Other people came in, mostly women, who gathered silently
around the Mater Dolorosa. The great empty Cross;
the woman and the dead Christ at the foot of it; the
quiet, kneeling people before it; over all, as the
services began, the silvery bell of the Mass; the bending
backs of the priests before the altar; the sound of
fresh, boyish voices singing in the choir—that
is early morning service in the great Gothic church
at Dunkirk.
Onto this drab and grey and grieving picture came
the morning sunlight, through roof-high windows of
red and yellow and of that warm violet that glows
like a jewel. The candles paled in the growing
light. A sailor near me gathered up his cap, which
had fallen unheeded to the floor, and went softly
out. The private service was over; the market
women picked up their baskets and, bowing to the altar,
followed the sailor. The great organ pleaded and
cried out. I stole out. I was an intruder,
gazing at the grief of a nation.
It was a transformed square that I walked through
on my way back to the hotel. It was a market
morning. All week long it had been crowded with
motor ambulances, lorries, passing guns. Orderlies
had held cavalry horses under the shadow of the statue
in the centre. The fried-potato-seller’s
van had exuded an appetising odour of cooking, and
had gathered round it crowds of marines in tam-o’-shanters
with red woollen balls in the centre, Turcos in great
bloomers, and the always-hungry French and Belgian
troopers.
Now all was changed. The square had become a
village filled with canvas houses, the striped red-and-white
booths of the market people. War had given way
to peace. For the clattering of accoutrements
were substituted high pitched haggling, the cackling
of geese in crates, the squawks of chickens tied by
the leg. Little boys in pink-checked gingham
aprons ran about or stood, feet apart, staring with
frank curiosity at tall East Indians.
There were small and carefully cherished baskets of
eggs and bundles of dead Belgian hares hung by the
ears, but no other fresh meats. There was no
fruit, no fancy bread. The vegetable sellers had
only Brussels sprouts, turnips, beets and the small
round potatoes of the country. For war has shorn
the market of its gaiety. Food is scarce and
high. The flower booths are offering country laces
and finding no buyers. The fruit sellers have
only shrivelled apples to sell.
Now, at a little after midday, the market is over.
The canvas booths have been taken down, packed on
small handcarts and trundled away; unsold merchandise
is on its way back to the farm to wait for another
week and another market. Already the market square
has taken on its former martial appearance, and Dunkirk
is at its midday meal of rabbit and Brussels sprouts.
TEA WITH THE AIR-FIGHTERS
Later: Roland Garros, the French aviator, has
just driven off a German Taube. They both
circled low over the town for some time. Then
the German machine started east with Garros in pursuit.
They have gone out of sight.
