Mata Hari's Last Dance(51)

I think of von Schilling. He would say, “This is why Deutschland will prevail.” And I feel a true jolt of fear. What if France doesn’t prevail? What will happen to us? What will happen to The Netherlands?

I go downstairs and gather a copy of every newspaper in the lobby, then read them from front to back in my room. Milk shortages in Paris. Not enough petrol in the south of France. Then a small article buried deep in Le Figaro about a man from Normandy caught with invisible inks and working for the Germans. What if I could use invisible ink to communicate with Non? Where would I find such a thing? And how would she know how to decipher it?

I phone the consulate and learn my ship won’t leave for Paris for one more week. I will spend every afternoon outside the yellow schoolhouse, secretly watching Non.

*

I am eager to leave Amsterdam for Paris. I will apologize to Edouard. I will tell him whatever he wants to hear. That he was right, that he’s always been right, that it was foolish of me to insist on staying in Germany. Then I will ask him to renew his efforts to bring Non home to me, whatever the cost. I want him to come with us to New York. This is where we will finally find refuge. I’m certain of this after reading an article about the generosity of the Americans: GIVES $18,000 CHECK TO HELP ARMENIANS

Stranger First Decided on $5,000 but Tale of Suffering Caused Him to Increase Amount.

A well-dressed but unassuming man walked modestly into the office of the American Committee for Armenian and Syrian Relief, 708 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, the other day, and inquired for the secretary. He named a Middle West State as his home, and said he had been thinking about making a contribution on “Armenian Sunday,” October 22, to help the Armenian refugees in Turkey, but had concluded, from what he had read in the newspapers, that money is badly needed now.

“I can give $5,000.” He said, “but I would like to hear something about the facts.”

The assistant secretary of the committee, Walter Mallory, summarized the situation in accordance with information which had been received in recent letters and cablegrams. One of the facts stated by Mr. Mallory is that there are about a million Armenian and Syrian Christian refugees in Turkey and Persia, largely women and children, nearly all of whom are destitute. Deported from their homes by Turkish soldiers, many thousands are suffering for lack of the bare necessities of life. Then he began to tell of sacrifices which contributors to the relief fund had made.

The visitor listened to the story of a minister in Ohio who had written that from a salary of $80 a month his wife and himself would contribute $40 a month for six months.

“Well,” said the stranger, “if they can make a sacrifice like that I think I can give $10,000.”

On the way to the office of Charles R. Crane, the treasurer, the donor was told of an old woman who wrote she had no money, but would give her old paisley shawl—an heirloom which had been in the family many years and had once been her mother’s. He listened also to a letter from the mother of a little girl, 4 years old, who had earned 2 cents sweeping the sidewalk. She wanted to give 1 cent to the Belgian babies and the other to the starving Armenians.

“If other people are willing to give up things,” commented the stranger, “I ought to be willing to do the same. I think that every one ought to help save this old Christian race. I believe I can give $15,000.”

Before he entered the treasurer’s office the stranger seemed to make some mental calculations and when he wrote out his check it read $18,000.00. “Under no circumstances is my name to be made public,” said the stranger, so the treasurer, to keep faith, personally deposited the check in the bank.

When I board the Zeelandia, I am one of four hundred -people. The other passengers walking the gangplank with me seem reserved. Before the war we all would have greeted each other warmly, maybe invited each other to drinks after dinner. But everyone is suspicious now: of traitors, of enemies, of anyone with more. I can sense the other passengers watching me warily. A woman by herself, no husband or even children in tow. What must I look like to them? A widow maybe. The war has certainly made enough of them.

On board, I keep to myself. No one trusts a woman alone. If I speak with a married man, it’s because I’m interested in seducing him. If I chat with a woman, she will want to know about my children. No one is safe, so I sit in my room or on the hard metal chairs of the windy deck and read the papers. It’s gloomy reading. How many soldiers have died in this ridiculous war? How many women and children have starved? I keep reading and reading, but there’s never any answer.

*

When the ship sails into port, I’m the first one down the gangplank. I don’t want to see the bittersweet reunions or the tears of the women returning, widowed, to their mothers’ homes. At dockside, I hail a cab. A freezing bitter wind is blowing and I curse the German soldiers who seized my furs. As we drive down Rue Danton I am shocked: Paris has become a stranger to me. Planes fly overhead, making low, ominous sweeps. I look out the car window and the streets are desolate. The cafés and shops are empty. I see women gathered around papers nailed to posts. Some of them are doubled over, wailing.

“What are they reading?” I ask the driver.

“Names. Those who are crying have sons and husbands who aren’t coming home.”

He passes Boulevard Voltaire. I’m unnerved by the silence of the thoroughfare, by all of the white flowers hung over closed doors. We stop at the entrance to the Grand Hotel. I hand him a generous tip and he carts my remaining luggage, fifteen pieces, into a glittering foyer. Inside the hotel the war doesn’t exist. I allow myself to imagine that Edouard is just around the corner, coming to tell me our rooms are ready. I act lighthearted as I check in and am given a suite on the second floor. But as I stand alone, gazing out over Paris, my heart aches. There’s a radio in my room and I turn it on. It’s all news of the war. I should eat, but I want to find Edouard.