I struck south on my feet, as a poor girl—I, the daughter of a princely family of Poland! No hardships were too great for me, provided I could reach Allied territory. I travelled from village to village as a singing girl, and once I was driven away with stones by villagers set upon me by a fanatical priest. I came by Cracow, and across the Carpathians, helped to pass the lines by a Hungarian Lieutenant—but I tricked him of his reward; I was not ready for that sacrifice. Then across the Hungarian plains to Buda–Pesth, where I remained three weeks, singing in a third–rate café, to make some money for my next stage. But I had to leave too soon—the old story!—this time it was the proprietor's son. What beasts men are, my Karl! And yet to me you are above all other men, a prince amongst your fellows, and never did I love you so distractedly as that first night at the shooting–box, when I read the scorn in your eyes as you rejected me. I have no shame in telling you this. Am I not already in the grave? And then I must be silent and can only await your coming. After many struggles, wearisome to relate, I came to Hermanstadt, and there, whilst pushing my trade as a dancer, came into touch with a Hungarian band of smugglers, working across the mountain passes between Eastern Hungary and Roumania. I did certain work for these men, and in return crossed with them one bitter night in a thunderstorm into Roumania. At Bukharest I got a good engagement, and when I had saved a thousand marks, I bought a passport for five hundred, and came to Serbia, then staggering beneath the great Austrian offensive.
Once again I was in the horrors of a retreat, but I escaped, reaching Valona, and crossed to Brindisi, by the aid of a French officer to whom I told my story and who believed me. His name is Pierre Lemansour, and he lives at Bordeaux.
If fortune places him in your power, be kind to him, my Karl, for your Zoe's sake.
I came to Rome; and thence to Paris. I stayed here three weeks, singing in a cabaret. Whilst here I tried to advance my plans in vain! What could I, a poor girl, do for the Allies? The Embassy laughed at me, all except one young attaché who tried to make love to me.
Then I thought of England—England, and her cold, hard islanders, phlegmatic in movements, slow to hate, slow to move, but once roused—ah! they never let go, these islanders!
One of their poets has said: "The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small."
That, my Karl, is like England.
They are your most terrible enemies, and you know it.
Do not be angry with me when you read this.
For me it is Poland, for you Germany.
Where I am going in a few hours there is no Poland, no Germany, no England, no war. And perhaps, perhaps, no love.
You and I, Karl, have loved, too well, perchance, but our love was above even the love of countries.
God made the love of men and women, then men and women created their countries.
I see the future before me, Karl, and I foresee that the struggle will be at the end of all things, between England and Germany. One will be in the dust.
Thus, I crossed to England and was swallowed up in the great city of London. England has always had a corner of her calculating heart for the small nations, and in London there is a Polish organization. I applied there, and one day I was taken to the Foreign Office, and found myself alone with a great Englishman. His name was—No, I promised, and it will not matter to you, for though he gave me my chance, I have no love for him, and he will never be in your power. Even as I write these words, he has probably taken a list from a locked safe and neatly ruled a red line through the name Zoe Sbeiliez. I tell you they know everything, these Englishmen. I told him my story, and then he asked me whether I was prepared to do all things for the Allies. I told him I was. He then said that I could go as agent for a back area in Belgium, and my centre would be Bruges. I agreed, and asked him innocently enough how I was to live in Bruges. He looked up from his desk and said:
"You will be given facilities to cross the Belgium–Holland frontier, as a German singer."
"And then?" I asked.
"You will go to Bruges and make friends with an Army officer; he must be high up on the staff."
I guessed what he meant, but hoped against hope, and I said: "How?"
I can still see his fish–like face, hair brushed back with scrupulous care, as without a shadow of emotion he looked up, puffed his pipe, and said in matter–of–fact tones:
