Mata Hari's Last Dance (14 page)

“Look.” She gestures to a group of men sitting on a bench, talking excitedly. A newspaper is spread out over the lap of the man in the middle. “Horse races,” she says, and I hear the disgust in her voice, the disdain.

“But you're preparing,” I say cautiously. She has been talking to me about guns, planes, and ships.

“Of course.”

We walk and talk together for some time, although what von Schilling imagines she can teach me I cannot conceive. She enjoys talking about books—especially
The Riddle of the Sands
. But in the main she talks about this phantom war, while I would rather discuss just about anything else. When I relay her preferred topic to von Schilling, he scolds me.

“What else is more pressing? Mata Hari, when Austria-Hungary declares war on Serbia, Russia will come to Serbia's aid. Then Germany, as an ally of Austria, must declare war on Russia.”

How can the actions of one crazy man be so significant? I am sure he is mistaken, but von Schilling misinterprets my silence.

“I understand. The implications are sobering. This hasn't been made public yet. Tomorrow.” He reaches out and pulls me to his chest. “We have until tomorrow to enjoy ourselves.”

He takes me into his bedroom. A chilled bottle of wine is waiting. We drink and he toasts to the future of Germany.

*    *    *

The next morning the news is released as promised. Austria-­Hungary will have Germany's help if war is declared. Von Schilling looks alive in a way I've never seen before. But he is gone from morning until night. I call Alfred, deciding that I will risk women hissing at me, yet I don't hear back from him. After a week, a phone call explains why. His family is offering me three hundred thousand marks never to call on him again. The choice is so simple I don't even think twice. The next evening I take a train to the Potsdamer Platz, and at the Grand Hotel Bellevue, I take tea with the Kiepert family attorney.

We sit across from each other in the pastel-colored room with its pretty lace curtains and finely dressed women. I can hear mothers gently scolding their children and women talking to each other about sewing. A grandmother is bouncing a baby girl on her lap.

“The money?” I say.

The old man pushes a fat envelope across the table at me. I tuck it into my purse. “I'm delighted we could come to such a satisfactory arrangement.”

“My clients are far less delighted,” he says, but his voice isn't stern. He's staring at me, trying to divine the secret of my power over Alfred.

“I'm sorry to hear that. But they can rest assured they will never see me again.”

“How will you do it?” he asks. “Force their boy to leave you alone?”

“I'll let him see me with someone else.”

“He might not be deterred.”

“Don't tell me,” I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “that you wouldn't stop chasing a woman on the arm of a crown prince?”

The attorney is impressed. “Is that true?”

I shrug—it could be.

Back at my own apartment, Irving Berlin is playing. I pour myself a drink and count out three hundred thousand marks.

*    *    *

I answer a knock on my door, and it's Edouard. He doesn't say a word as he moves past me and looks through my window at the people singing in the streets, and the military officers hanging posters urging men to join the army. “We need to leave Berlin and go back to France. Pack your things.”

Even though I have longed to see him, I am surprised at how angry I feel. How many months has he ignored me? “Don't be ridiculous. I plan to perform—”

“The theaters are going to be closed, M'greet. There is going to be a
war.
Do you understand? Dangerous things are happening—”

“Do what you like. I'm not leaving Berlin.”

“
Jesus.
You don't know what you're saying, Margaretha.”

“Mata Hari,” I correct him. I look out the window. “It doesn't matter where we go, Edouard. Germany or France—everyone will be at war. That's what General von Schilling says.” I'm exaggerating. He hasn't said a word about France going to war. The idea is preposterous and I wait for him to contradict me.

Instead, his eyes meet mine. “This is serious. We have to go. I'm leaving as soon as possible.”

I don't want Edouard to leave me alone in Berlin. I look out the window and gesture to the streets below. “It will only last a few weeks.”

“Are you coming with me or no? This isn't the time for nursing feelings.”

“No. I'm staying in Berlin.”

He walks out, slamming the door behind him.

*    *    *

During the days, I hear cheering from the streets. I see women waving red and black flags. The men in their starched uniforms look young and excited. The general arrives to collect me and we are escorted into a long, black convertible. The car rolls along the street and the people begin chanting the general's name, blowing kisses to him and even to me. Kiepert has been forgotten. Berlin loves me again. I wave back, caught up in the euphoria. There is elation in the air, as if spring has descended and everyone is in love.

*    *    *

In August, Germany declares war on Russia and France. The news comes to us over the radio in the general's apartment. For a moment I feel as if I can't breathe. I think of Edouard hearing the news in Paris. I think of Non and wonder if she'll be safe in Amsterdam. Russia
and
France. The Germans want to battle them both. I express my horror to the general, who's so still behind his newspaper that at first I believe he isn't listening.

“Yes, a two-front war,” he says simply. He lowers the paper. “That's been von Schlieffen's plan all along.”

Alfred von Schlieffen, the chief of staff of the German army.

“A man named Günther Burstyn, an engineer, makes this possible.” The way the general says this drowns out the sound of everything else around us, even the somber-voiced man on the radio. “He's invented an armored vehicle with a powerful gun. It will change war.”

“How can a vehicle do that, change war?” It sounds preposterous.

“They're calling it a tank.”

He pours me more coffee, but I'm not warmed by it. “A tank?”

“It can destroy anything in its path. Imagine that.”

He's smiling and I'm glad he doesn't have a wife or children.

*    *    *

“What do you mean there isn't bread? There was bread last week.”

This is the fifth shop we've come to this morning, and in each one the story is the same. An abundance of nothing.

“I want an explanation,” von Schilling tells the baker after the man informs us there is no bread.

The man shrugs. “I'm sorry, general. The farmers are on strike.”

“And how long is this situation”—he means the bread—“going to last?”

“As long as the strike does, general.”

Outside, von Schilling is red in the face. I've never seen him truly angry. I wonder what he'll do. “Do you know how many strikes there have been in the last year?”

I don't bother to guess because I know he'll tell me.

“A hundred. Farmers, drivers, butchers—everyone thinks they have rights! Tell me, what rights do men think they have in war?”

I realize that I like him less and less each day. Maybe it's the war. Or maybe this is who he's been all along.

“We're going to the Hotel Adlon,” he says.

In the chandeliered dining room of Adlon, of course, there's bread, and a great many other things as well. We're seated at the best table, and while women go from shop to shop outside, looking for meat and bread and milk, all around us are the merry sounds of wealthy people eating. Nothing is in short supply here. The men are wearing only the finest coats. The women's shoulders are trimmed in fur. I'm underdressed for the occasion, but what does it matter? If there are food shortages in Berlin, on the same morning the kaiser has firmly declared God to be on the side of the Germans, then what's happening in The Netherlands? Does Non have enough to eat? Is Rudolph providing for her?

“You're distant,” the general says.

I don't disagree. I don't smile prettily or try to change the subject. “The shortages worry me.”

“You'll never want for anything,” he promises.

I want to believe him, but I can't. I don't.

“You know that I'll be leaving soon,” he says.

“Yes.” I've been expecting it.

“Then enjoy this meal. It may be our last together.”

*    *    *

The general takes my hands in his and kisses them. “I want you to take care of yourself.” He hands me a folded piece of paper and a check. I see the money first and he explains. “For your expenses while I'm gone.”

For a hard man, he's been very, very generous to me. I glance at the paper and see Elsbeth Schragmuller's address.

“Those who train here will never be acknowledged,” he says quietly. “But they will be paid great sums of money for their talents.”

I tuck the piece of paper into my purse. What sort of spy does he believe I'd make? The entire world knows my name and recognizes my face! I ride with him to the train station in Friedrichstrasse, then stand on the platform and wave him farewell. He has assured me that this war will only last a month, but there are wives standing next to me with their children, weeping into their handkerchiefs.

A week passes, then another, and the theaters are shut down. Newspapers begin printing stories about spies. The kind of articles Bowtie specialized in are gone; there are no pretty photos of actresses and bracing shots of sports players. Everything is BEWARE OF YOUR NEIGHBOR and TWO MEN CAUGHT SPYING ON ARMY MANEUVERS IN BERLIN.

I notice a copy of the
Times of London
, and pick it up.
ATROCITIES IN BELGIUM AND OUTRAGES ON WOMEN AND NON-COMBATANTS
catches my eye. I read the article:

The Press Bureau issued yesterday afternoon a translation of the second report of the Belgian Commission of Inquiry on the Violation of the Rights of Nations and of the Laws and Customs of War. The report, which was communicated by the Belgian Legation on September 11, is as follows:—

Antwerp, August 31, 1914.

To Monsieur Carton De Wiart,

Minister of Justice.

Sir,

The Commission of Inquiry have the honour to make the following report on acts of which the town of Louvain, the neighbourhood, and the district of Malines have been the scene:—

The German army entered Louvain on Wednesday, August 19, after having burnt down the villages through which it had passed.

As soon as they had entered the town of Louvain the Germans requisitioned food and lodging for their troops. They went to all the banks of the town and took possession of the cash in hand. German soldiers burst open the doors of houses which had been abandoned by their inhabitants, pillaged them, and committed other excesses.

The German authorities took as hostages the Mayor of the City, Senator Van der Kelen, the Vice-Rector of the Catholic University, and the Senior Priest of the city, besides certain magistrates and aldermen. All the weapons possessed by the inhabitants, even fencing swords, had already been given up to the municipal authorities, and placed by them in the Church of Saint Pierre.

In a neighbouring village, Corbeck-Loo, on Wednesday, August 19, a young woman, aged 22, whose husband was with the army, and some of her relations were surprised by a band of German soldiers. The persons who were with her were locked up in a deserted house, while she herself was raped by five soldiers successively.

In the same village, on Thursday, August 20, German soldiers fetched from their house a young girl, about 16 years old, and her parents. They conducted them to a small deserted country house, and while some of them held back the father and mother, others entered the house, and, finding the cellar open, forced the girl to drink. They then brought her on to the lawn in front of the house, and raped her successively. Finally they stabbed her in the breast with their bayonets. When this young girl had been abandoned by them after these abominable deeds, she was brought back to her parents' house, and the following day, in view of the gravity of her condition, she received Extreme Unction from the parish priest, and was taken to the hospital of Louvain, as her life was despaired of.

I can't read any more. I put the paper down; it is a viper in my hand.

The German response is swift:

As representatives of German Science and Art, we hereby protest to the civilized world against the lies and calumnies with which our enemies are endeavoring to stain the honor of Germany in her hard struggle for existence—in a struggle that has been forced on her.

The iron mouth of events has proved the untruth of the fictitious German defeats; consequently misrepresentation and calumny are all the more eagerly at work. As heralds of truth we raise our voices against these.

It is not true
that Germany is guilty of having caused this war. Neither the people, the Government, nor the Kaiser wanted war. Germany did her utmost to prevent it; for this assertion the world has documental proof. Often enough during the twenty-six years of his reign has Wilhelm II shown himself to be the upholder of peace, and often enough has this fact been acknowledged by our opponents. Nay, even the Kaiser, whom they now dare to call an Attila, has been ridiculed by them for years, because of his steadfast endeavors to maintain universal peace. Not till a numerical superiority which has been lying in wait on the frontiers assailed us did the whole nation rise to a man.

It is not true
that we trespassed in neutral Belgium. It has been proved that France and England had resolved on such a trespass, and it has likewise been proved that Belgium had agreed to their doing so. It would have been suicide on our part not to have preempted this.