by Kit Sergeant
The Paris of war-time was remarkably different from when she had been there last: darker, more depressing. The once-familiar monuments had been hidden by sandbags and the churches’ beautiful stained-glass windows had been bisected by wooden beams to protect them in the case of a German attack. But it was still a world away from her monotonous life in The Hague.
One morning she took a carriage to the Musée national des arts asiatiques, where she had made her debut as Mata Hari. After perusing the large collection of Asian art, she inquired after the museum owner, Émile Guimet, but was told he was away.
She decided she could use some air and sat on a bench outside. The November day was cool but sunny and there were a few people who had emerged from their cocoons to enjoy the weather. Across the Rue Boissière, two men in business suits stood talking. One of them looked familiar and M’greet squinted her eyes against the sun. She could have sworn that the taller man was Harry de Marguérie, an old lover of hers.
M’greet had known Harry since those early days in Paris, right after Rudy had left with Non, when she was dirt poor. A perpetual bachelor, he had been a rising diplomat. He called her Marguérite, a combination of his last name and her own given name, and paid for anything she needed.
Back then she’d been working as a riding instructor and barely paying off her enormous bills when her boss, Ernest Molier, had suggested she take up performing the can-can. M’greet knew that some of Paris’s dancing girls had been able to land rich men as either lovers or husbands. But she was too tall and thick, not to mention untrained, to perform at the ballet or even at the Folies Bergére.
If that were indeed Harry, the years had been kind to him. Even from across the street, M’greet could see traces of the man he’d been ten years ago, when he’d taken her out to dinner and introduced her to the retired singer, Madame Kireyevsky. M’greet had told the Parisian socialite that she’d been born in the Orient, the daughter of a Buddhist priest, skilled in the art of holy worship in the form of dance. Kireyevsky styled herself as a patron of the arts and invited M’greet to show off these sacred dances at her next party.
“Why did you concoct that crazy story about being Buddhist?” Harry had asked in the carriage back to his apartment.
M’greet shrugged. “Why not? Didn’t you see that she fell for it?” She giggled. The wine she had drunk at dinner had obviously hit her hard.
“But you know nothing of these so-called sacred dances.”
“I know enough.” She’d seen many performances when she’d been a bored housewife in Java. “And what I don’t know, I’ll improvise. You musn’t forget all I have experienced, which is worlds more than you have.”
He touched the feather on her hat. “I am older than you.”
“Yes, but it has not been so hard for you. You have yet to realize that life is an illusion.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that what you believe is true one minute becomes a falsehood the next. Loving fathers desert you when times get tough, handsome young officers become heartless brutes the minute you marry them, and,” she forced the sob out of her voice, “perfectly healthy, wonderful sons die without any warning. Then…” she took a deep breath, “said brutes could steal your last living child away from you.”
They arrived at his building in silence. M’greet knew she had broken the cardinal rule for being a Parisian courtesan: remain flirtatious at all times. Although Harry was, as yet, unmarried, he still expected her to act a certain way. Mistresses were supposed to be entertaining, mysterious, and—unlike society wives—remain unburdened by tasks like raising children or running a household.
“So you see...” M’greet faked a light-hearted tone as she exited the carriage, her gloved hand in Harry’s, “life is but an illusion. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Very good point.” He kept her hand as they walked up the steps. “But next time try this one: your father, now deceased, was a British lord, your mother Indian—”
“Why Indian?” she asked as he opened the door to his apartment.
“Because of your dark coloring. Your seductive coloring,” he added, his eyes traveling up her body. “Anyway, you were raised to be a sacred Hindu dancer in a temple on the Ganges.”
M’greet nodded thoughtfully as she sat on his couch. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
They’d consummated their relationship that night. Harry had been a gentle, thoughtful lover. When they had finished, he sat up and reached for a cigarette. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
M’greet took the cigarette from him and drew in a breath of smoke. “Don’t get such a big head—it was no more spectacular than any of the other men I’ve been with.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He bent his head toward her and M’greet held the cigarette to his lips before taking another puff of her own. “Respectable women are not supposed to enjoy sex. Wives use it to make babies, and mistresses use it to hold power over their men.”
He blew smoke out in a perfect ring. “But you do find the act itself pleasing, don’t you?”
“Perhaps.” She put the cigarette out. Her role as a courtesan should have been passive: she was supposed to wait for men to make overtures to her, and never have more than one lover at a time. But, save for those long years when she’d been married, M’greet was never a patient person, and she definitely did not abide by society’s rules. She chose which men to invite to her bed. And while she did enjoy sex to a certain extent, she found the most pleasure in the material things these chosen men provided her after the act was over and in promise of more to come.
Harry and M’greet managed to see a great deal of each other before he left for some appointment in St. Petersburg the day before her big break at Madame Kireyevsky’s. One of the guests that night had been Émile Guimet, who invited the then-styled Lady MacLeod to dance at his museum for an audience of a few hundred people, including the German ambassador. Guimet had also encouraged her to take on a more exotic stage name; hence ‘Mata Hari’ was born. After the performance at the Musée national des arts asiatiques, her star had risen quickly and Harry was soon forgotten.
But there he was now, standing on a street corner outside that same museum. He must have sensed M’greet’s staring because he suddenly looked up.
Chapter 12
Alouette
December 1914
Alouette did not necessarily make any mental preparations before she embarked on the journey toward her new career; instead, she decided to rely on her instincts as an aviatrix to keep her out of trouble. Although Switzerland had declared neutrality at the onset of the war, Ladoux seemed to think the German espionage system was active in Geneva. Hence, Alouette’s destination was the country placed both geographically and politically between Germany and France.
Her heart raced uncontrollably on the train ride to Geneva. She tried to calm it by sitting back in her seat and focusing on the tranquil, snowy landscape passing beyond the windows.
She caught the eyes of the man across from her. Knowing Ladoux would want her to use her youth and beauty to its full advantage, she shot the man a sweet smile. He nodded and then returned his gaze to the newspaper in front of him.
In the early evening, there was a commotion at the front of the cabin. A shiver traveled down Alouette’s spine as she saw that the men boarding the train wore the uniform of the Swiss Army.
“What is happening?” she asked.
“We are about to cross the border,” the man with the newspaper replied.
“May I see your ticket?” an austere officer asked in French as he approached her.
Alouette handed hers over, a coldness spreading through her entire body. It felt as though it took months instead of mere seconds for the Swiss officer to examine her ticket, but to Alouette’s relief, he appeared satisfied when he returned it.
The Swiss officers did much the same to the rest of the passengers, going about their work methodically, with no undue
sense of urgency yet they wasted no time. When the train stopped at Bern, the man across from her folded his newspaper and stood. As he passed Alouette’s seat, he bowed toward her. “I wish you a pleasant journey, Madame Richer.”
Alouette watched him disembark, her mouth open. She had not told him her name, and even if she had, she would have used her maiden name, the one she was traveling under—Betenfeld. Her only conclusion was that the man must be employed by the Deuxiéme Bureau. Ladoux must still suspect her motives and intended for her to know that she would always be under his surveillance. Trust no one, she reminded herself.
As the train continued on to Switzerland, a handsome dark-haired man sat next to Alouette. “You are French, no?” He spoke with a Spanish accent.
“Oui,” she replied.
“I am so very fond of the French,” the man replied. “Are you traveling alone?”
She thought fast for an excuse that would double as a reason for being unattended as well as to keep her distance from the man. “I am meeting my fiancé in Geneva.”
“Oh?” His voice contained a note of disappointment. “I pride myself in knowing quite a few members of Genevan society. What is the name of your intended?”
Alouette narrowed her eyes. She wanted to retort that it was none of his business, but making enemies of fellow passengers would not heed her mission. “Karl Mather,” she replied finally. Karl was the boy that she had traveled to Paris for in her youth, before she’d met Henri. Last she’d heard, he had left for medical school in Switzerland.
“I am not familiar with the man,” the Spaniard replied and Alouette gave an inward sigh of relief.
The train arrived in Geneva a few hours later. To Alouette’s delight, the city contrasted greatly with gloomy, dark Paris. Christmas wreaths and bright paper angels decorated the chalet windows and red ribbons were tied around the street lanterns. The cheery city seemed to be unaware that the rest of Europe was engaged in war.
As Alouette left the train, she asked a passerby to recommend a hotel. Since Switzerland had no official language of its own, Alouette used German, which resulted in him directing her to the Hotel Blumenhaus, which he said was run by a German man.
Alouette had only been in Geneva for a few days when she was awakened by a loud pounding. Her heart raced as she threw on a robe and opened the door.
“Polizei!” a man shouted with a Swiss accent as he and another officer charged into Alouette’s room.
“What is this about?” Alouette asked in German.
“Hand over your papers,” he repeated, louder this time.
Alouette went to her suitcase and fetched her passport. The man scrutinized it and then turned to his companion, a stocky man whose uniform buttons were threatening to burst, and shrugged. The first man turned to Alouette’s suitcase and began tossing its contents onto the floor. Alouette sank down on the bed, wondering what she had done as the stocky man fingered her fine linens and underwear and the other officer searched every square inch of her hotel room.
“What are you looking for?” Alouette asked when she finally found her voice.
Neither man replied but the stocky man picked up Alouette’s passport from the dresser and headed toward the door. The other man commanded her to get dressed.
They were both waiting in the hall when she emerged a few minutes later.
They took her to the police headquarters. An elderly man in the same uniform as her inquisitors demanded to know what she was doing in Switzerland.
She told them how she had come to see her fiancé, Karl Mather, but had discovered on arrival that she could not find his address.
“Why did you leave France?” the elderly man demanded in German.
“The atmosphere there was affecting my health.” She coughed delicately. “I have come here to rest.”
The two officers stood on either side of Alouette. The elderly man asked the stocky man something that Alouette couldn’t discern.
“Nein,” he replied, holding out his hands.
The elderly man handed Alouette her passport back. “Geneva is not a place for the French at present. We’ve caught several belligerents recently crossing the border. Although we’ve found nothing to compromise you thus far, I’m going to give you some advice: go back to your own country.”
Unsettled, Alouette returned to the hotel. Clearly she had made a bad start.
After her close call, Alouette made up her mind to leave Switzerland. Ladoux had been wrong: this was not the country to gain an introduction into the world of espionage.
At dinner the night before she planned to embark, a woman in a well-cut suit sat beside her. “Gerda Nerbutt.” She held out a manicured hand covered with rings, their jewels flashing brightly.
“Alouette Richer.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized she should have used her maiden name.
“You’re French,” Gerda replied in a surprised tone. “What brings you to Switzerland?”
Alouette told her the Karl Mather story in her best woebegone voice. “But as I cannot locate him, I’ve decided it best to return to France.”
“Oh no,” Gerda replied. “You cannot give up so easily!” She broke open a roll and buttered it. “You know what you need?”
Alouette shook her head.
“A holiday! You must be so lonely here in Geneva, wandering about an unfamiliar city, searching in vain for your lover. Why don’t you come on a trip with me? Some friends have invited me to Zurich for the New Year.” She set the butter knife down and gave Alouette a searching look. “That is, if my company isn’t boring you.”
“Oh no,” Alouette dutifully replied. She watched as the older woman took a bite of bread. Gerda was obviously intelligent, and German. Perhaps these friends of hers would have some information that would be useful to Ladoux. At the very least, an impromptu holiday sounded better than returning to France a failure.
Alouette smiled. “That sounds lovely. When do we leave?”
Chapter 13
Marthe
December 1914
Christmas Day 1914 was bright but very cold. With the Oberarzt’s permission, Marthe decorated the bare hospital walls with green paper trees and gold crosses. Mass was offered in the largest ward, and voices from a boys’ choir echoed through the rooms filled with wounded men. The pleasantries of the carol singing were enhanced by the absence of cannon fire—Marthe overheard an orderly say that the soldiers in the trenches must have declared a temporary cease-fire.
The sound of artillery fire could be heard once again the morning after, however, dulled only by the whistle of a train as Marthe passed the station. She always took the same route to work, and, as her daily hours varied little, she noticed the same couldn’t be said about the trains, which arrived and departed at very irregular intervals. One was arriving now, puffing large clouds of black smoke as it pulled in carrying weary soldiers in rumpled uniforms and carts of ammunition from the German line.
Marthe watched the men hustle to unload an enormous gun. The thought occurred to her that an ordnance train such as this one would make a great target for the Allies. One of the soldiers gave her a strange look and she realized she had been caught staring. She hurried along, daring herself to not think such thoughts.
But what if? Marthe thought as she sat down to lunch. What if she could pass on the schedule of an ordnance train to Agent 63? Nonsense, she replied to herself as she chewed on a piece of stale bread. The ordnance train always came at random days and times and she had no way of predicting the arrival of one.
“Fräulein Cnockaert?” the Oberarzt approached her. “Will you be done with lunch soon? We need to send some of our men to another hospital, and I was hoping you would escort them to the train station.”
She couldn’t help her mouth from falling open. It was as if he’d just read her mind. The Oberarzt averted his eyes and she realized she’d just displayed the half-chewed contents of her lunch. She coughed. “Of course, Herr Oberarzt. I was just finishing
.”
“Very well then,” he replied with his usual impersonal politeness. “We are not too busy today, so take your time.”
The day was sunny and unusually warm for December, and, after loading the men on the train, Marthe told the ambulance driver she’d prefer to walk back to the hospital. She thought perhaps she’d be able to pick up some information on the arrival of the next ordnance train.
He replied that he was going to the pub for a quick lunch. “Would you care to join me, fräulein?”
She shook her head, hoping he would blame her denial on her shyness.
He shrugged and headed off as Marthe turned back to the platform. There were no posted time tables anywhere at the depot, no signs, no coded numbers, nothing.
A short man came out of the small train station. From the way he paused to admire the shine of his new field boots in the sunlight, Marthe could only guess he hadn’t held his post for long.
“Ah, fräulein,” he said upon catching sight of her. “You are on nurse duty today?”
“Yes, mein herr.” She had never noticed the little man before and was surprised he recognized her. “I was just enjoying the beautiful weather today.”
“Me too,” he replied. “I am usually very busy, but thought I could spare a few minutes to speak with a lovely lady.” He peered up at her before digging a cigarette case out of his pocket. “Do you smoke?”
Marthe usually didn’t, but she suddenly had an idea. Perhaps, if she could maneuver her way into the inner station offices, she could get a hold of a schedule. “Not in the open, mein herr.”
“My name is Alfred Fischer.” He paused in fiddling with the case. “You will come back to my office for tea and a smoke?”
