Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  “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.

  It is not true that the life and property of a single Belgian citizen was injured by our soldiers without the bitterest 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.

&nb
sp; 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.”r />
  “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.”