NOT WAR, BUT DEVILRY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3215, 27 October 1915, Page 71

NOT WAR, BUT DEVILRY.

THE TRACK OF THE TEUTONIC ARMIES IN POLAND—FLIGHT FROM THE “ DEVILS IN GREY.” The Right Hon. W. F. Bailey, C. 8., one of the Irish Land. Commissioners, tells in the Fortnightly Review (September) a most appalling story of what the German invasion of Poland means to the Polish people. The story is far more terrible than the story of Belgium, and half of the whole story will never be told to Europe. It is the story of how a Christian nation invaded another Christian country, defiled its sanctuaries and its women, made a mock of its faith, hunted women and children to death, and set going such an exodus of sorrow-distracted people as the world has never seen before. Mr Bailey obviously knows Poland and the Near East well, and he has had private sources of information for his terrib e article which is almost buried under its tame title, “Glimpses of _ Russian Poland To-day.” Glimpses, indeed — glimpses of hell in Poland! And the hucksters in Berlin sell post-cards about it! A Sacrilegious Post-card. — Mr Bailey begins his story thus : “ A cheap German post-card, purchased in Berlin for 10 pfennigs, was brought to me a few days ago. It bore the inscription, ‘ The famous picture of the Virgin and Child captured from Czeustochowa by our gallant army.’ At the top of the card is inserted a portrait of the Kaiser, surmounted by the Imperial Crown of Germany. We can realise the anguish of the Polish peasant as we look on this card—he" who has made pilgrimage to Czenstocbowa, 'the Holy Place’ of Poland.” Mr Bailey gives a charming picture of Czenstocbowa—the Holy Place of Poland—on the occasion of one of these pilgrimages, and it is important to realise what these mean in the life of the Polish peasantry to understand the barbarity of the deed by which this famous picture, “the Heart of the Heart of Poland,” became the Kaiser’s share of loot, and was sold on post-cards in Berlin for a penny! “ Everyone who has travelled in Russia or in any Slav country knows what a Eilgrimage means to these people,” says lr Bailey. “Their vivid imaginations, their deep religious feelings, their idealism, are all brought out in strong colour. Hundreds, even thousands, of miles will they travel to visit a ‘ Holy Place.' You see them coming in troops, whether it be to the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, to the Troiska Monastery near Moscow, or to the Shrine of Czenstocbowa. Poland’s Holy Place.— “Let us see it cn a winter morning with a great pilgrimage arriving to visit the shrine of Poland’s Virgin and Child. The streets are thronged, the snow has been trodden into marble solidity, and the dirty town—for, in spite of its sacredness, Czenstocbowa is undoubtedly one'of the 'most dingy and unkempt places in Russian Poland—sparkles in the chilly sunshine. Cross-crowned spires and coppercapped turrets float fairy-like against the pale azure of the sky. • “ From all sorts of sheltered nooks and crannies where they have passed the night, cowering under their shaggy sheepskins, country folk and Jews, droshky drivers and stall-keepers, creep leisurely forth to meet whatever fortune the day has in store for them. Christendom’s Oldest Picture.— “Round ‘the Holy Place’—the small church which enshrines the relic which is revered hy the Eastern and the IVestern faith alike, a fact to be remembered, — round the home of the oldest picture probably in the Chi'istian world, a surging crowd has already collected. But the church doors are still shuU Backwards and forwards sw-ay the multitude, patiently obedient to the police who are endeavouring to preserve some sort of order. A thousand tired, eager faces are lifted to watch for the swinging back _ of the barriers. Some of the women faint, and are hoisted over the shoulders of the crowd into safety. ■ “800m—boom—-bo—o—m. Soft, rich, full of sonorous sweetness, the great bell of Czenstocbowa tolls out its welcome, and at its tolling every head is uncovered, and the sacred sign is made by thousands of fluttering hands. “Then very slowly the heavy doors unclose and the entire throng hows to the ground. Aristocrats, officers, tradespeople, peasants, bend side by side. For through the dusky gloom of the interior can he seen the glittering rows of the tall wax candles which burn perpetually before the heavy silver and gold embroidered curtain Veiling ‘ the Heart of the Heart of Poland.’ “ The organ breathes out a few chords as very quietly, three or four abreast, the pilgrims enter the building. And, when every square foot of the church is occupied, the doors fall to again, and those w’t-bout must await their turn for admittance. “Like a deep whisper growing ever fuller and clearer, like the far-off murmur of the sea, the music swells out, and a mvsterious Slavonic chant soars_ up towards the lofty rose and sapphire windows, up higher still into the golden mists of the roof. Such music! It seems to carrv with it, as does the ocean, the whole awful burden of humanity; it. -oems to be the cries and prayers of centures that have worn and beaten themselves ont in tears and lamentation. It is the ouestioning of generations upon generations of pale existences seeking still to discover the why and the wherefore of their being—the call of suffering creation to the Creator. “And the door through which the hearts and untaught minds of those poor Polish people hope to pass into the pre-

sence of Him whom no man hath seen, or can see, is through the jewelled frame of the little picture of human love which hangs here behind this silver and golden curtain. Out, and up, and over all rises the glorious and now triumphant chanting. Sobs and choking sighs bear it company. Passionate, tear-filled Slav eyes are fixed on the high altar, now dimly seen through silvery clouds of incense smoke. Among the scarcely-breathing throng there is a sudden movement —a ripple of intense excitement, then, absolute stillness, for the music ceases. A tiny bell tinkles. The heavy curtains part asunder, and the picture becomes visible. The Famous Picture.— “Just at first nothing can be seen but a small, almost black, snuare set in a splendid frame of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, topazes, and pearls, with a background as of beaten gold. “ Only a little square, black and battered by age! But as one looks more intently the ahadowv countenances of a soft-faced Byzantine Virgin and Child seem to emerge, clear and awe-filling. “ This poor picture of love—how old it is! Not beautiful, the only intrinsic value and loveliness it possesses borrowed from its surroundings, and from the simple faith which seeks to adorn and adore the Ideal it so feebly strives to represent. This dingy painting is plainly the work of an artist more gifted with religious fervour than with genius. It might very well be the crude effort of the physician, St. Luke —whom tradition declares to be the artist. In the second century—so the historians relate—it was in Jerusalem; from hence it was taken to Constantinople, and from there, several centuries later, it was conveyed to Kieff, to be finally deposited in its present resting-place. _ During the period of the Tartar raids, in the twelfth century, it almost met with destruction. “ On the faded painted faces of Mother and Child may be seen the scars of the desecrating Mongol arrows —scars -which the credulous assert can never be obliterated till Poland regains her freedom. In the Swedish war, when Czenstocbowa was invested, as a last resort the citizens carried the picture through the streets and out on the ramparts to encourage the troops, whereupon—as the story goes—a glory descended upon the town, and after a 12 months’ siege the invaders were forced to retire, discomfited. These are only a few of the extraordinary tales—wonder tales—which have been woven round this Polish relic. An Ecstasy of Sound. —• “ Only for five minutes are these weary, affectionate pilgrims permitted to gaze at their treasure, to do honour to which they have tramped so many leagues in snow and wind. Then the curtain descends, and again the organ peals out— ‘ Eleison! Kyrie Eleison ! —Chnste Eleison ! ’ —the sopranos, clear and angelic; the basses, solid and grand, as only Slavonic basses can be. An ecstasy of sound—then silence once more. The doors reopen. A flood of light streams in, searching out the brilliant tints in the clothing of the peasants as. they rise and clatter out as gently as their heavy footgear permits, making way for the second batch of worshippers to enter. “ So they come and go, as the curtain rises and falls, and the hearts of those innocent, credulous, perhaps stupidly credulous, children are made happy. “ To-day the portrait of its Virgin and Child forms part of the Polish loot of the Kaiser of Germany, and post-card copies of ‘ The Heart of the Heart of Poland ’ are being sold in Berlin for a penny'! “ Czenstocbowa stands to the south-west of Russian Poland just over the frontier, within striking distance of the German army of invasion. _ And, knowing the veneration with which the Poles regard this church and picture, the Kaiser published, through his secret agents, a statement to the effect that this Virgin and Child had appeared to him in a vision, and with tears commanded him to rescue their Shrine from the Russians. He went on to inform the Poles that such was his intention, and advised them in forcible terms to render him such assistance as he might require. Among the many bribes he offered for Polish support was money and many rare jewels and fresh decorations — in German ta c te —for the shrine. “ But the Poles tore this proclamation into shreds, and the Kaiser promptly received a reply stating that he might betake himself and his money to the devil from whom both he and it had come, for ‘ neither we, the people of Poland, nor our religions are for sale.’ The K aiser’s Sacrilege.—• “ Furious at this answer, when the German army arrived in Czenstocbowa the usual atrocities and outrages were perpetrated. The church was desecrated and its picture was -wrenched from its frame and despatched to Germany. And, finally, to the dazed horror of the citizens and all Poles, a Vulgar portrait of the Kaiser in uniform was raised above the dismantled altar, lights were placed before it, and the wretched people were daily driven in by the brutal German soldiers to kneel before the picture of the man whom they regard as the devil incarnate. Satan!— “ Presumably the Kaiser thought by this means to terrorise the Poles. They regarded their Virgin and Child as allpowerful—he would prove to them that he was stronger. But he little understood the Slavonic character. This incident, by which he hoped to cow a spirited people into subjection, has undoubtedly caused the Poles to stiffen their backs, and has had the result of bringing Polish Catholics and the followers of the Rusian Orthodox faith to a better understanding. The relic is revered by Poles and Russians equally, and by insulting the Shrine of Czenstocbowa the Kaiser has merely managed to insult both peoples and both religions. “According to the most recent information from Poland,” adds Mr Bailey, “ it appears that the Germans have begun to realise their error in desecrating the

Shrine of Czenstochowa, and that a replica of the famous picture has replaced the portrait of the Kaiser, which for a time was hung over the high altar. But the peasants of Poland now regard the German Emperor as the representative of Satan, if nob Satan himself in human form.” Does this story explain why the Kaiser has not shown himself in public in Poland ? THE DEVILS IN GREY. Mr Bailey, in the same article, declares that “ the atrocities perpetrated by the Germans in Belgium and France are mild compared with those which they have committed in Poland. “ During the last few months the' villagers of Poland have resorted to burning themselves alive in their homes rather than (fall into German hands ’ ’—‘ ‘ The devils in grey,” they call them. “ Picture one village in particular, which is, after all, only one of many that have met the same fate,” says Mr Bailey. The Sky is Crimson.— “Dusk falls, and then the night; and on the wings of night rides up the storm so long expected. A light—-not of the moon—angers the sky above the dark belt of pine forest fringing the low horizon. Then a great burst of flame rushes up into , the silver-dusted heavens, followed by a second flame, and by a third. And from very far off comes the rumble of thunder —not altogether like thunder, for it never ceases, and seems to gather strength — till, with an awful crash, it shakes the very earth. The whole sky is now crimson. Now come wild shrieks. Doors open, and every hovel disgorges its inmates. Mothers grasp their babies, old people one another, the girls stand mute—paralysed,—for they have heard of the fate which befell their sisters in Kielce, in Krzepice, in Turek, in Sieradz. And redder still blazes the horizon, nearer rumbles the thunder of the cannon. ‘To the church!’ cries someone, and, like a covey of terrified birds, women, old people, children—there are no able-bodied men left in the place—whirl up towards their poor sanctuary. But what Use to pray? God has forgotten them as He forgot the innocent in Kielce, in Sieradz. What use to pray when ‘ the grey devils’ have taken down their Little Virgin from her shrine and desecrated Poland’s ‘ Holy Place ’ ? “ They will pray no more, neither will they attempt to escape, for the plains are infested with the devils. “ They will do as the bravest Polish folk now do. Thev will fire their village and destroy themselves. Better death than dishonour and outrage. And the thunder rolls nearer! Eternal Witnesses.— “ Each family enters its hovel and every door is closed. Half an hour—and then, from beneath the dilapidated wooden doorways, from under the overhanging thatch of the weed-grown roofs, through the one-paned windows, hungry, fiery tongues of flame shoot out. curl up, and ripple on. Black volumes of smoke vomit through the chimneys, through every crevice. “ Another quarter of an hour—Polish hovels are old and dry—and this village has gone like the rest, and those who inhabited it have joined their neighbours —eternal witnesses against the ‘ devils in grey,’ the Kaiser William’s knights of Teutonic culture,” concludes Mr Bailey. This is not war ; it is devilry. A Wailing Multitude of Refugees.— The German invasion of Poland has set going a most terrible exodus from Poland into Russia. Many have travelled hundreds of miles, and" all the Russian towns crammed with refugees. A moving description of the refugees at Kiev is given in the Fortnightly Review by Mr John Pollock, who was there in July. He calls them a wailing multitude. “ Not, perhaps, since the settlement of Europe after the great movement known as the Wandering of the Peoples has there been in our hemisphere so frightful an upheaval of social life as has marked the track of the Teutonic armies in Poland and Galicia during this war. And now, as the degree of civilisation is higher, so much more profound is the depth of suffering. “ It is impossible to be with them and not be stunned to the depth of your soul. . . . They have nothing, and wherever they are their abode is the same: it is the limit. Can they ever escape from this hell? They hardly believe it.