Mata Hari's Last Dance(62)

Edouard puts his hand to his temple.

“It doesn’t make any sense, I know. The world has gone mad.”

“Why did they transfer you here from Saint Lazare? Did they tell you that?”

“No. Sometimes I think I’m in a horrible nightmare. I’m not a double agent, Edouard. You have to believe me. I’ve only gathered intelligence for France. Do you think this could be about money?” I ask. “Commandant Ladoux never paid me the sum we agreed upon. Also, when they arrested me, they took all the money I saved for Vadime—”

Edouard interrupts me. “What money?”

I tell him about the three hundred thousand marks Alfred Kiepert’s family paid me to stay away from him, and the twenty thousand marks I received from Consul Cramer.

Edouard’s face pales. “Who is Consul Cramer, M’greet?”

“He’s the German consul in Amsterdam. I was given his name by General von Schilling—”

He puts up his hand to silence me. “When were you in Amsterdam? And why did the German consul give you twenty thousand marks?”

I see how it appears through his eyes and feel a stab of fear. “I went to Amsterdam after I left Berlin. I was coming home, to Paris, but the train was stopped by German soldiers. The money from Cramer was compensation for my furs. The soldiers stole them.” I don’t want to tell him that I promised Cramer I’d keep my eyes and ears open for Germany. I did nothing for Germany. It was Germany that I betrayed.

Edouard shuts his eyes as if he’s blocking out terrible images.

“You can clear this up for me, can’t you?” I ask, willing myself to stay calm. “Despite how it may appear on the surface, surely no one will believe I’d give secrets to the Germans, not after you explain the truth to them. Even the British understood in the end.”

Edouard opens his eyes. “The British? How are they involved? M’greet, I need you to start at the beginning. At the very beginning, from the day I left Berlin.”

I tell him everything. I even admit that I spied on Non while I was in Amsterdam, awaiting passage home. “She’s such a beautiful young woman now, Edouard. Even if I had revealed myself she wouldn’t have recognized me; I’m certain of it. Do you think—”

“M’greet, focus on what’s important right now.”

“Of course. But when I’m released—”

“You may never be released!”

I’m shocked into silence.

“That’s how serious this situation is! Right now it’s not your daughter’s safety in jeopardy. It’s yours.”

My hands begin to tremble.

“M’greet.” He says my name softly. “Why didn’t you call me when they arrested you in London?”

I look away. “You were married.” I correct myself. “You are married.”

He reaches through the bars and tilts my chin up toward him. “Do you think anyone else is more important to me than you?”

I meet his eyes and I feel such warmth. The sound of approaching boots echoes in the hall. He turns and a guard gives him a curt nod. Our time is finished. “I’ll see you soon,” he says.

“When? When will you come back? Please, get me out of here, Edouard!”

“M’greet, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

*

That night I dream of the Revolution. I’m riding in my father’s bokkenwagen while on the street people throw stones and trash at me. Vile threats pierce my ears: ugly, taunting cries of “seductress” and “traitor.” I pull at the reins to make the wagon stop, but it’s going too fast. I know that I am heading for the guillotine.

I jerk awake.

My heart is beating too quickly; I can hear the rush of blood in my ears. I pull the blanket tight around my shoulders and weep. What will happen if Edouard can’t save me? All Non will ever know about me are the lies she reads in the papers. That her mother was a German spy.

“Mata Hari?” Sister Léonide’s face appears between the bars of my cell. “Why are you crying?”

I speak the words that I now fear are true: “I’m going to die.” I don’t want to leave Edouard. And Non. My God, I have so many hopes for us, for the future still.

She crosses herself and rearranges the rosary beads in her hand. “You should pray.”

I am moved to see that there are tears in her eyes.

“This is not the end, Mata Hari. There is always one more road.”

An image of my aunt Marie passes through my mind.

“Is it true what they say in the papers?”

In all of our time together, first in the Saint Lazare Prison and now here in the Conciergerie, Sister Léonide has never asked me if I am guilty, whether I have done what the papers and the authorities are accusing me of.

“No, Sister. It isn’t.” I look through my cell window at the moon. In France and Germany the moon appears for every citizen, every soldier. No one sees a different one. I meet her eyes. “But I thought I could control my future,” I admit.

“No one should play at being God,” Sister Léonide admonishes me, gently. “It’s vanity to try.”

She slips away and I am alone with the moon. I blot out its light with my thumb. Everything is an illusion.