Mata Hari's Last Dance (15 page)

It is not true
that the life and property of a single Belgian citizen was injured by our soldiers without the bit
terest self-defense having made it necessary; for again and again, notwithstanding repeated threats, the citizens lay in ambush, shooting at the troops out of the houses, mutilating the wounded, and murdering in cold blood the medical men while they were doing their Samaritan work. There can be no baser abuse than the suppression of these crimes with the view of letting the Germans appear to be criminals, only for having justly punished these assassins for their wicked deeds.

It is not true
that our troops treated Louvain brutally. Furious inhabitants having treacherously fallen upon them in their quarters, our troops with aching hearts were obliged to fire a part of the town as a punishment. The greatest part of Louvain has been preserved. The famous Town Hall stands quite intact; for at great self-sacrifice our soldiers saved it from destruction by the flames. Every German would of course greatly regret if in the course of this terrible war any works of art should already have been destroyed or be destroyed at some future time, but inasmuch as in our great love for art we cannot be surpassed by any other nation, in the same degree we must decidedly refuse to buy a German defeat at the cost of saving a work of art.

It is not true
that our warfare pays no respect to international laws. It knows no indisciplined cruelty. But in the east the earth is saturated with the blood of women and children unmercifully butchered by the wild Russian troops, and in the west dumdum bullets mutilate the breasts of our soldiers. Those who have allied themselves with Russians and Serbians, and present such a shameful scene to the world as that of inciting Mongolians and
negroes against the white race, have no right whatever to call themselves upholders of civilization.

It is not true
that the combat against our so-called militarism is not a combat against our civilization, as our enemies hypocritically pretend it is. Were it not for German militarism, German civilization would long since have been extirpated. For its protection it arose in a land which for centuries had been plagued by bands of robbers as no other land had been. The German Army and the German people are one and today this consciousness fraternizes 70,000,000 Germans, all ranks, positions, and parties being one.

We cannot wrest the poisonous weapon—the lie—out of the hands of our enemies. All we can do is to proclaim to all the world that our enemies are giving false witness against us. You, who know us, who with us have protected the most holy possessions of man, we call to you:

Have faith in us! Believe, that we shall carry on this war to the end as a civilized nation, to whom the legacy of a Goethe, a Beethoven, and a Kant is just as sacred as its own hearths and homes.

For this we pledge you our names and our honor.

I am amazed to see ninety-three signatures, including many men I've met socially. There are artists, physicians, and Nobel Prize Laureates. What is truth and what is propaganda?

*    *    *

Berlin is miserable. It is constant rain and watching miserable women wandering the streets with their silent children. I have no lovers. I miss Edouard. I no longer trust Germany. I don't know what
to believe when I read the papers. I want to go home. I phone the concierge and tell him to book the next train ticket to Paris.

“The next train to Paris departs in two weeks,” he says.

“There are no tickets today at all?” I hear myself sounding desperate.

“Indeed, there are tickets to be had. For a price. Everyone wants to leave Berlin.”

“I don't care about the price. Please buy me one.”

He telephones back an hour later. “Is tomorrow acceptable, Fraulein Mata Hari?”

*    *    *

There are massive crowds at the station. Infants have been taken out of their prams and the buggies are being used to carry luggage and food. No one is standing still. Even the children look afraid. I push my way to the front and board the train. It seems as though there are no young men at all in Berlin, while the older gentlemen are buried in their newspapers. I read the headlines as I move along:
HUGE CROWDS CHEER AT THEIR MAJESTIES' PALACE; "WAR WON'T LAST" TOP GENERAL SAYS
. Is any of this true?

The war might not last, but as the train pulls out of the station and I look at Berlin, I see how it has already changed her. Streets once filled with people are practically empty. I see a boy kicking a can without any companions. With so many fathers at war, I've heard children are being sent to work to earn money. Food continues to be scarce.

We haven't been traveling for more than ten minutes before the train comes to a complete stop. Passengers exchange glances, concerned. Uniformed men enter the car and begin searching through our bags.

“Stand,” I'm instructed. The iron in the soldier's voice makes me jump.

“How dare you speak to me in that—”

“Do it now!”

If von Schilling knew the way this underling was treating me, he'd have this boy discharged. I protest, but the other passengers have gone silent. Soldiers are rifling through several bags, and the one who ordered me to stand has opened my largest case, the one containing all of my furs.

“Are you planning to sell these to make a profit?” he demands.

“Don't be absurd! Surely you recognize me. I wear them—”

I have addressed him in German yet he replies, “Sit down!”

The other passengers remain mute as he gathers up all of my furs, worth at least ten thousand marks. Soldiers are stealing from other passengers as well. No one says a word. What can we do? Nothing. They take what they want and then are gone.

Chapter 15

I Want to Be Home

I
'm so angry my hands are actually shaking. I open my purse and take out von Schilling's note. “In case you run into difficulties,” he had said. Along with Elsbeth Schragmuller's address there are two dozen names located in half a dozen countries. There is no one listed in Paris, but at the bottom, in von Schilling's perfect script, are the words “Consul Karl Cramer,” and an address in Amsterdam. I decide to disembark in Amsterdam.

As soon as the train pulls into the Centraal, I locate my bags and tip a boy to carry them to the nearest cab. I'm still so filled with rage that we're already driving before I realize how full the city is. The Netherlands has refused to enter the war, and it's strange to see young men again. But it's not just the men that make the city seem busy. I stare out the window. It's not my imagination. There are lines outside of most of the shops.

“What's happening?” I ask. “Is today a holiday?”

The driver frowns. “What do you mean, ma'am?”

“Why are there so many people waiting in lines?” I say impatiently.

“The war,” he replies, as if it should be obvious. “The boys who
don't want to fight have come over. There are thousands of French and Germans here now, and all of them are wanting food and clothes. Where do they think it's going to come from with all these blockades?”

“Food is difficult, then?”

“If you don't mind my asking, where have you been?”

His question stings. “Away.”

“People are starving here, ma'am.”

I stare out the window. There are women huddled with their children inside blankets, standing on the roads with their hands out in front of them.
Where have I been?
In hotels, in men's suites, in restaurants where the crystal is still polished daily. I think about my furs and feel disgusted. How dare those men take anything from civilians in times like these. . . .

The driver turns down a narrow street and the car shakes over the cobbled road. I hold on to the seat in front of me. He stops in front of a plain gray building and I compare the address with the one in von Schilling's note. “This the place?” the driver asks.

“Yes. If you'll please wait—”

“That will be an extra charge.”

“I understand.” I go inside. It's an office. Busy-looking men, some in uniform and others in suits, rush about. The woman who greets me asks what my business is at the German Consulate. I try not to look surprised; this non-descript building is a consulate?

“I'm here to see Consul Karl Cramer. Immediately.”

She frowns at me over her desk. “You wish to see the consul?”

“Yes. I do.”

“What is your business?”

“I was sent to him by General von Schilling. He'll understand.”

She hesitates, then stands and disappears through a doorway. A minute later she returns and asks me to follow her down the hall.

The interior of the building is as plain as the outside, as if they are trying to hide. We come to a wooden door and the woman knocks, even though the door is slightly ajar, and I can see a balding man sitting behind his desk. He calls for me to be shown in. When I enter, she shuts the door behind me.

Consul Cramer raises his brows. “Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I take a seat in front of his desk. “My name is Mata Hari. Perhaps you've heard of me.”

He puts down the papers in his hands. I have his full attention now. “The dancer?”

“Yes.”

His eyes wander from my face to my body, imagining what I look like beneath my black dress. Perhaps he's been to one of my shows. If he has, he doesn't admit to it. “I was told von Schilling sent you,” he says.

“Yes. He gave me a list of names where I might find help if I should need it. This morning, German soldiers barged onto my train in Berlin and stole my furs. They treated me like an animal.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you, but I want more than an apology. I want my property returned, and von Schilling believes you're the man to make that happen.”

“How do you know the general?”

I lean toward him. “Didn't I mention that General von Schilling and I are very good friends, Karl?”

His eyes light up at the implication.

“Will you help me?” I ask.

He sighs. “Mata Hari, what you are—”

“I want what is mine.”

“Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner. Shall I make reservations at Hotel Krasnapolsky?”

It's the best hotel in Amsterdam. But I sit back, refusing to be deterred. “I'm on my way to Paris. I want to be home.”

“Paris is no place to call home right now, Mata Hari.”

I'm not in the mood for a lecture. “Can you or can you not return my furs to me?”

“You claim they were confiscated in Berlin. Yet we are sitting in Amsterdam. The appropriate place to register a complaint would be in Berlin.”

These Germans are infuriating! “Von Schilling said—”

“Yes.” He holds up his hand. “I understand.”

“They were taken from me by your men!
Stolen
!
”

He doesn't look in the least bit surprised.

“If you can't return them, then I will accept compensation.”

He has the gall to look amused. Then he says, “The consulate does not reimburse travelers for lost clothing. This applies in times of peace as well as war.”

“This is outrageous. I have given so much to Berlin. So much! And in return I am robbed of thirty thousand marks.” It's the first number that comes to my mind.

The consul rubs his temple with his fingers. Perhaps I'm not the first person to complain about this today. “Is that the market value of your confiscated property?”

“That is a low estimate. I never travel lightly.”

“Perhaps, then, we can come to a compromise.”

“I'm listening.”

“I will give you a check. Twenty thousand marks.”

I open my mouth to protest but he shakes his head.

“I am doing you a favor, fraulein. For von Schilling. I will inform my superiors that you have agreed to keep your ears and eyes open on behalf of Germany. They won't pay you for lost goods. Are we agreed?”

We are.

“Mata Hari,” he says as I am gathering myself to leave. “I suggest that the next time you travel it not be by train.” He pauses, organizes his thoughts. “I will arrange your passage on the next available ship to France. If you are amenable.”

I can't believe what I'm hearing. “This type of thievery might happen again?”

He spreads his hands. “This is war, Mata Hari.”

We watch each other. “Please book my passage,” I say.

*    *    *

For three days in a row I wait outside of her school without seeing her. Is she ill? Has he moved her? Did something else happen? Girls walk down the steps of the schoolhouse arm in arm, chatting with each other, making plans. I search their smiling faces, and none of them look like Non. But on the fourth day, when I see a solemn dark-haired girl walking alone, I know that it's her. All of the other girls are carefree; there's a misery in this young girl's face that makes her look older than her years.

My heart beats too quickly. I could call to her, reveal myself. But what would I say? And where would I go to spirit her away? I'm still waiting for my own passage to France. I have no papers for my daughter. The old woman waiting for her across the street would scream for help. And then what? Would we run? Would Non want to leave with me?

A thousand scenarios pass through my head. In the end, I simply watch her while she walks away, committing every detail of my daughter to memory. The way her hair falls in dark curls down her back, her slender waist, her blue school uniform. I drink her in until she disappears from sight.

*    *    *

A newspaper has been delivered and waits outside my room at the hotel where I'm staying until I can sail for Paris. The lead story describes a French cavalry unit dressed in blue feathers, red caps, and newly polished brass buckles. As they rode their horses into battle they mocked the British soldiers they were meant to aid. “Cowards!” they yelled. “You English are not fighters. We will show you how it is done.” Two hundred Frenchmen armed with lances charged into machine-gun fire. “Not one of them asked us what the Germans were fighting with,” an English soldier is quoted. “And not one of them came back.”

I think of von Schilling. He would say, “This is why Deutschland will prevail.” And I feel a true jolt of fear. What if France doesn't prevail? What will happen to us? What will happen to The Netherlands?

I go downstairs and gather a copy of every newspaper in the lobby, then read them from front to back in my room. Milk shortages in Paris. Not enough petrol in the south of France. Then a small article buried deep in
Le Figaro
about a man from Normandy caught with invisible inks and working for the Germans. What if I could use invisible ink to communicate with Non? Where would I find such a thing? And how would she know how to decipher it?

I phone the consulate and learn my ship won't leave for Paris for one more week. I will spend every afternoon outside the yellow schoolhouse, secretly watching Non.

*    *    *

I am eager to leave Amsterdam for Paris. I will apologize to Edouard. I will tell him whatever he wants to hear. That he was right, that he's always been right, that it was foolish of me to insist on staying in Germany. Then I will ask him to renew his efforts to bring Non home to me, whatever the cost. I want him to come
with us to New York. This is where we will finally find refuge. I'm certain of this after reading an article about the generosity of the Americans:

GIVES $18,000 CHECK TO HELP ARMENIANS

Stranger First Decided on $5,000 but Tale of Suffering Caused Him to Increase Amount.

A well-dressed but unassuming man walked modestly into the office of the American Committee for Armenian and Syrian Relief, 708 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, the other day, and inquired for the secretary. He named a Middle West State as his home, and said he had been thinking about making a contribution on “Armenian Sunday,” October 22, to help the Armenian refugees in Turkey, but had concluded, from what he had read in the newspapers, that money is badly needed now.

“I can give $5,000.” He said, “but I would like to hear something about the facts.”

The assistant secretary of the committee, Walter Mallory, summarized the situation in accordance with information which had been received in recent letters and cablegrams. One of the facts stated by Mr. Mallory is that there are about a million Armenian and Syrian Christian refugees in Turkey and Persia, largely women and children, nearly all of whom are destitute. Deported from their homes by Turkish soldiers, many thousands are suffering for lack of the bare necessities of life. Then he began to tell of sacrifices which contributors to the relief fund had made.

The visitor listened to the story of a minister in Ohio who had written that from a salary of $80 a month his
wife and himself would contribute $40 a month for six months.

“Well,” said the stranger, “if they can make a sacrifice like that I think I can give $10,000.”

On the way to the office of Charles R. Crane, the treasurer, the donor was told of an old woman who wrote she had no money, but would give her old paisley shawl—an heirloom which had been in the family many years and had once been her mother's. He listened also to a letter from the mother of a little girl, 4 years old, who had earned 2 cents sweeping the sidewalk. She wanted to give 1 cent to the Belgian babies and the other to the starving Armenians.

“If other people are willing to give up things,” commented the stranger, “I ought to be willing to do the same. I think that every one ought to help save this old Christian race. I believe I can give $15,000.”

Before he entered the treasurer's office the stranger seemed to make some mental calculations and when he wrote out his check it read $18,000.00. “Under no circumstances is my name to be made public,” said the stranger, so the treasurer, to keep faith, personally deposited the check in the bank.

When I board the
Zeelandia
, I am one of four hundred ­people. The other passengers walking the gangplank with me seem reserved. Before the war we all would have greeted each other warmly, maybe invited each other to drinks after dinner. But everyone is suspicious now: of traitors, of enemies, of anyone with more. I can sense the other passengers watching me warily. A woman by herself, no husband or even children in tow. What must I look like
to them? A widow maybe. The war has certainly made enough of them.

On board, I keep to myself. No one trusts a woman alone. If I speak with a married man, it's because I'm interested in seducing him. If I chat with a woman, she will want to know about my children. No one is safe, so I sit in my room or on the hard metal chairs of the windy deck and read the papers. It's gloomy reading. How many soldiers have died in this ridiculous war? How many women and children have starved? I keep reading and reading, but there's never any answer.

*    *    *

When the ship sails into port, I'm the first one down the gangplank. I don't want to see the bittersweet reunions or the tears of the women returning, widowed, to their mothers' homes. At dockside, I hail a cab. A freezing bitter wind is blowing and I curse the German soldiers who seized my furs. As we drive down Rue Danton I am shocked: Paris has become a stranger to me. Planes fly overhead, making low, ominous sweeps. I look out the car window and the streets are desolate. The cafés and shops are empty. I see women gathered around papers nailed to posts. Some of them are doubled over, wailing.

“What are they reading?” I ask the driver.

“Names. Those who are crying have sons and husbands who aren't coming home.”