Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  Details were left to German Minister von Eckhardt in Mexico City, who by instructions signed by German Foreign Minister Zimmerman, at Berlin, January 19, 1917, was directed to propose the alliance with Mexico to General Carranza and suggest that Mexico seek to bring Japan into the plot.

  Sent Through Bernstorff.

  These instructions were transmitted to von Eckhardt through Count von Bernstorff, former German ambassador here, now on his way home to Germany under a safe conduct obtained from his enemies by the country against which he was plotting war.

  Germany pictured to Mexico, by broad intimation, England and the entente allies defeated; Germany and her allies triumphant and in world domination by the instrument of unrestricted warfare.

  Text of the Letter.

  A copy of Zimmerman’s instructions to von Eckhardt, sent through von Bernstorff, is in possession of the United States government. It is as follows:

  “Berlin, January 19, 1917.

  “On the first of February we intend to begin submarine warfare unrestricted. In spite of this, it is our intention to endeavor to keep neutral the United States of America.

  “If this attempt is not successful, we propose an alliance on the following basis with Mexico: That we shall make war together and together make peace. We shall give general financial support and it is understood that Mexico is to reconquer the lost territory in New Mexico, Texas and Arizona. The details are left to you for settlement.”

  “Japan Also.

  “You are instructed to inform the president of Mexico of the above in the greatest confidence as soon as it is certain that there will be an outbreak of war with the United States and suggest that the president of Mexico, on his own initiative, should communicate with Japan, suggesting adherence at once to this plan; at the same time, offer to mediate between Germany and Japan.

  “Please call to the attention of the president of Mexico that the employment of ruthless submarine warfare now promises to compel England to make peace in a few months.

  (signed) “ ‘Zimmerman.’ ”

  This document has been in the hands of the government since President Wilson broke off diplomatic relations with Germany.

  Chapter 18

  The Conciergerie

  1917

  A light comes on and I hear his footsteps before I see him, the soft leather of his shoes on concrete. “Edouard!” I call through the bars as he comes into view; I’m afraid he isn’t real. I am in a new cell. It contains three beds, a toilet, a bottle of fresh water.

  As soon as he sees me, tears well in his eyes. I’ve never seen Edouard like this. “My God, what have you done, M’greet?”

  “Nothing. I swear—nothing!”

  “I’ve been searching for you for weeks. You vanished from Berlin. I heard rumors that you were in Paris and that—”

  “I was arrested at the Élysée Palace. I’ve been in Saint Lazare Prison.” It’s such a relief to have him here with me, to finally share the nightmare that has swallowed me. “Have you been inside Saint Lazare, Edouard? I had no light, no toilet, no shower. I was left in a cell with nothing but hay and a window with bars but no glass. In this weather, Edouard! I was so cold; the place is frozen in time. I looked out of the window and expected to see the Revolution! I was alone for weeks. It was inhumane.”

  He shakes his head. “Did they give you a change of clothes, a blanket?”

  “They gave me nothing. Not for the longest time.” I start to cry, feeling everything anew when I see the empathy in his eyes. “They locked me up like an animal. I wasn’t allowed to write letters or to phone anyone. I thought I was losing my mind I was so cold and hungry. When I thought I would surely die, two nuns arrived, and they brought me fresh towels and soap.”

  “Did they treat you well?”

  “One, Sister Léonide, was kind to me.” You must eat, Mata Hari, she pleaded with me, or you will sicken. “They took me to a room with faucet pumps in the ceiling and watched me shower.” I feel myself flush. “You don’t know how much modesty you have until you are in prison, Edouard. The nuns told me I was being taken to see Captain Bouchardon. That was why I was allowed to clean myself. I couldn’t place his name, but I knew I’d heard it before.”

  “Captain Bouchardon—”

  “Le Cigale, do you remember? In the early days. He was a sergeant in the police department. He wanted me arrested for dancing nude.” He was a little mustached man I dismissed because more powerful men were protecting me. “Back then he left me alone because I was sleeping with the chief of police. But when I was brought to his office from Saint Lazare, he interrogated me. Now he is a prosecutor. He demanded the names of my German contacts—”

  “Do you have German contacts?”

  “Are you asking if I’m a spy?” I shrink back from the bars. Who does he think I’ve become? “Against France? Of course not! I told Bouchardon the truth. That I agreed to obtain information to help France defeat Germany, that Commandant Ladoux—”

  “Commandant Ladoux? Who is he?”

  “He’s with the French Secret Service. I met him through Jean Hallure, the drunk musician from the Kursaal. Now he’s a lieutenant.” I’m going too fast for him. Edouard pats his jacket, then his pockets, looking for a pen and paper to write all this down.

  “Why have they let you visit me?” I ask.

  “They haven’t,” he says absently, giving up the search. “I bribed a guard to come in here to see you.” He gives me a wry look. “Haven’t I told you there isn’t anyone in Paris I don’t know? Now—how many times did this Captain Bouchardon interrogate you?” he asks.

  “Sixteen times. Those were the only days I was allowed to shower. I was made to wash myself before they brought me to his office. The prison issued me a number, Edouard. 721 44625. I told Bouchar­don exactly what happened in Madrid. I chronicled every detail. I informed him that I was hired by Commandant Ladoux of the French Secret Service, and that I provided the commandant with important information to aid France.”

  “How did you get this information, M’greet?”

  “I seduced a German in Madrid; his name is Major Arnold Kalle. I spent an evening with him and he revealed a plot to send a German submarine into French territory. I went straight to the French Embassy and reported this information by telegram to Commandant Ladoux! I’m not in bed with the Germans for pleasure, Edouard. I did this for France. But no one will listen to the truth—it’s as if the world has gone mad.” I take a deep breath. “I need you to represent me.”

  “I don’t know that I can do that, M’greet. I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not a criminal.” I grip the bars and he wraps his fingers around mine. But I can see doubt in his eyes. “The cell at Saint Lazare had no furniture at all. It was worse than Scotland Yard. I thought that was impossible. I slept on the hay; it was flea infested and soaked in urine—”

  “M’greet, there’s something I don’t understand. If you are working for the French Secret Service, why have they arrested you? Why are they the ones calling you a German spy?”

  “I don’t know.” Though I’ve had nothing but time to think it over. “I can’t understand it either.”

  “Are you aware that they’re planning a court martial? There must be something you know, something that they want.”

  “I swear, there’s nothing! I’ve considered everything and none of it makes sense.”

  “What evidence do they have, then, that you are giving information to Germany?”

  “None! They searched all of my belongings. Everything I had with me at the Élysée Palace was confiscated. All they have confronted me with is a tube of oxycyanide of mercury.”

  “And? Why do they think it is important?”

  “Because they are fools—it’s my birth control, Edouard!” I say, exasperated. “Bouchardon behaves as if fertility is imag
inary. He insists I use it to make ‘sympathetic inks.’ That’s what he said. ‘One drop of this,’ he claims, ‘and you are translating letters.’ ”

  Edouard puts his hand to his temple.

  “It doesn’t make any sense, I know. The world has gone mad.”

  “Why did they transfer you here from Saint Lazare? Did they tell you that?”

  “No. Sometimes I think I’m in a horrible nightmare. I’m not a double agent, Edouard. You have to believe me. I’ve only gathered intelligence for France. Do you think this could be about money?” I ask. “Commandant Ladoux never paid me the sum we agreed upon. Also, when they arrested me, they took all the money I saved for Vadime—”

  Edouard interrupts me. “What money?”

  I tell him about the three hundred thousand marks Alfred Kiepert’s family paid me to stay away from him, and the twenty thousand marks I received from Consul Cramer.

  Edouard’s face pales. “Who is Consul Cramer, M’greet?”

  “He’s the German consul in Amsterdam. I was given his name by General von Schilling—”

  He puts up his hand to silence me. “When were you in Amsterdam? And why did the German consul give you twenty thousand marks?”

  I see how it appears through his eyes and feel a stab of fear. “I went to Amsterdam after I left Berlin. I was coming home, to Paris, but the train was stopped by German soldiers. The money from Cramer was compensation for my furs. The soldiers stole them.” I don’t want to tell him that I promised Cramer I’d keep my eyes and ears open for Germany. I did nothing for Germany. It was Germany that I betrayed.

  Edouard shuts his eyes as if he’s blocking out terrible images.

  “You can clear this up for me, can’t you?” I ask, willing myself to stay calm. “Despite how it may appear on the surface, surely no one will believe I’d give secrets to the Germans, not after you explain the truth to them. Even the British understood in the end.”

  Edouard opens his eyes. “The British? How are they involved? M’greet, I need you to start at the beginning. At the very beginning, from the day I left Berlin.”

  I tell him everything. I even admit that I spied on Non while I was in Amsterdam, awaiting passage home. “She’s such a beautiful young woman now, Edouard. Even if I had revealed myself she wouldn’t have recognized me; I’m certain of it. Do you think—”

  “M’greet, focus on what’s important right now.”

  “Of course. But when I’m released—”

  “You may never be released!”

  I’m shocked into silence.

  “That’s how serious this situation is! Right now it’s not your daughter’s safety in jeopardy. It’s yours.”

  My hands begin to tremble.

  “M’greet.” He says my name softly. “Why didn’t you call me when they arrested you in London?”

  I look away. “You were married.” I correct myself. “You are married.”

  He reaches through the bars and tilts my chin up toward him. “Do you think anyone else is more important to me than you?”

  I meet his eyes and I feel such warmth. The sound of approaching boots echoes in the hall. He turns and a guard gives him a curt nod. Our time is finished. “I’ll see you soon,” he says.

  “When? When will you come back? Please, get me out of here, Edouard!”

  “M’greet, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  * * *

  That night I dream of the Revolution. I’m riding in my father’s bokkenwagen while on the street people throw stones and trash at me. Vile threats pierce my ears: ugly, taunting cries of “seductress” and “traitor.” I pull at the reins to make the wagon stop, but it’s going too fast. I know that I am heading for the guillotine.

  I jerk awake.

  My heart is beating too quickly; I can hear the rush of blood in my ears. I pull the blanket tight around my shoulders and weep. What will happen if Edouard can’t save me? All Non will ever know about me are the lies she reads in the papers. That her mother was a German spy.

  “Mata Hari?” Sister Léonide’s face appears between the bars of my cell. “Why are you crying?”

  I speak the words that I now fear are true: “I’m going to die.” I don’t want to leave Edouard. And Non. My God, I have so many hopes for us, for the future still.

  She crosses herself and rearranges the rosary beads in her hand. “You should pray.”

  I am moved to see that there are tears in her eyes.

  “This is not the end, Mata Hari. There is always one more road.”

  An image of my aunt Marie passes through my mind.

  “Is it true what they say in the papers?”

  In all of our time together, first in the Saint Lazare Prison and now here in the Conciergerie, Sister Léonide has never asked me if I am guilty, whether I have done what the papers and the authorities are accusing me of.

  “No, Sister. It isn’t.” I look through my cell window at the moon. In France and Germany the moon appears for every citizen, every soldier. No one sees a different one. I meet her eyes. “But I thought I could control my future,” I admit.

  “No one should play at being God,” Sister Léonide admonishes me, gently. “It’s vanity to try.”

  She slips away and I am alone with the moon. I blot out its light with my thumb. Everything is an illusion.

  * * *

  I have a surprising visitor the next morning. As soon as the guard announces his arrival I’m immediately embarrassed. What will he think of me in these prison clothes and under such conditions? But his eyes are full of concern, not judgment, and when he clasps my hands in his through the bars, I feel warmth.

  “Mata Hari.”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “There’s not a mousehole in France I can’t sniff out,” Bowtie boasts, and I’m not surprised. He sits on the wooden stool provided for him and I seat myself on the edge of my bed. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.” I cough. It’s cold, and I have no jacket, only the threadbare blanket from the bed. I’m too proud to wrap it around my shoulders right now. “How has the war been treating you?”

  “No one wants gossip or entertainment. Only news from the Front.”

  “Is that why you’re here? War finally meets gossip now that Mata Hari is in prison for espionage?”

  “Is it true?”

  “Did I spy for Germany? Of course not.”

  “I never believed you would.” He studies me, and I can’t tell if he’s doing his job or is under the notion that he might offer me help. “Mata Hari, what happened?”

  “What happened? The Secret Service looked at my life and they got it all wrong.”

  “I can help you,” he says. “But you have to meet me halfway. Tell me the truth—you were living in Berlin. You left and went to Amsterdam and Madrid. What were you doing in those countries?”

  I study Bowtie through the prison bars. Non will never know the truth about me if I die. To her I’ll be a vile seductress, the loose woman who betrayed a country that loved her, that made her famous. Bowtie can change that.

  I lean forward. “I was awaiting orders. I was paid to gather intelligence. Not by Germany,” I clarify. “England and France depended on my access and my information.”

  He writes quickly. “Your access and information?”

  “Yes.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “While I was waiting for orders in Amsterdam I helped distribute a secret newspaper. With an underground mail service. No one suspected me because of who I am. You can publish that; the Germans have already discovered it. I also helped a man across the border. A wounded soldier who needed to rejoin his regiment.”

  Bowtie sits back. “Where was his regiment?”

  “In The Netherlands.”

  Now Bowtie is frowning. Perhaps he knows that I am lying. “I also joined
the Red Cross.”

  “In France?”

  “In Madrid. While I was waiting.”

  “For orders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. This is all very interesting.” He flips through his notebook, then sits back and watches me for a long time—so long that I am sure he knows that I’m fabricating the stories of another life. Then he says, “Can you tell me about Vadime de Massloff? The Russian you visited near our airbase in Vittel.”

  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.