by Kit Sergeant
“I see.” She leaned forward. “You are part of the Sittenpolizei, then.” They were a department charged with enforcing the Kaiser’s so-called laws of morality. M’greet had been visited a few times in the past by such men, but nothing had ever come of it. She flashed Griebel a seductive smile. “Surely your department has no issue with sacred dances?”
“Ah,” Griebel fidgeted with the collar of his uniform, clearly uncomfortable.
Mirroring his movements, M’greet fingered the neckline of her low-cut gown. “After all, there are more important issues going on in the world than my little dance.”
“Such as?” Griebel asked.
The door opened and Anna discreetly placed a tea set on the crisp white tablecloth. She gave her mistress a worried look but M’greet waved her off before pouring Griebel a cup of tea. “Well, I’m sure you heard about that poor man that was shot in the Balkans in June.”
“Of course—it’s been in all of the papers. The ‘poor man,’ as you call him, was Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Austria should not stand down when the heir to their throne was shot by militant Serbs.”
M’greet took a sip of tea. “Are you saying they should go to war?”
“They should. And Germany, as Austria’s ally, ought to accompany them.”
“Over one man? You cannot be serious.”
“Those Serbs need to be taught a lesson, once and for all.” Upon seeing the pout on M’greet’s face, Griebel waved his hand. “But you shouldn’t worry your pretty little head over talk of politics.”
She pursed her lips. “You’re right. It’s not something that a woman like me should be discussing.”
“No.” He set down his tea cup and pulled something out of his pocket. “As I was saying when I first came in, about the complaint—”
“As I was saying…” she faked a yawn, stretching her arms out while sticking out her bosom. The stocky, balding Griebel was not nearly as handsome as some of the men she’d met over the years, but M’greet knew that she needed to become better acquainted with him in order to get the charges dropped. Besides, she’d always had a weakness for men in uniform. “My routine is adopted from Hindu religious dances and should not be misconstrued as immoral.” She placed a hand over Griebel’s thick fingers, causing the paper to fall to the floor. “I think, if the two of us put our heads together, we can definitely find a mutual agreement.”
He pulled his hand away to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”
M’greet got up from her chair to spread herself on the bed, displaying her body to its advantage as a chef would his best dish.
“Perhaps we could work out an arrangement that would benefit us both,” Griebel agreed as he walked over to her.
Griebel’s mustache tickled her face, but she forced herself to think about other things as he kissed her. Her thoughts at such moments often traveled to her daughter, Non, but today she focused on the other night’s performance. M’greet always did what it took to survive, and right now she needed the money that her contract with the Berlin Metropol would provide, and nothing could get in the way of that.
M’greet was glad to count Herr Griebel as her new lover as the tensions between the advocates of the Kaiser—who wanted to “finish with the Serbs quickly”—and the pacifists determined to keep Germany out of war heightened throughout Berlin at the end of July. Although Griebel was on the side of the war-mongers, M’greet felt secure traveling on his arm every night on their way to Berlin’s most popular venues.
It was in the back room at one such establishment, the Borchardt, that she met some of Griebel’s cronies. They had gathered to talk about the recent developments—Austria-Hungary had officially declared war on Serbia. M’greet knew her place was to look pretty and say nothing, but at the same time she couldn’t help but listen to what they were discussing.
“I’ve heard that Russia has mobilized her troops,” a heavyset, balding man stated. M’greet recalled that his name was Müller.
“Ah,” Griebel sat back in the plush leather booth. “That’s the rub, now isn’t it?”
Herr Vogel, Griebel’s closest compatriot, shook his head. “I’d hoped Russia would stay out of it.” He flicked ash from his cigar into a nearby tray. “After all, the Kaiser and the Tsar are cousins.”
“No,” Müller replied. “Those Serbs went crying to Mother Russia, and she responded.” He nodded to himself. “Now it’s only a matter of time before we jump in to protect Austria.”
As if on cue, the sound of breaking glass was heard.
M’greet ended her silence. “What was that?”
Griebel put a protective hand on her arm. “I’m not sure.” He used his other arm to flag down a passing waiter. “What is going on?”
The young man looked panic-stricken. “There is a demonstration on the streets. Someone threw a brick through the front window and our owner is asking all of the patrons to leave.”
“Has war broken out?” M’greet inquired of Griebel as she pulled her arm away. His grip had left white marks.
“I’m not sure.” He picked up her fur shawl and headed to the main room of the restaurant. Pandemonium reigned as Berlin’s elite rushed toward the doors. Discarded feathers from fashionable ladies’ hats and boas floated through the air and littered the ground before stamping feet stirred them up again. M’greet wished she hadn’t shaken off Griebel’s arm as now she was being shoved this way and that. Someone trampled over her dress and she heard the sound of ripping lace.
She nearly tripped before a strong hand landed on her elbow. “This way,” the young waiter told her. He led her through the kitchen and out the back door, where Griebel’s Benz was waiting. Griebel appeared a few minutes later and the driver told him there was a massive protest outside the Kaiser’s palace.
“Let’s go there,” Griebel instructed.
“No.” M’greet wrapped the fur shawl around her shoulders. “Take me home first.”
“Don’t you want to find out what’s happening?” Griebel demanded, waving his hand as a crowd of people thronged the streets. “This could be the beginning of a war the likes of which no one has ever seen.”
“No,” she repeated. It seemed to her that the Great Powers of Europe: Germany, Russia, France, and possibly England, were entering into a scrap they had no business getting involved with. “I don’t care about any war and I’ve had enough tonight. I want to go home.”
Griebel gave her a strange look but motioned for the driver to do as she said.
They were forced to drive slowly, as the streets had become jammed with motor cars, horse carts, and people rushing about on foot. M’greet caught what they were chanting as the crowd marched past. She repeated the words aloud: “Deutschland über alles.”
“Germany over all,” Griebel supplied.
The war came quickly. Germany first officially declared war on Russia to the east and two days later did the same to France in the west. In Berlin, so-called bank riots occurred as people rushed to their financial institutions and emptied their savings accounts, trading paper money for gold and silver coins. Prices for food and other necessities soared as people stocked up on goods while they could still afford them.
Worried about her own fate, M’greet placed several calls to her agent, Astruc, wanting to know if the war meant her fall performances would be cancelled. After leaving many messages, she eventually got word that Astruc had fled town, presumably with the money the Metropol had paid her in advance.
She decided to brave the confusion at the bank in order to withdraw what little funds she had left.
“I’m sorry,” the teller informed M’greet when she finally made it to the counter. “It looks as though your account has been blocked.”
“How can you say that?” she demanded. “There should be plenty of money in my account.” The plenty part might not have been strictly true, but there was no way it was empty.
“The address you gave when you opened the ac
count was in Paris. We cannot give funds to any foreigner at this time.”
M’greet put both fists on the counter. “I wish to speak with your manager.”
The teller gestured behind her. M’greet glanced back to see a long line of people, their exhausted, bewildered faces beginning to glower. “I’m sorry, fräulein, I can do nothing more.”
She opened her mouth to let him have the worst of her fury, but a man in a police uniform appeared beside her. “A foreigner you say?” He pulled M’greet out of the bank line, and roughly turned her to face him. “What are you, a Russian?”
M’greet knew her dark hair and coloring was not typical of someone with Dutch heritage, but this was a new accusation. “I am no such thing.”
“Russian, for sure,” a man standing in line agreed.
“Her address was in France,” the teller called before accepting a bank card from the next person.
“Well, Miss Russian Francophile, you are coming with me.” For the second time in a week, a strange man put his hand on M’greet’s elbow and led her away.
M’greet fumed all the way to the police station. She’d had enough of Berlin: due to this infernal war, she was now void of funds and it looked as though her engagements were to be cancelled. She figured her best course of action would be to return to Paris and use her connections to try to get some work there.
When they arrived at the police station, M’greet immediately asked for Herr Griebel. He appeared a few minutes later, a wry smile on his face. “You’ve been arrested under suspicion of being a troublesome alien.”
M’greet waved off that comment with a brush of her hand. “We both know that’s ridiculous. Can you secure my release as soon as possible? I must get back to Paris before my possessions there are seized.”
Griebel’s amused smile faded as his lip curled into a sneer. “You cannot travel to an enemy country in the middle of a war.”
“Why not?”
The sneer deepened. “Because…” His narrowed eyes suddenly softened. “Come with me. There is someone I want you to meet.” He led her to an office that occupied the end of a narrow hallway and knocked on the closed door labeled, Traugott von Jagow, Berliner Polizei.
“Come in,” a voice growled.
Griebel entered and then saluted.
The man behind the desk had a thin face and heavy mustache which drooped downward. “What is it, Herr Griebel? You must know I am extremely busy.” He dipped a pen in ink and began writing.
Griebel lowered his arm. “Indeed, sir, but I wanted you to meet the acclaimed Mata Hari.”
Von Jagow paused his scribbling and looked up. His eyes traveled down from the feather atop M’greet’s hat and stopped at her chest. “Wasn’t there a morality complaint filed against you?”
M’greet stepped forward, but before she could protest, Griebel cleared his throat. “We are here because she wants to return to Paris.”
Von Jagow gave a loud “harrumph,” and then continued his writing. “You are not the first person to ask such a question, but we can’t let anyone cross the border into enemy territory at this time. People would think you were a spy.” He abruptly stopped writing and set his pen down. “A courtesan with a flair for seducing powerful men...” He shot a meaningful look at Griebel, who stared at the floor. “And a long-term resident of Paris with admittedly low morals.” He finally met M’greet’s eyes. “We could use a woman like you. I’m forming a network of agents who can provide us information about the goings-on in France.”
M’greet tried to keep the horror from showing on her face. Was this man asking her to be a spy for Germany? “No thank you,” she replied. “As I told Herr Griebel, I have no interest in the war. I just want to get back to Paris.”
Von Jagow crossed his arms and sat back. “And I can help you with that, provided that you agree to work for me.”
She shook her head and spoke in a soft voice. “Thank you, sir, but it seems I’ll have to find a way back on my own.”
“Very well, then.” Von Jagow picked up his pen again. “Good luck.” His voice implied that he wished her just the opposite.
Chapter 2
Marthe
August 1914
Marthe Cnockaert didn’t think anything could spoil this year’s Kermis. People had been arriving in Westrozebeke for days from all over Belgium. She herself had just returned home from her medical studies at Ghent University on holiday and had nearly been overcome by the tediousness of living in her small village again. She gazed around the garland-bedecked Grand Place lined with colorful vendor booths in satisfaction. The rest of Europe may have plunged into war, but Belgium had vowed to remain neutral, and the mayor declared that the annual Kermis would be celebrated just as it had been since the middle ages.
The smell of pie wafted from a booth as Marthe passed by and the bright notes of a hurdy-gurdy were audible over the noise of the crowd. She had just entered the queue for the carousel when she heard someone call, “Marthe!”
She turned at the sound of her name to see Valerie, a girl she had known since primary school. “Marthe, how are you? How is Max?” As usual, Valerie was breathless, as though she had recently run a marathon, but it appeared she’d only just gotten off the carousel.
Marthe refrained from rolling her eyes. “Max is still in Ghent, finishing up his studies.” Valerie had never hidden the fact she’d always had a crush on Marthe’s older brother, even after she’d become betrothed to Nicholas Hoot.
Valerie sighed as she looked around. “There’s nobody here but women, children, and old men. All the boys our age have gone off to war and now there’s no one left to flirt with.”
“Where is Nicholas?”
“He was called to Liége. I suppose you’ve heard that Germany is demanding safe passage through Belgium in order to get to Paris.”
“No.”
Valerie shrugged. “They are saying we might have to join the war if Germany decides to invade. But the good news is some treaty states that England would have to enter on our side if that happened.”
“Join the war?” Marthe was shocked at both the information and the fact that Valerie seemed so nonchalant about it. There were a few beats of silence, broken only by the endless tune from the carousel’s music box, as Marthe pondered this.
“Ah, Marthe, I see you have returned from university.” Meneer Hoot, an old friend of her father’s, and Valerie’s future father-in-law, was nearly shouting, both because he was hard of hearing and because the carousel had started spinning.
“Yes, indeed. I am home for a few weeks before I finish my last year of nursing school,” Marthe answered loudly. “Glad to see you are doing well. How is your wife?”
“Oh, you know. Terrified at the prospect of a German invasion, but aren’t we all?”
Marthe gave him and Valerie a tentative smile as the church bell rang the hour. “I must be getting home to help Mother with dinner.”
Marthe knew something was wrong as soon as she entered the kitchen. “What is it?” she asked, glancing at her father’s somber face.
“It’s the Germans. They have invaded Belgium.”
Marthe fell into her chair. Mother stood in the corner of the room, ironing a cap.
“Belgium has ordered our troops to Liége.” Father sank his head into his hands. “But we could never defend ourselves against those bloody Boches.”
Mother set her iron down and then took a seat at the kitchen table. “What about Max? Will he come home from Ghent?”
Father took his hands away from his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything now.”
“I suppose we should send for him,” Marthe said.
Mother cast a worried glance at Father before nodding at her daughter.
For the first time Marthe could remember, Kermis ended before the typical eight days. That didn’t stop the endless train of people coming into Westrozebeke, however. The newcomers were refugees from villages near Liége and were headed to Ypres, 15 kilometers s
outhwest, where they had been told they could find food and shelter.
Max sent word that he would be traveling in the opposite direction. He was going to Liége, a town on the Belgian/German border that was protected by a series of concrete fortifications. The Germans were supposedly en route there as well. Both Father and Mother were saddened by Max’s decision to enlist in the army, but Marthe understood the circumstances: Belgium must be defended at all costs. She wrote her brother a letter stating the same and urged him to be careful.
As Westrozebeke became a temporary camp, Marthe’s family’s house and barn, like many of the other houses in the village, were quickly packed with the unfortunate evacuees. Soon the news that Liége had fallen came, and not long after, the first of the soldiers who had been cut off from the main Belgian army arrived.
Marthe stood on the porch and watched a few of them straggle through town. Their frayed uniforms were covered in dark splotches, some of it dirt, some of it blood. Their faces were unshaven, their skin filthy, but the worst part was that none of them were Max.
Upon spotting Nicholas Hoot’s downtrodden form, Marthe rushed into the street. “Have you heard from Max?” she asked.
Nicholas met her eyes. His were wide and terrified, holding a record of past horrors, as though he had seen the devil himself. “No.”
“C’mon,” Marthe put his heavy arm over her shoulders. “Let’s get you home.”
Mevrouw Hoot greeted them at the door. “Nicholas, my son.” She hugged his gaunt body before leading him inside.
After his second cup of tea, Nicholas could croak out a few sentences. After a third cup and some biscuits, he was able to relay the horrific conditions the Belgian soldiers had experienced at Liége, especially the burning inferno of Fort de Loncin, which had been hit by a shell from one of the German’s enormous guns, known as Big Bertha. De Loncin had been the last of the twelve forts around Liége to yield to the Boches.
“Do you know what happened to Max?” Marthe asked.
