and that he submitted the damning proofs to the assembly. [95] They could not ignore them, but they were as furious about this breach of discipline as a council of field-marshals interrupted by a private might have been. But the truly remarkable fact was that the great majority sided with them ! They did not deny that that man's intervention had served the cause of all, but they did not think that justified his undisciplinary interference. Really a surprising state of mind it seemed to me, but very few shared my surprise. After some years of experience of mass-psychology in camp. I am of opinion that the average man's desire for liberty is very much smaller than is generally supposed or argued. He hates and fears responsibility far more than he desires indepen­dence ; what he really likes is sharing same of the power without taking any risks and delegating responsibility to ever higher grades of officialdom until it vanishes in thin air on the highest mountain-top. He likes to grouse and to talk about how much better things would be done if he had the power to manage them, but he does not really desire that power. And that is why he gets furious when some people not content with grousing actively attack superior and sheltering authorities.

Complaints about corruption and improper use of office against the officials never stopped, and people were incredibly suspicious. There were, of course, lots of opportunities for dishonesty connected with the buying of provisions, coal, etc., for the camp ; some very bad cases were proved, but control was difficult and mostly the truth about the case remained doubtful. But no matter how bad the case might be - and there were some very bad ones in connection with kitchen and hospital arragements - the fury of the camp was only directed aganst the guilty individual, never against the authorities as such. I think that the success of dictatorships of varying kinds in so many European countries at the present time shows that such psychology is by no means limited to prisoners' camps, but very much more universal than an optimistic pre-war intelligentsia supposed.

[96]Some of the less important officials (lesser in grade, for their functions were really much more useful) were employed in the post offices where the fate of letters and parcels depended on them, as far as the military authorities did not interfere, and as rulers of the kitchen realm. There we possessed same eminent specialists and their position was tragi-comic. Quite an astounding number of the chefs of the first London hotels must have been German or Austrian before the war, though the innocent public, of which I formed part, had always been led to believe that the chefs of all first-class hotels of the world were French. Well, here we had the kitchen-kings of many world-famous hotels and restaurants set to the task of making the best of horseflesh, antique herrings, or frozen potatoes, combined with margarine. Next there were those connected with the hospital, and the great number of heads or members of committees of all sorts. I have already mentioned the 'university' where a real university professor of history did much directing ; there was also a professional philosopher (unprofessional ones were fairly frequent), and the teachers of Turkish, Russian, and many other languages. As there was an orchestra, there were conductors, members of the orchestra, and, of course, a music sub-committee of the entertainment committee ; as there were two theatres, there were directors, actors, and stage workers of different sorts. There were the leaders of sport, for a good many games were practised. Tennis flourished exceedingly, for the camp boasted the two leading German professionals of the time, Froitzheim and Kreutzer, who had been playing in Australia when war broke out. There was an annual tournament, and their exhibition match was one of the very great events of the year. [97]All the British officers put in an appearance : royalty, if a very unpopular royalty, was present ! Hockey as well was played in the North Camp, where there was sufficient space, and boxing was taught by a Turkish professional, Sabri Mahir, who was the organizer of the first boxing matches in Berlin after the war, which were also the first ever seen in Germany. There were some doctors and dentists - not official, for one was supposed to go to the hospital only for treatment, and at the hospital there were the nurses. Last, but by no means least, there were the men who really plied their trade, and they were all too few in numbers : tailors, cobblers, barbers, stewards. As there were only fifteen hundred men all told that really left but a small minority without some form of 'employment'. Of these a certain number pursued some aim of their own, and the remnant really did nothing except play cards or drink when they got the chance. Their number was not very considerable and it was unequally divided between the three camps, the West Camp having few indeed and the South Camp most.

It may appear as if that account of universal activity contradicts my earlier statement about the unending monotony of camp life, but the contradiction is more apparent than real. First of all because the men's occupations, such as I have defined them, only took up a very small part of the day, but more yet because all that activity was artificial and most men were aware of this. With very few exceptions they were doing some sort of work that would lead them nowhere, as they well knew. They were continually giving it up and taking it on again in despair, simply because they could not face entirely empty days. So most of them were working at something, but at something which was not in their line at all really, and which they did not care about in the least, for the consciousness of the futility of their work never left them, and that sense of futility caused a sensation of unending monotony, of dead calm even when there was outward movement. [98]The main cause ofdissatisfaction with one's work and of the impossibility of concentrated and deliberate efforts was, I think, the fact that one knew no limit to the time one would have to spend there. After the first year of war was over one felt desperate as the second winter approached, and after that there seemed no possibility of the war ever ending at all. Nor did one know whether one would not be suddenly transferred to some other camp, and such rumours were ever rife. Everything was uncertain and precarious ; it might be worth while to plant seeds for the following spring or it might be a waste of energy, one might reap benefits from one's studies when release came, but that release might come too late or never. Any definite term of imprisonment would have been better than that uncertainty which made all plans and movements in any direction appear senseless.

But this people only admitted to themselves in moments of utter despondency. They went on as if they knew where they were going to. Young men and old studied at the university, eager to get on, but the young men would have to re-become bank clerks and the old men have to try to earn their living. Such well-thought­out plans there were ! A man I knew was desperately trying to master Turkish and Arabic, because the Germans would hold Palestine and own the Baghdad railway and develop half Asia. One of his uncles was a commander there, so he must know, and he persevered in his faith until the end. The enthusiasm of the actors was surprising, but most surprising that of the men who specialized in female parts. Where could it all lead to ? But the truth was, that the future was an absolute blank and that the present had to be got over somehow. [99]Without illusions about the importance of their doings and about the future most would have gone mad. And this senseless and useless waste of energy is one of the many dark sides of the internment of civilians.

The people who suffered least in that particular way were undoubtedly the stewards (mostly ex-waiters), barbers, and tailors who were the only ones to continue to exercise their professions. In this gentlemen's camp the lot of that small minority not counted amongst them was privileged in more ways than one. Here as in Knockaloe the law of supply and demand held true, but as here the Government allowed only a strict minimum of such non-paying prisoners, conditions were the exact reverse from those obtaining in the Isle of Man. There hundreds had run after work ; here the few qualified workers were run after by the 'capitalist class'. As a result they were generally very high and mighty indeed, regarded their services as favours conferred, and were very expensive. This did not tend to make life pleasanter for the majority, which is perhaps where social justice came in for once ; but for that ungentlemanly minority Wakefield was really a privileged camp. In the last two years, however, matters changed somewhat, for a growing number of prisoners had to find paid work in the camp if they wished to continue paying their ten shillings a week. So they ceased to be gentlemen in order to continue to be gentlemen in the eyes of the law, stewards became plentiful, even private stewards made an appearance, and the social order was restored to a more normal balance.

Any comments, errors or omissions gratefully received The Editor HTML© F Coakley , 2021