Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  We see each other for several weeks and I amass an impressive collection of jewelry: two bracelets, an anklet, a necklace, an emerald brooch. My conquest makes me feel giddy. I decide to telegram both Givenchy and Guimet to boast of my success in Berlin. Givenchy writes back at once, inviting me to an important soiree in Paris.

  You have no idea how bored I am without you. All of Paris is black and gray for me now. Why don’t you return and the two of us will attend the Marcell soiree? Think of the entrance we’d make! Maybe you’re angry that I was photographed taking Edith Lane to the Rothschilds’ château last week? Don’t be, ma chérie. You know very well that your Givenchy can’t go anywhere alone. Come back and all of Paris will talk about us again. Then we can go south. Think of all the fun we’d have on the Riviera. Your Givenchy in a bathing costume. My exotic dancer in—well, preferably nothing at all.

  I imagine myself with him. Perhaps I should catch a train, only for the weekend. But I have plans with Kiepert that I don’t want to break. The Rothschilds and the Riviera will have to wait. I fold the letter into my collection. Guimet is more reserved. His brief response comes by telegram a week later. Givenchy, at least, is still mine.

  * * *

  “Come,” Kiepert says. We are in my apartment, the bedsheets twisted around us like vines. He wants me to accompany him to Silesia where we are invited to watch the German army practice their maneuvers. It’s tempting to join him. Especially when he drapes himself across the bed and watches me with his deep blue eyes. But I can’t leave Berlin; Edouard may want to reconcile.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But you know I can’t.”

  “If that lawyer needs to find you, he can send a telegram.”

  I look away and Kiepert goes alone. When he returns, a German reporter discovers him visiting my apartment. Berlin’s leading paper runs a photo of us linked arm in arm. Underneath, the ­caption: SCANDAL! MATA HARI LURES GERMAN OFFICER FROM WIFE. The next day, another paper picks it up. By the end of the week we are everywhere. “The temptress Mata Hari and her innocent victim.” Berlin was in love with me; now women hiss at me in the streets. I tell Kiepert that it is time for us to part.

  “I rely on the papers to draw in audiences. If they focus on you—”

  “I don’t care what these papers print!” Kiepert rages.

  He’s so passionate that I can’t make him see reason. It’s as if he is on fire and using all of the oxygen in my apartment. I want him to leave, and I claim I must go to attend rehearsal. He says he will wait for me. Exasperated, I pretend to head to the theater and instead take a walk. It’s winter and the streets are too cold. I spot a little shop selling stationery and confections. I go inside to browse and warm up. The items for sale are exquisite. I pick out a frosted pink card decorated with hearts and, unbidden, an image of Non comes to me. I wonder if she’s an orchid among buttercups now? She’s a young woman. When she was a child, Edouard’s men reported that she had my dark hair and features; they said no one would fail to recognize her as mine.

  I return to my apartment and Kiepert—thankfully—is gone.

  I take out the pink card I purchased and write my lost daughter a letter that I know I’ll never send. I tell her what I’ve been doing in Berlin these past six months without Edouard’s guidance. I confide in her about Kiepert and von Schilling. Then I say what is truly important: I apologize for failing to save her. “If I had known what a disaster Anna’s attempt would create and the danger it would put you in, I never would have undertaken it. One false move destroyed our future together. I have never forgiven Rousseau for hiring Anna and I never will. Never.” I underline the last word. “He and I are no longer on speaking terms. How can I look at him when all he reminds me of is the way I failed you?”

  * * *

  We walk along the Ratsplatz beneath a vault of stars and I slip my hand inside my white muff. Von Schilling has taken me to Freiberg’s Christmas Market. I am charmed by the dozens of stalls selling brightly colored toys, roasted almonds, and wooden trains. Everywhere, there are children laughing. Von Schilling doesn’t notice; all he talks about is war.

  “We don’t want to be like the French, going into battle in red and blue.”

  I try to turn our conversation to something more pleasant as we walk arm in arm—the elaborate facades of the renaissance buildings, I say, are delightful—but von Schilling continues describing the importance of green uniforms over red. Music from the carousel dances into the night, German songs I’ve never heard before. The air is crisp and the Christmas stalls are decorated with fairy lights, selling bags of chocolate nuts and gingerbread cookies. Edouard would love this, I think. Out of habit and hope I glance around, but he isn’t here. I notice straw shoes, hundreds of them, lined up on long tables and selling briskly.

  “What are all those shoes for?” I ask.

  “The Pantoffeln? Children find presents in them on Nikolaustag.”

  “In The Netherlands we put out klompen: wooden shoes.”

  “The Netherlands?”

  I hesitate; that was careless. “Yes. My family—we settled there. After India.”

  The general nods and I focus on the Black Forest pines decorated with lights. I look at cinnamon cookies on red platters, spiced biscuits in the shape of snowmen. I ask von Schilling the names of everything: Zimsterne, Spekulativs, Stube.

  “How many languages do you speak?” he asks me.

  “If my Spanish was better, six.”

  “That’s impressive, especially for a woman. You would enjoy meeting Elsbeth Schragmuller. She has a doctorate in political ­science. She’s also a very unusual woman. She could develop your talents. There’s a good deal of money to be made at this juncture in time. I will introduce you.”

  In the twinkling lights, our breaths are a pair of ghosts haunting the space between us. I let him slip his hand into my muff and I ask for some Spekulativs.

  * * *

  It’s been eight months since I’ve last spoken to Edouard. I cancel my performances—I have no desire to dance. Still, he doesn’t appear. I wait for him to bang down my door or at least phone and demand to know what I’m doing. I plan how I’ll tell him that there’s more money to be made in being a mistress than in dancing, but he doesn’t materialize, doesn’t even call. I consider sending him a telegram, something cryptic, forcing him to come to me. But what if it doesn’t work? What if he’s only interested in Pearl Buttons now? Immediately, I pick up the phone and dial. It rings several times before I’m put through.

  “Von Schilling.”

  * * *

  Six months after our stroll through the Ratsplatz, the general holds up a newspaper at the breakfast table. He reads the headline out loud. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, assassinated in Sarajevo.” There’s a new light in his eyes. He is excited about this. “The Austro-Hungarians will blame the Serbs,” he predicts.

  “How terrible.” I recall the archduke’s marriage and the outrage it caused—the heir to the Hapsburg throne marrying a lady-in-­waiting! It wasn’t as if she had no royal blood at all, but all of Europe was consumed by the scandal. I calculate the dates; their marriage lasted fourteen years. How sad to think of it ending in such tragedy. “Who do you think will raise their children, now that they’re gone?” I muse.

  The general stares at me. “What does it matter?” He folds the newspaper and rises from the table. “There’s going to be war, Mata Hari. Focus on what is important.”

  After this, he is relentless in mentioning Elsbeth Schragmuller. To appease him, I agree to go to the Palasthotel to meet with her. I dress in red, from my long silk skirt to my wide-brimmed hat. Schragmuller is a short woman; when she recognizes me, she marches across the lobby, and despite her green skirt and simple blouse, she moves like a man, stomping across the marble floor without any grace whatsoever. I feel embarrassed for her and suggest we walk ou
tside, where there will be fewer spectators.

  “You are a dancer,” she says.

  “Yes. Eastern dance.”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit Java,” she discloses, holding my gaze.

  Java, not India. I understand by her tone that Elsbeth Schragmuller is telling me she knows my story is false and I put myself on guard. “Is that so? Why?”

  “I’m fascinated by Hinduism,” she says. “Such an extraordinary religion. Are you Hindu?” she asks.

  Do I believe that life is a cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, governed by Karma? “I don’t know,” I say, unwilling to share myself with her. I do believe in Karma. It’s a Sanskrit word that literally means action. Every action will have an equal reaction. It can happen immediately or at some time in the future. Good actions will create good reactions. Bad actions will bring bad consequences.

  “You’ve worn the mask for so long you’re not sure anymore.” Without giving me a chance to respond, she offers, “I’d like to visit Prambanan. Though I doubt I will.” She glances up at me. “The world is changing, Mata Hari.”

  “How so?” I decide I will let her do the majority of the talking.

  “Look around.” She indicates the men and women leisurely strolling in the gardens. “Are any of these people preparing for the future? Or are they taking a pleasant stroll through life, spending what they earn, living for today, worrying nothing for tomorrow?”

  I look at her. “What should they be doing, in your opinion?”

  “Peace never lasts, Margaretha.”

  Her use of my real name startles me.

  “Anyone who reads history knows this. Yet these people act as if the good times are going to last forever. They should be reading. Talking about things that matter.”

  I’m curious. “How do you know they aren’t? This is only one activity in their day.”

  “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 vehic
le 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?