Mata Hari's Last Dance (19 page)

I look at Bowtie through the bars. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Of course not.”

“Because not even these monsters think I was spying in Vittel.”

“Are you sure?”

“We're going to be married one day soon.” In New York. A new world, a new country, a new life. “Vadime is not a casual fling.” I will never deceive him.

“Does he know this?”

What an unkind, horrible thing to ask. “I'm finished with this interview!” It's the first time in my life I've sent a reporter away. I turn my back on him until I hear his footsteps fading.

*    *    *

That night I dream of Leeuwarden in September when the maple trees paint the canals red and gold. Frida, our maid, is baking
poffertjes
and serving them hot with butter and caster sugar. My youngest brothers—three and two—eat everything on their plates, licking them clean, too young to have manners. Only my older brother behaves himself at the table.

“Ari, Cornelius, sit still,” Frida admonishes, and I glance at Johannes and we giggle, because we are older and know better.

My mother says to my father, “Your daughter causes too much trouble around the house. Frida doesn't know what to do with her.”

My father says, “And what kind of trouble is this, my M'greet?”

“I took Mama's pearls and shoes and dressed Ari in them. He was a princess.”

My father laughs, rubbing his beard with his knuckles. “Oh no! What else?”

With Papa, I can do anything. “I told my classmates I was born in a castle.”

“And so you should have been!” Papa cries, with a sweep of his hand. “Presenting the Countess of Caminghastate,
” he announces to imaginary crowds and then, magically, we are walking hand in hand, past the Tower of Oldehove.

We stop in the bakery near the park where my brothers like to play.

“Ah, it's the baron and little baroness of Leeuwarden,” the baker says, and he takes out two pieces of marzipan wrapped in tissue. He hands the sweets to me and turns into the Walrus, gruesome with fleshy jowls
and yellow teeth.
I turn to my papa for protection from the meaty hands that are reaching for me, but my papa has vanished.

Chapter 19

Anything You Haven't Told Me?

O
fficially, none of the prisoners in the Conciergerie are allowed visitors, but unauthorized exceptions are possible. Edouard has successfully bribed the guards for a second time. I rush to the bars, then hesitate. I haven't bathed since I last saw him. My hair is stringy and unkempt. There's dirt under my nails and on the hem of my dress.

“M'greet.” Edouard is dressed entirely in gray. If he is disgusted by my appearance, I can't read it in his face. He seats himself on the stool that Bowtie used and immediately I notice there's something different in the air between us. I wait for him to explain. “I want you to sit down,” he says.

I sit on my bed.

“You understand why you were arrested?”

“I do.” When he says nothing more, I elaborate. “They claim I'm a double agent.”

“Yes. And now there's been a development.” He reaches into his suit pocket, retrieves a piece of paper, and pushes it between the bars. It's a typed explanation of my arrest. I read quickly until I come to material that is wholly new and shocking to me. The report says
messages were intercepted on their way to Berlin, sent in code, from Madrid, from Major Arnold Kalle.

Kalle's messages describe a spy with the code name of H21. This spy was passing “significant information” about French military operations to Berlin. Credit for breaking the code Kalle used is given to Commandant Ladoux. At the bottom of the report is a handwritten note from Ladoux himself.
“I am of the very strong opinion that Mata Hari is a double agent. Arrest her upon arrival in Paris.”

The paper I'm holding begins to shake as my hands tremble. “Liar!” I shout. My voice echoes in the prison. A few cells down someone shouts, “They all are!” I lower my voice and swear, “Ladoux is a liar, Edouard!”

“All of it, M'greet?” I can see in his eyes that he doesn't believe me.

“Major Kalle is the man I seduced in Madrid.” I think of us in his bed, how I believed he was charmed by me, how I was proud of discovering an important secret for France. I am so embarrassed. “Whatever he sent in those messages isn't true. It can't be. I didn't reveal anything to him! I don't know any French military secrets. He has turned everything around. The truth is
he
told
me
Berlin's secrets. Or, I thought he did—I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't understand this at all, Edouard. He's lying.”

“If Major Kalle was lying with the intent to discredit you, M'greet, why did he send his telegrams to Berlin in code?” There's fear in Edouard's face. “A person transmits in code to keep a message secret.”

I begin to weep. “I don't know.”

“Is there anything you haven't told me, M'greet? Absolutely anything that you are withholding? Information you haven't already given to Bouchardon or Ladoux?”

I close my eyes and I am back at Consul Cramer's office. I see him scoffing at my suggestion that he compensate me for stolen property.
“The consulate does not reimburse travelers for lost clothing. This applies
in times of peace as well as war.”
I hear myself agreeing to his alternative suggestion. I open my eyes as tears burn hot trails down my face. “A small thing. The full reason Consul Cramer gave me those twenty thousand marks.”

*    *    *

I am staring at the elephant-headed god Ganesh, the remover of obstacles. I hear Mahadevi telling me, “You have to let him go.”

“He was my son. I will never let him go. I want to feel whole again.”

“Let go of that desire. You will never be whole again.”

I recognize the first words of truth anyone has offered me. She is not vowing that all will be well, or begging me to eat because I still have Non.

“The house is haunted,” I tell Ganesh. “My little boy is everywhere.” We both know what I must do. But my little girl . . .

I turn to Mahadevi. “What will happen to her?”

“I was married once. I have a girl, too. She's grown now. If I had stayed with her father, he would have killed me.”

The scent of my hair, the touch of my finger running down her tiny nose. What will Non remember of me if I leave her now?

Mahadevi looks straight into my eyes. “He is violent and I have seen how he hurts you. It is only a matter of time. You'll be dead. What good is a dead mother to a girl?”

I wake up shouting Non's name.

*    *    *

When the guards announce his arrival, I turn my back. I don't want to see him.

“Mata Hari.”

“I know what you think. It isn't true.” In my own ears, my voice sounds raw. I don't understand why they keep letting him in to see me. Who does Bowtie know that he can gain access to the Con
ciergerie whenever he pleases? He can't possibly afford to bribe the guards the way Edouard does.

“Look,” he says. “A peace offering.”

I turn and he holds up a newspaper:
STAR OF THE EAST IMPRISONED FOR ESPIONAGE: BUT HAS SHE BEEN FRAMED?
“I have nothing more to say to you,” I tell him and retreat to the back of my cell. “You can leave.”

“Mata Hari, please let me help you. I don't believe you're guilty of espionage against France. I think you're being used as a scapegoat.”

I study him. I don't know who to trust anymore.

“Let me help you,” he says again, and an idea occurs to me.

I approach the bars. “Can you contact someone for me?”

“I can contact anyone. I'll contact the Pope if that's what you want.”

If he has access to anyone, then he can communicate with Non.

*    *    *

Something is happening. For the first time in a month I'm allowed to shower. Someone went through my confiscated property; after I am returned to my cell a female guard brings me one of my own skirts along with a green blouse. I haven't seen these items since the morning I was arrested in my hotel room. The clothing feels wonderful and smells so clean I nearly cry with gratitude.

Then unfamiliar guards arrive and I am let out of my cell for a second time. The men—two in front and two behind—escort me down the hall. I am shocked when they usher me outside the prison into a foggy morning and a waiting vehicle.

I don't know where they are taking me and I don't ask.

I wish we could drive for days—for years. To see the world beyond the view from my cell window is now the greatest luxury. I drink in the sights and the sounds. But the trip is over all too soon. The
guards accompany me up the steps of an unfamiliar building and escort me down barren halls. I am delivered to a room that has two windows. Behind a desk sits Commandant Ladoux and next to him is Captain Bouchardon, both looking grim and impatient. I freeze when I see them; at that moment Edouard joins me. He puts his hand on the small of my back and pushes me forward.

“There's nothing I want to say to these men,” I whisper as I sit next to Edouard. My guards remain at the door. Are they concerned that I will make a mad run for freedom?

“My client has something to tell you,” Edouard says. “I believe it will clear up this grave misunderstanding, and we will all come to agree that Mata Hari is being imprisoned unjustly and must be released at once. She is no more guilty of espionage than you or I. She is merely a foolish woman with the regrettable habit of bedding the wrong men. A woman who routinely couples ill-advised liaisons with requests for compensation.”

He's calling me a whore. If he believes this will free me, then I will play the role of a foolish whore.

Captain Bouchardon says, “Speak,” and everyone looks at me.

“It would be cowardly to defend myself against such actions as I have taken,” I begin.

Edouard interrupts me. “The day you met Consul Cramer,” he prompts. “Was that the first time you'd ever spoken with him?”

“Yes.”

“We've heard this before,” Ladoux declares. He starts to stand.

Edouard gestures for him to wait and Ladoux sits down. “When you asked Consul Cramer for compensation for your furs—what was his response?”

“Consul Cramer told me that the consulate never reimburses travelers for lost clothing. That this is true in times of peace as well as war.”

Ladoux rubs his temple impatiently.

“He then asked me the market value of my confiscated property and gave me a check. For twenty thousand marks. He said it was a favor, an acknowledgment of who I am. And he said that he would inform his superiors that I agreed to keep my ears and eyes open on behalf of Germany.”

There's silence in the room. “I agreed and accepted the check.”

“So your payment—” Ladoux begins.

“Was compensation for stolen furs. I never intended to spy for Germany; what he told his superiors was untrue. I agreed to his suggestion because I take when someone has taken from me—”

“My client is telling the truth. She took the money from Consul Cramer because German soldiers seized her furs while she was a passenger on a train bound for Paris.”

“When I first made France my home,” I add, “I took a train to Paris. I was without money and without clothes—”

“The furs aren't the point!” Bouchardon interrupts. He addresses Edouard. “If she wants us to believe that she regularly travels with twenty thousand marks' worth of furs, so be it. What we find incredibly difficult to believe, Monsieur Clunet, is that a German consul would lie to his superiors about such a sum of money and what its purpose was.” Bouchardon is stone-faced. “We are at war. Her story is preposterous.”

“What do you believe the truth to be?” Edouard demands.

“Don't concern yourself with what we
believe
, counselor.” Bouchardon glances at Ladoux. “Concern yourself with what we
know
. We have proof that the twenty thousand marks in discussion were paid in exchange for espionage, Monsieur Clunet. Not furs. Not liaisons. It was payment from Germany for espionage against France.”

“Show me this proof,” Edouard demands.

“I'm sorry.” Bouchardon stands and Ladoux follows. “It's a matter of national security now. We will see the both of you at trial.”

The men leave without sparing me a glance.

The guards escort me out of the room immediately; I don't have time for a single private word with Edouard. I have no idea what to expect from a trial. I just pray that Edouard is able to bribe his way back to my cell and explain it to me.

Chapter 20

Trial by Court Martial

July 24, 1917

T
his time seven guards are deemed necessary to escort me from my cell in the Conciergerie to the black car waiting outside to convey me to the Palais de Justice. I have had only one visit since my disastrous meeting with Bouchardon and Ladoux—from Bowtie. I haven't heard a word from Edouard.

The drive lasts only a few minutes and before we reach the courthouse I see that the streets are filled with people, many of them chanting my name and holding signs that read
Free Mata Hari
and
Innocent.
Some women in the crowd are weeping. The sight touches me; I didn't realize I had female admirers. If he manages to visit me again, I will thank Bowtie. He promised me that he would rally people in my support.

As soon as we come to a stop, a dozen reporters swarm the car. I regret that I am not wearing something glamorous, an ensemble that represents who I am, an entertainer. Instead I am dressed in a simple blue skirt and blouse given to me by my jailers. One of my guards opens the car door and the ambush is immediate.

“Mata Hari!” a reporter shouts. “Why are you spying for Germany?”

I ignore him and do not let my face betray my emotions. I step out
and scan the throng for Bowtie; I don't see him. The guards escort me toward the courthouse and the reporters follow like swarming bees.

“Mata Hari! Why were you arrested?”

I stop and answer this question. “Because I am a woman who enjoys herself very much.”

“Keep moving,” the nearest guard snaps at me. The crowd is surging and three men appear to clear a path so that I can enter the doors of the Palais de Justice.

Inside it is absolute madness. Reporters are crowding in the halls. I spot Bowtie. “Where is Edouard?” I call to him as I am herded past.

“He's here—don't worry. He's already in the Cour d'Assises,” he answers and reaches out for my hand.

“No touching the prisoner!”

I'm taken down the hall to a paneled courtroom. I see seven tall wooden chairs that I imagine are meant for my judges, a long table, and behind that a French flag that covers an entire wall.

Edouard is sitting alone at a smaller table. It strikes me that his hair is almost completely white—was it still peppered dark when he first visited me in prison? He looks as though my arrest has aged him ten years. Next to him is an empty chair.

At a different table sit three men I don't recognize, together with Captain Bouchardon. The table is weighted down with stacks of documents. All four men watch me as I enter. None of them stand.

As soon as he sees me, though, Edouard rises. He guides me to the empty chair and catches me looking up at the image of Justice painted on the ceiling above our heads.

“M'greet,” he says quietly, drawing my gaze downward. I can see that he's nervous. He's not a criminal lawyer, yet here we are. The files on Bouchardon's table are so thick. What can possibly be written in them? I imagine they are lists. Lists of every man I've slept with.

Edouard whispers in my ear, “That man.” I follow his gaze: He means the tall one dressed entirely in gray. “His name is Andre Mornet.”

For a moment we are together in the Rothschilds' jasmine-scented garden and he is saying
Don't speak at length with anyone who appears drunk, in particular the German ambassador . . . von Schoen
.

“One of the best prosecutors in France,” he says, and I am snapped back into the awful present.

“I want you to answer him in simple sentences, M'greet, no matter how he phrases his questions. For your own sake, don't embellish. Do not attempt to describe your version of events. I'll do that for you. This is a military tribunal. All of the judges”—he inclines his head toward the seven still-empty chairs—“are members of the military. Do not try to charm them. Under these circumstances they will respond to facts, not stories.”

I wish that I were anywhere in this world instead of inside the Palais de Justice. I want to be at the top of the temple of Borobudur with Sofie, watching the sun set over the misty hills of Magelang. I want to be exploring the Javanese beaches with Non, picking my way across the rocks as the warm breeze tangles her hair.

“In a few moments the doors will open and the public will be allowed in,” Edouard is informing me. “Then the seven judges will enter. After they are seated, Andre Mornet will call witnesses.”

Witnesses? “Who do they plan to call?”

“I was not given that information. I'm sorry. A court martial is unlike a trial in the civilian world—”

“And our witnesses? Who has agreed to testify for me?” I have conflicted feelings immediately. How wonderful it will be to see familiar faces, and yet how horrible to see them under these circumstances.

“I'm sorry, M'greet.” Edouard pushes a glass of water into my hands.

“You are sorry? Why are you sorry? Who turned me down?”

He recites the list quietly. Guimet and Givenchy. Baron Rothschild. Felix Rousseau, my “banker.” Jeanne is dead. I've made so few real friends in my life.

“Has anyone agreed to speak on my behalf?”

“Yes. I located Henri de Marguerie. He will tell them you are of good character.”

A handsome man who spent the night with me after one of my shows.
Salome
?
Cleopatra
? Maybe
Tristan and Isolde
. I can't summon an image of his face, but I remember his wristwatch—it was the first one I'd ever seen. I think back and eventually it comes to me. Henri de Rothschild's château. I'd just performed
Lady Godiva
and the string quartet was playing something slow. A dark-haired man asked me to dance. He was wearing a Rolex. “It's a wristwatch,” he said.

A guard opens the doors and spectators rush to get inside.

“At least I have Vadime,” I say, searching the crowd for him. Va­­dime knows the true me. He will set these men straight.

“Vadime de Massloff declined as well. I'm sorry.”

This can't be true. In my mind's eye I see him, wrapping his scarf around my neck, pulling me toward him.
“I love you, Mata Hari. I've loved you since the first time I saw you.”
Who will I live with in New York?
All of my hope for the future rests with you,
he said.

Edouard sees my devastation. “I'm told his superior officer forbade him to speak on your behalf. Don't let this undo you, M'greet. Stay strong. This is the performance of your life.”

“Are you certain—”

“We believe in you, Mata Hari!”

I am cut off by the noise and excitement of hundreds of people scuffling to find a seat; the commotion is so great that the prosecutor starts shouting, “These civilians must be removed!”

There is absolute mayhem for several minutes and the room
threatens to dissolve into chaos. The judges enter and confer and it's immediately decided that the trial will proceed
huis clos
.

Edouard looks at me.
Behind closed doors.
Without a single reporter watching the trial with a critical eye, anything might happen. I look up at the image of Justice holding her heavy scales and wonder which way they will tip. Is justice truly blind? The Roman goddess is depicted as impartial, meant to uncover the truth, and to do so objectively, without fear or favor, no matter the wealth or weakness of the person who is standing before her. I look at the judges and they stare straight back at me.

*    *    *

Andre Mornet has been detailing the case against me. He has revealed that French agents spent more than fifteen months following me from Berlin to Amsterdam, from Amsterdam to Madrid, and back again to Paris.

I have racked my memory but I cannot recall any moment when I thought I was being followed.

He has detailed my liaisons with men in every city—during many years, not only for the past fifteen months. He knows where we went to eat, where we went to dance, and always where we were intimate. Most of these men I barely remember. He has spent a great deal of time speaking about past lovers who are German: officers, captains, colonels. But the man who interests him most is Russian: Vadime de Massloff. Hearing his name makes me want to weep, and I can barely listen as he describes our relationship and the importance of the airbase in Vittel. None of what he says is true in the way he describes what happened, and why it happened. But now I recognize that it is damning all the same. I can see the terrible picture that the best prosecutor in France is painting, stroke by stroke.

“Can you tell me about Vadime de Massloff?”

“Are you accusing me of something? Because not even these monsters think I was spying in Vittel.”

“Are you sure?”

“The English understood that this woman cannot be trusted,” Andre Mornet says. He describes how they arrested me, and I am stunned to learn that while they were paying for my stay at the Savoy the British informed Commandant Ladoux of their belief that I was working with the Germans. Now I understand why I heard nothing from Ladoux beyond that terse telegram telling me to return to Madrid. This revelation leads directly to the most damning evidence Mornet has: Arnold Kalle and the coded telegram he sent from Madrid to Berlin, identifying me as asset “H21” and crediting me with passing “significant information” about French military operations to Berlin.

Due to the “sensitive nature” of the information decoded in these missives, the contents are not described to me in any detail. I cannot defend myself against the unknown.

When, at last, Mornet calls me to the stand, my legs are trembling; I hope it isn't obvious. I sit and try to compose myself as he instructs me to answer every question as briefly as possible. “There are to be no histrionics, no drama, no performing, Margaretha Zelle. Mata Hari's audience has left. So, shall we begin?”

I nod and he says, “Is it true that you were invited to observe army maneuvers in Silesia and that this invitation was extended by a German cavalry officer by the name of Alfred Kiepert?”

“Yes, but—”

“Answer only with a yes or no, Miss Zelle.”

I glance at Edouard. He nods. “Yes.”

As he describes the importance of an invitation I never accepted, I look at the seven men who sit in judgment of me. They are old and
humorless. Men who were probably alive and even fighting during the Siege of Paris.

There is a pause, and I realize that Mornet has asked me something. “I didn't accept his invitation,” I say.

“That isn't what I asked you, Miss Zelle. I asked you why you took such a great number of German officers as lovers.”

When will I be offered the chance to explain that I never saw military maneuvers with Alfred Kiepert? “I love officers. I have loved them all my life. I'd prefer to be the mistress of a poor officer than of a rich banker. And I like to make comparisons between the different nationalities. I have known an equal number of French officers.”

Mornet shakes his head; the seven judges look disgusted. “General von Schilling,” Mornet says, counting on his fingers. “
Officer
Alfred Kiepert;
Major
Arnold Kalle; Alfred von Schlieffen, chief of staff of the German army; Günther Burstyn—”

“I prefer men in uniform.”

“Men in
German
uniform,” he says, as if he is speaking an obscenity.

“That isn't accurate,” Edouard objects.

But Mornet is not deterred. “This tribunal does not find it credible that the astonishing sums these military men paid—three hundred thousand marks from Officer Alfred Kiepert, twenty thousand marks from Consul Cramer, for example—were money paid for the favors of an aging mistress.”

“Object!” Edouard says. “The reason for these payments are in her deposition.”

“You must be very expensive,” Mornet says to me. His tone is mocking.

“Definitely,” I reply.

“Object!” Edouard repeats, sounding outraged.

“What do you think you are worth?”

“All or nothing,” I say, defiant.

None of the judges paid Edouard the slightest attention when he shouted his objections, but now Mornet addresses him directly. “We have read her deposition, counselor. What I am saying is that we do not believe her claims. We believe she is lying.” He pauses, as if he is considering his next words very carefully. “On December first, Monsieur Clunet, fifty thousand Allied soldiers were killed. Miss Zelle provided the Germans with information that led directly to these deaths.”

“That's a lie,” I shout and Edouard is immediately on his feet. “Show me the proof! Fifty thousand men? There wasn't a single story in any newspaper in this country—”

“It is confidential information,” Andre Mornet replies. “We are at war.” He turns to me on the stand. “You betrayed France, Miss Zelle.”

The room has become oppressive. “France is my home!” I say. “For most of my life I have lived in Paris. Am I a courtesan? Yes. A traitoress? Never!” I have to rest my head in my hands to compose myself.

Mornet calls his witnesses, and one after another, officers I've never met detail romantic liaisons that never took place. The entire trial is a farce. The last to speak is a short colonel named Goudet. If I searched all of France, I'd never find another man as fat or smug. Mornet introduces him as the head of French counterespionage.

“I have studied the case of the accused with great care,” Colonel Goudet says. The room is absolutely silent. I realize I am holding my breath. “Margaretha Zelle”—Goudet clears his throat—“is the most dangerous spy of the twentieth century.”

All seven judges begin talking at once.

*    *    *

“Look at this woman,” Mornet says, as he finishes his summation.

He has detailed my fluency in several languages, my relationships
with dozens of military officers, some real and some pure fantasy; he has challenged my intelligence, my morality, and my lack of conscience.