War Letters from the Living Dead Man by Elsa Barker

enemy is within you.
    The one you fight outside is your brother. Love him with brotherly love and your devil will grow weaker as your angel grows stronger.
    Your angel is descended from the Atma , the Christ, the Krishna in you. It is similar to the Atma , the Christ, the Krishna in your brother.
    The devils are all very individual. The angels are all very much alike, though some are stronger than others and older in experience.
    Seek the Christ in yourself, that it may arise, with tidings of great joy unto all men. That is what I wish to say to the world on this evening before Easter Day.
    April 3

Letter 15
    Listening in Brussels
    No, do not expect me to write essays. I am writing letters. Let me be as discursive as I please. But you will see at the end of my labors that the building has a frame, and that all the parts are in place. Having philosophized the last time, I will now tell you a story.
    When the German army passed through unresisting Brussels (three days, if I remember rightly, it was passing through, a long, moving grey-green river of men, on whose helmeted ripples the sunlight or the lamplight glittered), I stood for an hour unnoticed upon a balcony, reading the thoughts of man after man as he passed before my place. As I have explained to you before, I have no difficulty in reading the thoughts of the Germans; it is only in trying to make them understand me that I often fail. The river of men and the river of thoughts, each man a ripple, each thought a ripple!
    Here are a few ripples of thought which caught the light of my attention:
    “What a beautiful city Brussels is!”
    “My feet are tired. My shoes hurt me.”
    “That tree yonder is like the one beside the door at home.”
    “Mother will be making coffee at this hour.”
    “What a pretty girl—the one with the bread in her basket!”
    “I wonder if Gretchen will talk much with Hans now I am gone.”
    “That gate on the left is the one that Marie sent me on a picture postcard last year.”
    “My feet are tired. My shoes hurt me.”
    “So this is Brussels! I always wanted to see it.”
    “My head aches.”
    “ Deutschland über Alles! Deutschland über Alles! ”
    “I wonder if the Lieutenant paid his tailor.”
    “How warm it is!”
    “What is father doing now?”
    “I wish I had a glass of beer!”
    “I am glad we don’t destroy Brussels!”
    “What is all this war about, anyway?”
    “The Fatherland! The Fatherland!”
    “What will they give us for supper?”
    “I wonder where we are going?”
    “This isn’t so fine as the Unter dem Linden .”
    “When we get to Paris I must see the Venus of Milo.”
    “My head aches.”
    “Our baby has a tooth!”
    “Will it ever be suppertime!”
    And so on and on and on, as the long grey-green river flowed through the city of Brussels. And these were the men that in a little while would murder and rob and burn and rape, and murder and rob and burn! Many of them had done so already—these tired men with their aimless, unwarlike thoughts, their commonplace soldier thoughts, of home and food and aching feet and of postcards Marie sent last year and the hour for mother’s coffee! What power transformed them into devils? What demon dehumanized them till they forgot their weariness? Was it the raucous cry of the war trumpet? Was it the devil behind the devil who blew the trumpet? Was it the evil spirit of a nation, or merely the spirit of war?
    It was all of these things. Perhaps when they began their marching they thought of glory and hate and life and death and honor; but they had been marching long and their thoughts had become simple as the thoughts of weary old men. What was it all about? What power was driving them on? Some of these men killed unresisting civilians, struck down helpless children, maltreated nuns and other virgins, drove old men and women before them as a shield against the fire of the opposing forces. What roused the devil in them? Your friend is right in saying that the