Mata Hari's Last Dance

by Michelle Moran

  Edouard looks at me. Behind closed doors. Without a single reporter watching the trial with a critical eye, anything might happen. I look up at the image of Justice holding her heavy scales and wonder which way they will tip. Is justice truly blind? The Roman goddess is depicted as impartial, meant to uncover the truth, and to do so objectively, without fear or favor, no matter the wealth or weakness of the person who is standing before her. I look at the judges and they stare straight back at me.

  * * *

  Andre Mornet has been detailing the case against me. He has revealed that French agents spent more than fifteen months following me from Berlin to Amsterdam, from Amsterdam to Madrid, and back again to Paris.

  I have racked my memory but I cannot recall any moment when I thought I was being followed.

  He has detailed my liaisons with men in every city—during many years, not only for the past fifteen months. He knows where we went to eat, where we went to dance, and always where we were intimate. Most of these men I barely remember. He has spent a great deal of time speaking about past lovers who are German: officers, captains, colonels. But the man who interests him most is Russian: Vadime de Massloff. Hearing his name makes me want to weep, and I can barely listen as he describes our relationship and the importance of the airbase in Vittel. None of what he says is true in the way he describes what happened, and why it happened. But now I recognize that it is damning all the same. I can see the terrible picture that the best prosecutor in France is painting, stroke by stroke.

  “Can you tell me about Vadime de Massloff?”

  “Are you accusing me of something? Because not even these monsters think I was spying in Vittel.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The English understood that this woman cannot be trusted,” Andre Mornet says. He describes how they arrested me, and I am stunned to learn that while they were paying for my stay at the Savoy the British informed Commandant Ladoux of their belief that I was working with the Germans. Now I understand why I heard nothing from Ladoux beyond that terse telegram telling me to return to Madrid. This revelation leads directly to the most damning evidence Mornet has: Arnold Kalle and the coded telegram he sent from Madrid to Berlin, identifying me as asset “H21” and crediting me with passing “significant information” about French military operations to Berlin.

  Due to the “sensitive nature” of the information decoded in these missives, the contents are not described to me in any detail. I cannot defend myself against the unknown.

  When, at last, Mornet calls me to the stand, my legs are trembling; I hope it isn’t obvious. I sit and try to compose myself as he instructs me to answer every question as briefly as possible. “There are to be no histrionics, no drama, no performing, Margaretha Zelle. Mata Hari’s audience has left. So, shall we begin?”

  I nod and he says, “Is it true that you were invited to observe army maneuvers in Silesia and that this invitation was extended by a German cavalry officer by the name of Alfred Kiepert?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Answer only with a yes or no, Miss Zelle.”

  I glance at Edouard. He nods. “Yes.”

  As he describes the importance of an invitation I never accepted, I look at the seven men who sit in judgment of me. They are old and humorless. Men who were probably alive and even fighting during the Siege of Paris.

  There is a pause, and I realize that Mornet has asked me something. “I didn’t accept his invitation,” I say.

  “That isn’t what I asked you, Miss Zelle. I asked you why you took such a great number of German officers as lovers.”

  When will I be offered the chance to explain that I never saw military maneuvers with Alfred Kiepert? “I love officers. I have loved them all my life. I’d prefer to be the mistress of a poor officer than of a rich banker. And I like to make comparisons between the different nationalities. I have known an equal number of French officers.”

  Mornet shakes his head; the seven judges look disgusted. “General von Schilling,” Mornet says, counting on his fingers. “Officer Alfred Kiepert; Major Arnold Kalle; Alfred von Schlieffen, chief of staff of the German army; Günther Burstyn—”

  “I prefer men in uniform.”

  “Men in German uniform,” he says, as if he is speaking an obscenity.

  “That isn’t accurate,” Edouard objects.

  But Mornet is not deterred. “This tribunal does not find it credible that the astonishing sums these military men paid—three hundred thousand marks from Officer Alfred Kiepert, twenty thousand marks from Consul Cramer, for example—were money paid for the favors of an aging mistress.”

  “Object!” Edouard says. “The reason for these payments are in her deposition.”

  “You must be very expensive,” Mornet says to me. His tone is mocking.

  “Definitely,” I reply.

  “Object!” Edouard repeats, sounding outraged.

  “What do you think you are worth?”

  “All or nothing,” I say, defiant.

  None of the judges paid Edouard the slightest attention when he shouted his objections, but now Mornet addresses him directly. “We have read her deposition, counselor. What I am saying is that we do not believe her claims. We believe she is lying.” He pauses, as if he is considering his next words very carefully. “On December first, Monsieur Clunet, fifty thousand Allied soldiers were killed. Miss Zelle provided the Germans with information that led directly to these deaths.”

  “That’s a lie,” I shout and Edouard is immediately on his feet. “Show me the proof! Fifty thousand men? There wasn’t a single story in any newspaper in this country—”

  “It is confidential information,” Andre Mornet replies. “We are at war.” He turns to me on the stand. “You betrayed France, Miss Zelle.”

  The room has become oppressive. “France is my home!” I say. “For most of my life I have lived in Paris. Am I a courtesan? Yes. A traitoress? Never!” I have to rest my head in my hands to compose myself.

  Mornet calls his witnesses, and one after another, officers I’ve never met detail romantic liaisons that never took place. The entire trial is a farce. The last to speak is a short colonel named Goudet. If I searched all of France, I’d never find another man as fat or smug. Mornet introduces him as the head of French counterespionage.

  “I have studied the case of the accused with great care,” Colonel Goudet says. The room is absolutely silent. I realize I am holding my breath. “Margaretha Zelle”—Goudet clears his throat—“is the most dangerous spy of the twentieth century.”

  All seven judges begin talking at once.

  * * *

  “Look at this woman,” Mornet says, as he finishes his summation.

  He has detailed my fluency in several languages, my relationships with dozens of military officers, some real and some pure fantasy; he has challenged my intelligence, my morality, and my lack of conscience.

  “This is a woman who is accustomed to getting what she wants: men and money. She uses her charm and her fame to convince the world that she is harmless, but do not be fooled. She must not get what she wants this time because she has betrayed France. She has taken money and given information to our enemy that has cost French soldiers their lives. She must not walk free. Make no mistake. Margaretha Zelle is guilty of treason!”

  * * *

  I’m taken directly from the courtroom to a car. I’m not given the chance to converse with Edouard or talk to any of the reporters who wait for me outside of the Palais de Justice.

  In my cell I can’t sleep. I am too numb.

  After my son’s death, I stopped talking. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. I don’t remember what I dreamed about, or what kept me occupied during the day. I stared at the white ceiling for long periods of time, thinking about Norman and where he was, if he would recognize me when I got to heaven, and if he did, wheth
er he’d still be a boy or a man. My servant, Laksari, stayed by my bedside, talking to me about my daughter, urging me to spend time with my little girl. Now, as I stare at the bars of my cell, I wonder if I will see Norman before I see my daughter again.

  * * *

  I am returned to the Palais de Justice the next morning and there are a thousand people crowding the marble steps, yet I am so distressed I can barely hear them calling my name. Inside the courtroom the trial resumes at eight o’clock. It’s Edouard’s turn to speak in my defense.

  He calls the only witness who has agreed to speak on my behalf: Henri de Marguerie. We spent one evening together and haven’t seen each other in more than a decade.

  “You’re military?”

  “I was a pilot.”

  I allow him to continue complimenting me as we cross the dance floor. An orchestra replaces the string quartet and the new musicians strike up a waltz. He tells me about his family in London. I tell him about my time in Bombay. Then the musicians abandon Johann Strauss and begin playing a more scandalizing tune; I learned the accompanying dance my first week in Paris. The handsome aviator raises his eyebrows at me, asking if I’m willing to accept his invitation.

  Henri speaks kindly about me but it is apparent that none of the judges are interested in the warm memories of a long-retired aviator who bedded a woman easily at a party, and Mornet makes short work of him.

  “Before spending the evening with you did Miss Zelle ask about your military affiliation?”

  “I was retired—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  In no time, it’s Edouard’s turn to deliver a summation and I feel like a passenger on the Titanic.

  “Margaretha Zelle, better known to the world as Mata Hari, is one of the most photographed women of our time. Her image has appeared on everything from cigarettes to packages of tea. How can any person in this courtroom today believe that she could be a successful spy for the Germans? What man would trust her with secrets—a dancer, an actress, a courtesan? My client stands on trial today not because of secrets divulged—for we have heard no compelling evidence that she had access to any sensitive information—but rather, for the number of men she’s taken to her bed. Of this, we have heard ample evidence. Can you condemn her for the life she’s chosen to lead, one of financial and moral promiscuity? Yes, but you cannot convict her of treason. Is Margaretha Zelle guilty of making poor decisions? Yes. Is she guilty of seduction? Most certainly. But is she guilty of treason against the nation of France? Absolutely not.”

  * * *

  After the judges withdraw, we are instructed to wait. I lean over in my chair and Edouard takes me in his arms. “They’re going to find me guilty,” I predict.

  “If that’s the case, we will appeal,” he says. “Immediately.”

  I start to weep. “If they deny the appeal?”

  “Then we will submit another one,” Edouard whispers into my ear. “Pray for a quick end to this war, M’greet. When it’s over, this country will regain its sanity and everyone will see that the only thing you’re guilty of is being a foolish woman.”

  It hurts to hear him call me foolish. But it’s true. I should have married him. I should have left Berlin with him when he asked me to leave. If I had done that simple thing, none of this—none of it—would have happened. Vadime de Massloff never would have loved me; he was a foolish distraction. The weight of this realization hits me hard and I bury my head in his chest. “I love you, Edouard,” I say.

  His arms tighten around me. “I love you, too, Margaretha Zelle.”

  * * *

  It takes the judges forty minutes to reach a verdict. They file back into the courtroom one by one and refuse to meet my gaze. I decide that I am not going to cry in this room again.

  “Margaretha Zelle, also known as M’greet MacLeod, also known as Mata Hari, the judges of this tribunal find you guilty of espionage against the country of France.”

  “What shall the sentence of the accused be?” the prosecutor asks.

  “The sentence of the accused shall be death by firing squad.”

  Chapter 21

  What Legacy Can I Leave Her?

  Inside the Conciergerie, I’m moved to a new cell: It’s called the Slaughterhouse. Two women join me: one a convicted murderess, the other a young girl also charged with espionage. We rarely speak to one another. Instead, we keep to ourselves and sleep as often as we can, trying to dream away our misery. I can dream while I’m awake now. Today, it is August in The Hague, and the pink azaleas are in bloom. “Tell me about our lives in Java,” I say. “Tell me again.”

  “It’s going to be magnificent,” Evert promises, sprawling on the clean cotton sheets. “We’ll buy a house by water so clear you can see to the bottom.”

  “And our children?” I feel perfectly safe with him.

  “We’re going to have three of them. Two boys and a girl. We’ll name the boys Evert and Hans. And the girl shall be—”

  “Not M’greet.” I say, decisive. For the first time I know my future.

  “But M’greet’s a lovely name.”

  “I like the name Antje.” Our family will be cradled in tropical nights and sands the color of eternity.

  He runs his fingers through my hair. “Whatever you wish.”

  * * *

  As I sit on my cot I stare at my hands: The fingers painted with henna in Java, the wrists that Guimet’s silver bangles adorned. I look at the arms that held Norman and Non. I study my feet. Someday soon they are going to walk their last. The court hasn’t said when I am going to die. Someone will simply come one morning and take me away. Unless I win an appeal.

  * * *

  On the last day in September, Sister Léonide tells me that I have a visitor: Edouard Clunet has arrived. “Are you willing to see him?” she asks.

  My cellmates stare at me, stricken. There is only one reason that one of us would be allowed an official visitor. My voice trembles when I ask her to please, show him in.

  I can hear his footsteps. I believe I would recognize his gait if he were walking among thousands. Sister Léonide brings him a chair—not the stool that the bribed guards offer illicit visitors—and he sits. We stare at each other through the bars. Then he tells me what I already know.

  “They rejected your appeal.”

  “So this is how the show ends,” I say. “The last dance.” Edouard buries his head in his hands and cries. I try to be brave for us both. “It’s all right.”

  “I wanted to take care of you,” he whispers, gaining control of his emotions.

  “I know. And I should have let you.”

  He takes my hand through the prison bars. “This is an abomination of justice. What has the world come to?” He is devastated.

  “Buddha said, ‘In life there is suffering because of the impermanent nature of things,’ ” I offer, holding on tightly. I imagine Edouard going home this evening to his aubergine chair, taking a brandy while his pretty wife reads to him from Le Figaro. That was the role I should have played. Not this. We could have created a family. For so many years I believed I offered the world “the dance of destruction as it leads to creation.” Now I understand the truth: I confused the order of things. I created pain; I danced to my own destruction.

  I feel the pinpricks of hot tears. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I tell him.

  He rests his head against the bars. “I do not think I can bear this.”

  * * *

  It should be crisp and clear this early in October, but beyond my cell window there is only rain. I dream constantly of the sun. Of beaches and water and warm temple stones. I sit on the edge of my metal bed and remember my first weeks in Java, when anything seemed possible. That’s what’s so wonderful about beginnings. They promise everything: love, happiness, eternity. I wonder what eternity is truly
like, and whether Marie Antoinette thought about this more than a hundred years ago when she was sitting here, waiting to be taken to the guillotine from this very prison. Did she hope there would be a last-minute reprieve? Did she agonize over what was to become of her son? I think about my daughter living in Amsterdam and I wonder what she will make of her life. Will she be happy? Can there ever be happiness for a child whose mother abandoned her? I hope so. With Rudolph, I was once foolish enough to believe I could make us both happy. Now I know that people must make their own happiness.

  * * *

  Sister Léonide announces another official visitor. It’s Bowtie, holding an envelope in his hands. We watch each other through the bars in silence; there is no more need for artfulness between us. Bowtie’s eyes fill with genuine tears.

  “No use in crying,” I say gently. “It’s not going to change anything.”

  He hands me the envelope. “As promised.”

  Inside is my daughter’s address and a current photo of her. I experience a rush of emotions gazing at her image: She looks so like me and yet I can see that she is kinder and so very innocent. I hope Rudolph doesn’t ruin her.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, running my finger over her hair, her wholesome dress, her face. We will never meet again in this world. Everything she’ll ever believe about me will come from papers like Le Figaro.

  Bowtie sits in the chair Sister Léonide brought him and watches me.

  “One last interview?” I say, for old times’ sake. I’m surprised when he takes out his pad of paper and a pen. “What do you want to talk about?” he asks.

  I think about it for a while. “Poppies,” I say. I’ve been remembering a poem I read in Punch magazine a couple years ago. I recite it for him:

  In Flanders fields the poppies blow

  Between the crosses, row on row,

  That mark our place; and in the sky

  The larks, still bravely singing, fly

  Scarce heard amid the guns below.

  We are the Dead. Short days ago

  We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,