Mata Hari's Last Dance(50)

The interior of the building is as plain as the outside, as if they are trying to hide. We come to a wooden door and the woman knocks, even though the door is slightly ajar, and I can see a balding man sitting behind his desk. He calls for me to be shown in. When I enter, she shuts the door behind me.

Consul Cramer raises his brows. “Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I take a seat in front of his desk. “My name is Mata Hari. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

He puts down the papers in his hands. I have his full attention now. “The dancer?”

“Yes.”

His eyes wander from my face to my body, imagining what I look like beneath my black dress. Perhaps he’s been to one of my shows. If he has, he doesn’t admit to it. “I was told von Schilling sent you,” he says.

“Yes. He gave me a list of names where I might find help if I should need it. This morning, German soldiers barged onto my train in Berlin and stole my furs. They treated me like an animal.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you, but I want more than an apology. I want my property returned, and von Schilling believes you’re the man to make that happen.”

“How do you know the general?”

I lean toward him. “Didn’t I mention that General von Schilling and I are very good friends, Karl?”

His eyes light up at the implication.

“Will you help me?” I ask.

He sighs. “Mata Hari, what you are—”

“I want what is mine.”

“Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner. Shall I make reservations at Hotel Krasnapolsky?”

It’s the best hotel in Amsterdam. But I sit back, refusing to be deterred. “I’m on my way to Paris. I want to be home.”

“Paris is no place to call home right now, Mata Hari.”

I’m not in the mood for a lecture. “Can you or can you not return my furs to me?”

“You claim they were confiscated in Berlin. Yet we are sitting in Amsterdam. The appropriate place to register a complaint would be in Berlin.”

These Germans are infuriating! “Von Schilling said—”

“Yes.” He holds up his hand. “I understand.”

“They were taken from me by your men! Stolen!”

He doesn’t look in the least bit surprised.

“If you can’t return them, then I will accept compensation.”

He has the gall to look amused. Then he says, “The consulate does not reimburse travelers for lost clothing. This applies in times of peace as well as war.”

“This is outrageous. I have given so much to Berlin. So much! And in return I am robbed of thirty thousand marks.” It’s the first number that comes to my mind.

The consul rubs his temple with his fingers. Perhaps I’m not the first person to complain about this today. “Is that the market value of your confiscated property?”

“That is a low estimate. I never travel lightly.”

“Perhaps, then, we can come to a compromise.”

“I’m listening.”

“I will give you a check. Twenty thousand marks.”

I open my mouth to protest but he shakes his head.

“I am doing you a favor, fraulein. For von Schilling. I will inform my superiors that you have agreed to keep your ears and eyes open on behalf of Germany. They won’t pay you for lost goods. Are we agreed?”

We are.

“Mata Hari,” he says as I am gathering myself to leave. “I suggest that the next time you travel it not be by train.” He pauses, organizes his thoughts. “I will arrange your passage on the next available ship to France. If you are amenable.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “This type of thievery might happen again?”

He spreads his hands. “This is war, Mata Hari.”

We watch each other. “Please book my passage,” I say.

*

For three days in a row I wait outside of her school without seeing her. Is she ill? Has he moved her? Did something else happen? Girls walk down the steps of the schoolhouse arm in arm, chatting with each other, making plans. I search their smiling faces, and none of them look like Non. But on the fourth day, when I see a solemn dark-haired girl walking alone, I know that it’s her. All of the other girls are carefree; there’s a misery in this young girl’s face that makes her look older than her years.

My heart beats too quickly. I could call to her, reveal myself. But what would I say? And where would I go to spirit her away? I’m still waiting for my own passage to France. I have no papers for my daughter. The old woman waiting for her across the street would scream for help. And then what? Would we run? Would Non want to leave with me?

A thousand scenarios pass through my head. In the end, I simply watch her while she walks away, committing every detail of my daughter to memory. The way her hair falls in dark curls down her back, her slender waist, her blue school uniform. I drink her in until she disappears from sight.

*

A newspaper has been delivered and waits outside my room at the hotel where I’m staying until I can sail for Paris. The lead story describes a French cavalry unit dressed in blue feathers, red caps, and newly polished brass buckles. As they rode their horses into battle they mocked the British soldiers they were meant to aid. “Cowards!” they yelled. “You English are not fighters. We will show you how it is done.” Two hundred Frenchmen armed with lances charged into machine-gun fire. “Not one of them asked us what the Germans were fighting with,” an English soldier is quoted. “And not one of them came back.”