Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  “I have a way with military men, Commandant. Whatever they tell me I will pass on to you.”

  “We would need you in Belgium.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And you understand what’s required? To reach Belgium you must travel through Amsterdam. To reach Amsterdam, you must pass through Spain. Intelligence from any of these countries—”

  “I have relationships with men in every major city in Europe, monsieur.” What do I care about the route I travel? “You read the papers, don’t you?”

  “Then welcome to the French Secret Service, Mata Hari.”

  * * *

  I show my papers from Commandant Ladoux to the soldier at the Hôtel de Ville in Vittel. I smile at him so he thinks that I’m at ease, but the sounds of dying men from beyond the lobby are making me feel very uncomfortable. While the uniform continues to check over my papers, every few moments the doors swing open and men carry wounded soldiers in on stretchers. Some of them are covered in blood. Others are so pale I wonder if they’re already dead. The entire hotel has been turned into an American military hospital with very few rooms still reserved for guests. There’s nothing of the resort town Vadime wrote to me about. It’s all military tents and army cars now.

  “If you’ll wait here,” the soldier behind the desk says, “I’ll find someone to escort you back.”

  I try to make myself comfortable in the lobby, but I don’t know where to look and the sounds of men crying out for their mothers is heartbreaking. Is Vadime’s voice among them? What will I find when they take me back there? My stomach begins to tie itself in knots.

  I search the lobby for something to read—anything—and discover several old copies of the New York Tribune. I wonder who left them and why they’re here. I read the date of the paper on top. August 31, 1914. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to keep such old news. There’s an article by Richard Harding Davis. I skim it, not wanting to face anything more horrible than the wails around me, but my hands grow cold as I read.

  London, August 30—I left Brussels on Thursday afternoon and have just arrived in London. For two hours on Thursday night I was in what for six hundred years has been the city of Louvain. The Germans were burning it, and to hide their work kept us locked in the railway carriages. But the story was written against the sky, was told to us by German soldiers incoherent with excesses; and we could read it in the faces of women and children being led to concentration camps and of citizens on their way to be shot.

  On their way to be shot. Is this what would have happened to Va­­dime if he’d been captured? If the Germans are shooting civilians, what are they doing to soldiers?

  “Mata Hari?” someone calls, but I can’t respond. I’m transfixed by the story.

  In the darkness the gray uniforms filled the station with an army of ghosts. You distinguished men only when pipes hanging from their teeth glowed red or their bayonets flashed.

  Outside the station in the public square the people of Louvain passed in an unending procession, women bareheaded, weeping, men carrying the children asleep on their shoulders, all hemmed in by the shadowy army of gray wolves. Once they were halted, and among them marched a line of men. They well knew their fellow townsmen. These were on their way to be shot. And better to point the moral an officer halted both processions and, climbing to a cart, explained why the men were going to die. He warned others not to bring down upon themselves a like vengeance.

  As those being led to spend the night in the fields looked across to those marked for death they saw old friends, neighbors of long standing, men of their own household. The officer bellowing at them from the cart was illuminated by the headlights of an automobile. He looked like an actor held in a spotlight on a darkened stage. It was all like a scene upon the stage, so unreal, so inhuman, you felt that it could not be true, that the curtain of fire, purring and crackling and sending up hot sparks to meet the kind, calm stars, was only a painted backdrop; that the reports of rifles from the dark rooms came from blank cartridges, and that these trembling shopkeepers and peasants ringed in bayonets would not in a few minutes really die, but that they themselves and their homes would be restored to their wives and children. You felt it was only a nightmare, cruel and uncivilized. And then you remembered that the German Emperor has told us what it is. It is his Holy War.

  Holy War.

  “Mata Hari?”

  I look up and realize that I’m crying. The author of the piece has such a way with words that for several minutes it was as if I was standing right there with him. I could see the German officers as he saw them. I could hear their boots crunch against the gravel as they moved in unison to destroy people’s homes. I stand and wipe the tears from my eyes.

  “We ask that our visitors remain composed,” the man says. “If you don’t feel you can see wounded men on their deathbeds without being overcome, I ask that you reconsider.”

  “No. I can do it.”

  He stares at me as if he’s unsure. Then he nods and leads the way. The hotel carpets are stained with blood. I do not allow myself to wonder who bled their last here and what happened to them. Did they die here alone? Did their mothers come for them? Perhaps, like Vadime, this isn’t even their country. The man takes me through a series of halls to a second lobby that has been transformed into a makeshift hospital room. Two dozen beds line the walls, and nurses in white uniforms rush from patient to patient. In the farthest corner of the room, I see him. It takes all of my reserve not to run.

  We walk across the lobby and the men who are able sit up straighter in their beds to watch me. When we arrive at Vadime, he gapes at me, as if he thinks I am not real.

  “Vadime! Oh my God, Vadime.” I want to smother him with kisses. I want to wrap him in my arms. His one eye is covered by a thick black patch, but he’s alive. I sit on the side of his bed and try my best not to be overcome. He takes my hands in his and squeezes tightly.

  “Mata Hari, you came.”

  The soldier leaves us to our privacy and I allow several tears to spill onto Vadime’s pillow. “Of course. What did you think?”

  “So few of us here get visitors. I’ve heard it is almost impossible to get a pass. How—”

  “I’m here.” I put my finger to his lips. They’re cracked and dry. “That’s all that matters.”

  Now he is the one who is weeping.

  We sit like this, holding each other’s hands in silence, sobbing quietly, until he asks me where I’ve come from.

  “Paris. It’s not the same though. You wouldn’t recognize her now.”

  “Nothing will be when this war is finished. All of Europe will be burning rubble.”

  “Let’s go to America,” I say.

  Vadime tightens his grip. “Honestly?”

  “Yes. New York. Look at these Americans.” I keep my voice low. “There’s no war on American soil. They aren’t starving in the streets. Look how healthy they are.”

  “How? How can we get to New York?”

  “I’ll make all the arrangements,” I promise him.

  “When?”

  As soon as I have the money, I think.

  * * *

  By the sixth of November I am in Madrid. I book a room at La Paz and recall Edouard in his silk evening gown, smoking cigars on the balcony of his room in this very hotel. I’ve made so many foolish mistakes in my life. But I will not be reckless or imprudent with Vadime.

  I have saved every mark I received from Cramer. When Ladoux sends my payment, I will have enough money to support both of us in America. I will have enough capital to begin a new campaign to contact Non. I dare to dream that the three of us will be a family.

  The leaves have started to turn on the trees, and I am pleased to learn that even this far south November still feels crisp. I worry about Vadime as I roam the streets of Madrid; I am so impatient to see him yet I must linger he
re for three weeks. That is when my papers will be ready, Commandant Ladoux will forward them to me, and I’ll sail for Amsterdam. After that I should be only a short time in Belgium—it will not take me long to find a military man to charm secrets out of while we’re in bed. I’ve promised Vadime I will be by his side at Christmas. A nurse has been reading the letters I’ve been writing to him and sending me his replies; the notes are not penned in his hand, but I recognize his voice, his words. He promises he will wait for me. But God, the time passes slowly! I want to board that ship to Amsterdam and be done with all of this business. I am finished with my life in Europe, of this I have never been more certain.

  * * *

  The room I’ve been given on board ship is tiny: a bed, two chairs, a wooden table.

  But I don’t complain because I’m not truly present on this vessel; my heart is in a military hospital in Vittel. When I am not in my room writing to Vadime, I walk the deck taking the fresh air and keeping to myself. I am propping up my feet in the cozy reading room and writing to Vadime when I overhear another passenger say the ship is making a brief stop in England. I add this to my letter.

  * * *

  “You.” A British soldier is looking at me. “What is your name?”

  As soon as the ship docked at Falmouth we passengers were instructed to gather at the muster station. Several uniformed men have boarded and demand to see our passports.

  “You don’t read the papers?” I say flirtatiously. I want to lighten the mood; the other passengers look grim.

  “This is not the time to be flippant,” he warns. “Tell me your name.”

  “My name is Mata Hari.”

  He looks me up and down, then motions for the other men to come over. They confer in whispers, then one of them says, “Clara Benedix, you will be coming with us.”

  I glance at the other passengers, wondering who Clara Benedix is and what she has done. Then I realize that he is addressing me.

  “You are mistaken,” I say. “My name is Mata Hari.” The only Clara I’ve known was blonde and never had to worry over money. Her father rescued her from the Haanstra School for Girls after she agreed to marry the man he had chosen for her. “I am a dancer.”

  “And I’m the queen of England,” he says. “You are coming with us.”

  I look around at the other passengers, waiting for them to confirm my identity. They know who I am. They must. Not one of them says a word. “You can’t take me off of this ship,” I say defiantly.

  “We’re not,” the officer replies. “We’re taking you to your cabin.”

  I sit on my bed while the soldiers search through my tiny cabin, tearing apart my luggage. One of the men leaves and returns with a woman. She has severe features and introduces herself as Janet Grant. She orders the men to leave.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, vastly relieved. “This is ludicrous—”

  “Strip.”

  I think I’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “They tell me you claim to be Mata Hari. So this shouldn’t be difficult for you—I said strip. That means remove your clothes. I am here to perform a body-cavity search.”

  I do as she says and her hands explore every part of me. Not even Rudolph was able to make me feel so violated. When she’s finished, she turns her back to let me dress.

  “Why bother?” I snap, but my voice is shaking. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “This is my job.”

  I have barely finished dressing when there’s a knock at the door. Janet Grant opens it and I count six men in uniform.

  “Miss Benedix,” one of them says, “we ask that you come with us.”

  I am almost uncertain if I am awake or dreaming. “My name is Mata Hari and I—”

  “We’ll let Scotland Yard determine that.”

  Despite my protests, I’m removed from the ship. The other passengers watch as six men escort me away like a wily criminal capable of executing an ingenious escape. They take me to a car waiting beyond the dock.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “London,” one of the men says.

  “I can’t go there. I don’t have the time to go there.”

  No one listens.

  “Do you hear me? Is anyone listening? I have somewhere else to be! It is important—”

  “Tell that to investigators at Scotland Yard.”

  The driver starts the car and when I see the railway station in the distance, I begin to panic. “You understand you’re making a big mistake. No one in London is going to believe this. My photograph is in every newspaper!”

  “Miss Benedix, it would be better for you if you simply stop ­talking.”

  “I’m not Miss Benedix!” I say, ice in my voice.

  I’m taken directly to Scotland Yard. I feel both humiliated and enraged. If I live to be a hundred, I will never set foot in England again.

  Everyone turns to look at me as I’m marched through the building. Is it possible that not a single person—at Scotland Yard of all places!—can recognize me? I can’t fathom the odds. It is absurd. Who is so removed from day-to-day news that they can’t instantly spot that I’m not Miss Clara Benedix—whoever she is. I acknowledge the onlookers, imagining that any moment this charade will end. It must. But then we pass into a windowless hall and I am led to a cell that contains nothing but a single bed and a chair.

  “You can’t leave me in here,” I say, distraught. “I’m not Clara Benedix! For God’s sake, go outside and pick up a newspaper!”

  The men retreat without a single word.

  * * *

  I’m left without food or water, without a place to relieve myself. Hours pass. No one will believe this. I can’t believe it myself. I sit on my chair and simmer with anger. Clara, I think with contempt. I already have negative memories associated with that name. At the Haanstra School, we were meant to “be useful” in the evenings—expected to sit in the parlor under the steel gaze of Van Tassel and knit or sew.

  “Concentrate, Miss Zelle,” Mrs. Van Tassel snaps at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I never learned how to knit.”

  “If that is true, your parents did a woeful job raising you. What kind of a girl doesn’t learn how to knit?”

  “I doubt Clara knows how to knit or sew,” I counter, speaking without thinking, and all eyes shift to Clara, who is reading. She blushes to the roots of her long, blonde hair.

  “Clara comes from a family with means,” Mrs. Van Tassel clarifies. “She has no need to learn trivial things. You must be trained to knit and sew properly, Miss Zelle. A girl like you requires such skills to earn her way in the world.”

  Sitting in this uncomfortable cell, I wonder about Clara, my fellow inmate at the Haanstra School. She married an old man she didn’t love. Is she as miserable as I am right now?

  * * *

  “I’m taking you to see Sir Basil Thomson in the Interrogation Room.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say to the officer, so grateful to see another human being after so much time alone. “That name doesn’t mean anything to me. Who is Sir Basil Thomson?”

  The man stares at me. Then he says simply, “Interrogation Room.”

  * * *

  Sir Basil Thomson is dressed in a suit and a long woolen scarf. His thin face is drawn. The door shuts behind me and he gestures to a seat. Like the cell, the Interrogation Room is gray and windowless. It is also colder.

  “I told them, I’m not Miss Benedix,” I say, taking the seat he has indicated.

  “I’m told that you claim you are Mata Hari. Is that your true name?”

  “Yes,” I say, as the door opens and a man with a stenograph appears. I clarify my answer. “It’s my stage name. My birth name is Margaretha Zelle.”

  The stenographer sits and Sir Basil instructs him to write, “The w
oman named Clara Benedix insists her name is Margaretha Zelle.”

  “I insist because I am!” I am tired and cold and hungry and this is infuriating. “My name is Margaretha Zelle! I was married once and my name changed to MacLeod. But now I go by Margaretha Zelle and my stage name is Mata Hari. This is easily verified. Why isn’t anyone listening to me? I want to register a complaint. Who is in charge?” I desperately conjure von Schilling’s list of names in my mind’s eye. Is there anyone in England I can call?

  “You are a German spy. Your name is Clara Benedix.”

  “That is ridiculous!”

  But this is how it goes for hours. Lunch comes, then dinner, and Sir Thomson eats and I go hungry. He wants to know what I was doing in South America. I tell him I haven’t been to South America. I inform him that any number of reputable people can identify me. But he won’t look at an old newspaper or let me make a phone call. I have debated whether or not to give him Commandant Ladoux’s name. Doing so will free me—but even though we are allies, giving up my association with the French Secret Service to a British authority may spoil my assignment in Belgium. And I don’t want that; I need the money that France has promised me to start my new life in New York with Vadime.

  I keep my relationship with the French Secret Service to myself, and Sir Thomson continues to interrogate me, persisting in calling me Miss Benedix. It’s a nightmare. At last I shut my eyes and real tears leak out. “Please, please believe me. I am Mata Hari.”

  “Miss Benedix, I will believe you when you are honest with me.” He stands and the stenographer rises with him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.” Sir Thomson reaches for his hat. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  I’m taken back to my cell and the bars clang shut.

  * * *

  There’s nothing to keep me warm for the night, not even a towel. A bucket was placed on the floor while I was being interrogated by Sir Thomson. Apparently, that’s where I’m supposed to relieve myself. I collapse onto the bed and cry. Then I think about Va­­dime in his hospital bed in Vittel, waiting for me to return with the money that will take us away to New York from the wretchedness that is Europe.