How badly she requires peace and how bitterly she stands in need of the world's mercy, no one can conceive who has not been here. She is a land of widows, cripples and orphans3. She has two millions of under-nourished children, of whom only one million are being cared for. She has a million refugees within her borders. Her mark, which was originally worth twenty-five cents, has sunk to an exchange value of one-sixth of a cent. The barbed wire entanglements4 come up to the very gates of Warsaw. The threat of a Bolshevist invasion in the spring is like a brutal5 hand, clapped against her lips, silencing laughter. It compels her, against her will, to keep her army mobilised; if she disbanded, she would make invasion certain. Every man she keeps under arms loses her a little of the world's sympathy. She knows that, but she does not dare to be unprotected. She is a nation in rags. Until the American Relief Administration came, she was a nation of funerals.
And yet none of her misfortunes have quenched6 her unconquerable valor7. In Cracow stands the famous church of St. Mary's. Centuries ago it was a watch-tower against the invading Tartar; a soldier was kept constantly stationed there to give warning on a trumpet8 of the first approach of danger. In the fourteenth century, while rousing the city to its peril9, the trumpeter was struck in the throat by an enemy's arrow. His call faltered10, rallied and sank. Then, with his dying breath, he sounded a last blast, which broke off short. The broken call saved the city. Ever since, to commemorate11 his faithfulness, there has never been an hour, day or night, when his broken trumpet-call, ending abruptly12 in an abyss of silence, has not been sounded from the tower. The man symbolises the soul of Poland—the soul of a dying trumpeter who blows a last blast of warning above the sleeping roofs of civilization.
Poland will surely die in her watch-tower unless the sleeping world whom she protects, awakes and comes to her rescue. She is dying gamely, with her back to the wall. She does not whine—she does not slacken in her effort. The smallest children make themselves sharers in her sacrifice. If you go to the American soup-kitchens you will find tiny mites13 of six and seven shivering in queues to secure the rations14. They are there because they are the only members of the family young enough to be spared. If you question them, you will find that they have left still younger babies locked up in the squalid rooms that they call home. To prove their assertion they show you the key that they carry round their necks. From dawn to dark the elder children and parents are out at work.
A little girl of eight came to the officials of the Relief Administration the other day with a pathetic request. She came by herself and explained that the idea was entirely15 her own. She wanted to be sent to America. But had she relations in America? No. Then had she no one whom she loved in Poland? Yes—her father and mother. But would she want to leave them? At that question she began to cry. It would hurt her very much to leave them; but she was so young. There was no other way to help; she could only eat and there was so little food. If she went away, there would be more for someone else.
This magnanimity of devotion, touches every class—especially the women. There is an order in Poland known as the Gray Samaritans. They are Y. W. C. A. girls of Polish blood, recruited in America, and are among the most gallant16 helpers that the American Relief Administration possesses. Their business is to go into the most remote villages, many of which lie far away from railroads. The story of the privations of their travels would fill volumes. In these villages they establish feeding-stations, train the peasants in their management and then pass on to the next point where the need is greatest.
Another order of purely17 Polish origin is The Women's Battalion18 of Death. They started in Lemberg, in a crisis of invasion, when not a single man was left. The last man, if he may be so called, had been a hoy of fourteen, who had been shot by the enemy as he was searching for protection for the women. In their dilemma19 the women armed themselves. The movement spread; and so the Battalion of Death became a permanency.
On New Year's Eve I went to visit them; they were housed in a damp building across the Vistula, which had formerly20 been used as a prison for captured Russian soldiers. Its passages had a mildewed21 smell; they were stone-paved and dark as a dungeon22. A door opened. We felt our way across a vaulted23 cellar crowded with gray-blanketed, unlovely beds. Another door opened. The sound of fresh, young voices rushed to meet us and the tinkling24 of a worn piano. In a bare, chill room the girl-soldiers of Poland were gathered. It was their New Year's festival. I think the first thing we noticed was the merriment of their eyes and the roundness of their close cropped heads. It would have been easy to have mistaken them for boys in their dingy25 khaki. A Christmas tree stood in the corner robbed of all its presents. They had been dancing as we entered and were halted, still in couples, gazing towards us shyly. They looked children. In a land less sorely pressed, they would have had their hair in pigtails and have been romping26 in school. Certainly they were not a sight to inspire terror. The youngest was fifteen—the average age eighteen to twenty. You would never have imagined that they were a Battalion of Death. Then you talked with them and understood.
There was one girl who was a sample of the rest. She was pretty, despite her shaven head; her complexion27 was high and her eyes frank. She was the kind of a girl who ought to have had her suitors. Yes, she had seen fighting; it was in the trenches28 at Vilna. They had held on too long after the retreat had commenced. The first thing they knew, the Bolos were upon them. They came firing as they advanced and her companions were falling. At the last moment, to save herself, she had shammed29 death and hidden herself beneath the corpses30. Then followed the story of her escape, told casually31, as though it were the sort of thing that might happen to any girl. She was just nineteen and of gentle birth. When the fighting was at its height, there had been girls of title in her battalion; it had been recruited from all ranks, the same as the men's. Now that the ordeal32 was over for the moment, the girls who remained were mostly peasants. Why did she remain? I asked many of them that question before the evening was ended. The answer which they gave me was always the same, though phrased in different words, "To help Poland."
They didn't mind how they were employed, so long as they helped. They didn't care how much they suffered, so long as they helped. They were guarding stores of food at present because they were more honest than the men. But they would work in soup-kitchens, anywhere, at anything. If the war sprang up again, they would fight.
They were mere33 kiddies, most of them, laughing and irrepressible. They wanted to be free to live, to possess lovers, to be mothers, to have children. But, like the trumpeter of Cracow, they would not desert their post while their warning might save the sleeping world.
At the State Reception at the Winter Palace, I gained a further glimpse into the heart of Polish heroism34. I was speaking to Prince Sapieha, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He pointed35 to the fireplace of the Reception Room. "It was standing36 there," he said, "that Tsar Alexander II gave the death blow to our hopes. We had heard that he was generous and we had believed that he would free us and give us justice. There in front of the fireplace he met our patriots37 who had come to plead with him. Before they commenced, 'Point de reveries'—no dreams, he said. That has been our answer through all the ages, whenever we have complained to our oppressors. They have told us, 'No dreams;' but we have gone on dreaming till at last our dreams have come true. We dreamed the seemingly impossible; and we have dreamt ourselves into freedom."
点击收听单词发音
1 devastated | |
v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词);摧毁;毁灭;在感情上(精神上、财务上等)压垮adj.毁坏的;极为震惊的 | |
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2 convalesce | |
v.康复,复原 | |
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3 orphans | |
孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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4 entanglements | |
n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 );牵连;纠缠;缠住 | |
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5 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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6 quenched | |
解(渴)( quench的过去式和过去分词 ); 终止(某事物); (用水)扑灭(火焰等); 将(热物体)放入水中急速冷却 | |
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7 valor | |
n.勇气,英勇 | |
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8 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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9 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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10 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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11 commemorate | |
vt.纪念,庆祝 | |
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12 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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13 mites | |
n.(尤指令人怜悯的)小孩( mite的名词复数 );一点点;一文钱;螨 | |
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14 rations | |
定量( ration的名词复数 ); 配给量; 正常量; 合理的量 | |
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15 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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16 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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17 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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18 battalion | |
n.营;部队;大队(的人) | |
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19 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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20 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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21 mildewed | |
adj.发了霉的,陈腐的,长了霉花的v.(使)发霉,(使)长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22 dungeon | |
n.地牢,土牢 | |
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23 vaulted | |
adj.拱状的 | |
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24 tinkling | |
n.丁当作响声 | |
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25 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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26 romping | |
adj.嬉戏喧闹的,乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 );(尤指在赛跑或竞选等中)轻易获胜 | |
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27 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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28 trenches | |
深沟,地沟( trench的名词复数 ); 战壕 | |
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29 shammed | |
假装,冒充( sham的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30 corpses | |
n.死尸,尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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31 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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32 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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33 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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34 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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35 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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36 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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37 patriots | |
爱国者,爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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