Mata Hari's Last Dance(49)

“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.