Although he managed to avoid any connection with Franz Ferdinand’s murder, Apis was arrested in 1916 by order of the Prince Regent, because the Regent feared that Apis was plotting to kill him. Ironically, the Regent was the son of the king Apis had placed on the throne after the assassination in 1903. At his trial in Salonika, Apis confessed to his role in the assassination of Franz Ferdinand and was sentenced to death. In June 1917, he was shot at night in front of an open grave. His last words were: ‘Long live Serbia!’
22
Berlin, 1914
‘Welcome back to Berlin, madame,’ von Jagow said. ‘The city has missed you.’ He poured some wine into her glass and proposed a toast to old acquaintances. His dark-blue serge suit was the same. His tie was neatly knotted and his dark hair slicked back. Apart from the crow’s-feet appearing around his blue eyes, his childlike face hadn’t changed at all.
She raised her glass to him. ‘Thank you,’ she said and took a sip. The wine, as usual at Adlon’s, was superb.
‘Ah, here come the truffles.’
A waiter laid a silver tray of truffes à la timbale in the centre of their round table and began serving the dish.
‘They are the most commendable comestible ever discovered. Nobody has the faintest idea what they are, only that they are delicious. They do something wonderful and peculiar to the body,’ he said.
The waiter finished serving them and wished them a good meal. Von Jagow began eating. He sat back and kissed his fingers.
‘Parfait,’ he said and sipped his wine. ‘I’m afraid food is my one and only weakness. But, much as I love truffles, I love fish even more.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
Von Jagow thought for a moment, then began eating again. ‘When I was a boy, in Essen, I saw a fishfall.’
‘A what?’
‘A fishfall. I remember my mother standing at the sink peeling potatoes one summer morning when, suddenly, there was a huge crash outside, like breaking glass. She cried out and ran to the front door. I followed her and stood with her, looking out on to the street. Blocks of ice the size of shoeboxes were falling from the sky, each one with a fish in it. Some fell and skidded, others smashed open. Up and down our street, fish lay wriggling on the cobblestones. I recognised them at once – my father used to take me fishing – they were freshwater carp. They stopped falling as quickly as they had started. We found out later that it was just in our street. Then someone started picking them up and my mother picked two or three up herself. We had them for dinner that night. You should have seen my father’s face when she told him where they’d come from. He refused to believe her, so she had to get the neighbour in to tell him the whole story again.’ Von Jagow laughed.
A string quartet began playing in one corner of the restaurant.
‘How do you explain it?’ she asked.
‘No one knows,’ he said. ‘People say that it’s a freak of nature – something to do with vacuums over lakes and seas – but no one really knows. I considered it a lucky omen.’
When they had finished their main course and were waiting for dessert, von Jagow excused himself and strode away. Mata Hari sat back in her seat and looked up at the fan above the table. It was rotating slowly, too slowly to do anything except push the hot air around the room. The blades reminded her of propellers.
She looked up at the white-clothed tables around her. Army officers and city officials murmured over their food. She was the only woman there. A man noticed her. She couldn’t tell if she knew him or not. She looked away and found it difficult to breathe. It was too hot and there were so many faces, always watching her and waiting. She was tired of being looked at.
A small crowd had gathered outside at the windows, looking in at the diners. She frowned. What were they doing there? She noticed that many of the other diners were looking at the crowd and smiling. An army officer stood up and toasted them.
Von Jagow returned to their table and sat down. He poured more wine for them. She felt his eyes on her.
‘Are you a little sad this evening, madame?’
‘A little, perhaps.’
‘I trust your performance at the Winter Gardens last night went smoothly?’
‘Yes. I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘When do you start your performances at the Metropole?’
‘On the first of September.’
Von Jagow pushed his plate away and glanced around the restaurant. The chatter had become more animated.
‘I have a mind to perform less often, actually,’ she said.
Von Jagow looked at her. ‘Really? Why?’
‘It holds no interest for me any more.’
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Mata Hari is a famous star who will remain in the public eye for ever. You just need a change. After you have completed your engagements you should return to Paris. I know how you love Paris.’
A uniformed man appeared at von Jagow’s elbow and whispered something into his ear. A faint smile appeared on von Jagow’s face. He dismissed the man with a nod and looked at Mata Hari. He patted his mouth with his napkin, which he then folded carefully and laid on the table.
‘Madame, the War Office has just made the announcement. We will not allow France to mobilise with our enemy, Russia. As of 18:45 today, Germany is at war with France.’
An hour later, Mata Hari left the Adlon restaurant with von Jagow. Many of the diners nodded to them; some stood up and shook von Jagow’s hand as they threaded their way through the tables. At the entrance to the restaurant, they waited while their coats were collected and placed around their shoulders and the doors opened for them. Outside, the heat coming off the street hit her face. They paused in front of the large crowd that had gathered and that now cheered and clapped them. The faces in the crowd looked ecstatic. She saw hats being thrown into the air, then the crowd began to sing ‘Deutschland Über Alles’. Von Jagow’s official motorcar stood waiting by the kerb. She noticed that it was a newer, bigger model than the one she had been driven in seven years before. It better suited von Jagow’s new position as Chief of Police. As they descended the stone steps, the crowd let them through. She sensed that the crowd wanted to touch them, but they kept a respectful distance – partly out of awe, but also fear, she guessed.
The following morning, Mata Hari woke up in a sweat, the sun burning her through a crack in the curtains. She stumbled out of her huge bed and closed them. The sheets were wet where she had been sleeping. She lay back down, attempting to recall von Jagow’s every sentence and gesture over dinner, to find what possible meanings they contained; but just as she remembered them, they slipped away. All she could hear in her head were the war slogans and songs that had been yelled in the streets as she was driven to her hotel in von Jagow’s car. She felt oppressed in Berlin, unable to take hold of herself. Her actions were in the hands of others.
Her carriage clock ticked incessantly. It was past eleven. She knew she would be unable to sleep any more, so she rose from the bed and went into the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself. She too had wrinkles appearing around her eyes. She looked for some kind of sign in her reflection to say that today would not be as bad as she thought, but she saw none. She splashed water on her face; the coldness made her gasp. She poured more water on her shoulders and arms, and around her hot neck.
Wearing an emerald-green velvet dress, she walked down the stairs to the foyer of the Cumberland, which was busy with guests checking out. At reception, she asked if there were any messages for her. The receptionist handed her two envelopes. The first was from Aurore to say that she had been refused entry into Germany at the border. She was stranded in Metz. Mata Hari groaned. How was she supposed to prepare for the rest of her performances without the costumes and jewellery Aurore was bringing with her?
The other message was from Schulz, the Director of the Metropole. He said that the theatre was going to close until further notice because of the war. What was happening? War seemed to have descend
ed on the city overnight. Whatever opportunities Berlin had to offer her were being taken away and she desperately needed money. Standing in the foyer clutching the two messages, she decided she must leave at once and return to Paris. She could make up for the lost income by selling her furniture at Neuilly. Yes, that was the right thing to do.
She returned to her room and opened her trunk. Her belongings were scattered around the room in anticipation of a long stay and it took some time to pack them. At reception, she ordered her trunk to be brought down and then left the hotel. A minute’s walk brought her to a bank, where she had deposited her best jewellery and the 30,000 marks von Jagow had given her.
The cashier looked dismayed when she requested her belongings from her safe deposit box and asked her to wait. A few moments later, the manager appeared and ushered her into his office. He softly explained that all personal belongings of French nationals had been seized the moment Germany declared war on France.
This news threw her. ‘But I’m not a French national,’ she said.
‘You are considered a French citizen because you have been living in France for more than ten years, madame.’
‘This is ridiculous! Do you know who I am?’ she shouted.
He concurred that he did.
‘I had lunch with the Chief of Police yesterday and if you don’t allow me to collect my belongings, I’ll have you sacked!’
‘Madame,’ he said patiently, ‘the order is by the authority of the Chief of Police.’
Her heart leapt to her throat. She pleaded with the manager, but he was adamant. He opened his arms in a gesture of helplessness.
‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.’
She walked back to the Cumberland and, at reception, ordered a telephone line to the city police headquarters. The phone clicked and a man said, ‘Hello.’ She demanded to speak to von Jagow. The man asked who it was and, when she replied, told her to wait. When he returned, he apologised and said, under the circumstances, Herr von Jagow was very busy. She didn’t know what else to say. The man said he would tell Herr von Jagow that she had called. The line went dead.
Mata Hari drifted slowly to a corner of the foyer. She couldn’t think what this latest development meant. Men and women were filing past her, leaving the hotel with their cases packed. She felt one step behind events. She was stuck in Berlin, her money and jewellery confiscated, with little money on her and a heavy trunk to carry. The few costumes she had with her were in her dressing room at the Winter Gardens. ‘This is a crisis,’ she thought. She tried to remain calm but waves of panic swept through her and, before she knew it, her eyes were brimming with tears. Her mouth went dry. Through her tears she felt a hot resentment towards von Jagow. ‘Ah, ces sales Boches!’ she said to herself.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find a very tall elderly man looking at her.
‘Madame Mata Hari?’
She was so surprised at this intrusion that she immediately stopped crying. His expression was soft and warm. He was roughly shaven, with a large moustache and sideburns. His snow-white hair and whiskers needed trimming.
‘I thought it was you. I recognised your face.’
He spoke in French, but with a heavy accent.
‘Are you Dutch?’ she asked.
He was taken aback. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
His dark suit was frayed at the edges and around the collar. His hands were weathered. She wondered what the chances were of meeting another Dutch person in Berlin at this very moment. She found it slightly absurd and began to laugh.
‘Are you all right, madame?’ the old man said. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she said and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘My name is Jip Wijngaarden.’ He made a little bow.
She tried to smile.
‘You seem very distressed. Is there anything I can do?’ he said.
This man was being very kind to her and she wasn’t sure why. His manner was extraordinarily calm. The foyer was more or less empty now and she felt very alone. Standing there, in her expensive green dress, seemed slightly ridiculous. She had to get back to Paris quickly. She looked at Wijngaarden again. He struck her as a sincere man and she decided to trust him. Who else could she turn to? She told him everything that had happened that morning, but left out exactly how much money she had at the bank and who it was from.
He listened attentively and, when she had finished, told her that in his opinion it was unlikely she could reclaim her money or jewellery at present. She would have to wait until the situation was clearer. As a French national, she would not be allowed to return directly to Paris without the necessary transit papers. She stood more chance of travelling to a neutral country, like Holland, and then on to France.
Mata Hari nodded. ‘What should I do?’ she asked.
Wijngaarden thought for a moment. His brother, he said, knew the Dutch Consul in Berlin. His name was Van Panhuys. If she wished, they could visit him and obtain the transit papers for her to travel to Holland. In fact, he would be returning to Amsterdam himself that evening. They could at least try, no?
Mata Hari smiled and agreed. She thanked him.
Wijngaarden bowed again. ‘It’s a pleasure to help a beautiful lady such as yourself. And a compatriot too!’
As they left the hotel together, Wijngaarden explained that he was the director of a company that grew tulips. The company had many customers in Berlin and, every summer, he came to Berlin to renew his supply contracts. When war had been declared, his brother, who lived in Berlin, had advised him to leave at once.
They passed the French Embassy, where a group of demonstrators were holding up pro-war placards. The two German policemen standing guard by the gates looked uneasy. The crowd jostled them and shouted nationalist slogans. Wijngaarden and Mata Hari walked on.
After a long wait at the Dutch Embassy, they were seen by the Consul. He greeted Wijngaarden warmly and shook Mata Hari’s hand when they were introduced. They all sat down. The Consul nodded as Wijngaarden explained Mata Hari’s dilemma. He saw no problem with issuing the necessary documents for her journey and, opening a drawer, took out a form. What reason should he put for her wanting to return to Paris? Mata Hari explained that she wished to dispose of her property at Neuilly. He filled in the form with details of her age, height and religion, stamped it and added his signature at the bottom. Handing the form to her, he said that it would be easier still if she travelled on the same train as Wijngaarden. Mata Hari couldn’t believe how simple it had been. There was relief in her voice as she thanked the Consul. He waved his hand in dismissal and said it was a pleasure to help such a famous artiste. He wished them a good trip.
In his room at the Metropole, Wijngaarden packed the last of his things. He was meeting Mata Hari at Bahnhof Zoo at seven o’clock. The overnight train departed at 19:20. He placed a call to his brother and told him about his meeting with Mata Hari. His brother asked if he was mad. ‘Don’t you know who she is!?’ he asked. Wijngaarden listened in shock as his brother went on to explain that her name had been linked to all kinds of German military personnel and that she probably worked for the German Secret Police. ‘Under no circumstances should you travel with her! Let her get on the train tonight and you leave on the sleeper tomorrow. Do you hear me?’
After promising to do as his brother had said, Wijngaarden replaced the receiver on its hook and stood still for a moment. Then he took off his jacket and laid it on the bed. He undid his collar and cuffs, rolled up his sleeves and settled into a chair. The evening sun fell on his neck. He rubbed his face and smelled the fragrance of tulips on his fingertips.
23
Zeppelin
Whenever the airship flew over a village, or whenever it flew even over a lonely field where a few farmers were working, a really tremendous shout of glee rose into the air towards Count Zeppelin’s miracle ship which, in the imagination of all those who saw it, suggested
some supernatural creation.
Thüringer Zeitung, July 1908
Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin was born in 1838 in Konstanz, a small town on the shores of Lake Constance in the Kingdom of Württemberg, Germany. He graduated from the military academy at Ludwigsburg and became a lieutenant in the Eighth Württemberg Infantry Regiment, but the routine of military life soon bored him. Instead, the capricious von Zeppelin wished to travel to America to observe the armies fighting in the American Civil War and, through a variety of connections and introductions, the twenty-four-year-old Count secured an audience with President Lincoln in Washington on 21 May 1863.
With the full military pass that President Lincoln granted him, von Zeppelin spent a year as a ‘guest’ cavalry officer with the Union Armies at their headquarters in Falmouth, Virginia. The general pace of the war, however, was slow and von Zeppelin soon became bored again. To divert his attention further, he joined a civilian expedition to explore the sources of the Mississippi river. During a scouting mission at St Paul, Minnesota, he took his first ride in a tethered balloon, which had been floated to survey the surrounding countryside. It was then that he first realised dirigibles would make excellent weapons of war.
He returned to Germany and remained a cavalry officer until his retirement at the age of fifty-two, in 1890. A few years later, he applied for a patent for an airship and began experiments near Lake Constance. For the next decade, he personally financed the construction of airship after airship, each better than the last and, in 1907, the King and Queen of Württemberg joined him on a short flight in the Luftschiff-Zeppelin 3.
By 1909, von Zeppelin had formed the world’s first airship passenger service: Deutsche Luftschiffahrts Aktien Gesellschaft, or DELAG for short. Operating flights between Berlin, Frankfurt, Hamburg and Dresden, his airships carried 32,750 passengers on 1,600 flights in five years without a single accident. The short but athletic Count, with his ruddy face and a snow-white moustache, became a national hero. A Zeppelin craze swept across Germany – confectioners sold marzipan Zeppelins, a brand of cigarettes and prize flowers were named after him and he was awarded the Military Cross by the Kaiser.
The Red Dancer Page 15