Six months after our stroll through the Ratsplatz, the general holds up a newspaper at the breakfast table. He reads the headline out loud. “Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, assassinated in Sarajevo.” There’s a new light in his eyes. He is excited about this. “The Austro-Hungarians will blame the Serbs,” he predicts.
“How terrible.” I recall the archduke’s marriage and the outrage it caused—the heir to the Hapsburg throne marrying a lady-in--waiting! It wasn’t as if she had no royal blood at all, but all of Europe was consumed by the scandal. I calculate the dates; their marriage lasted fourteen years. How sad to think of it ending in such tragedy. “Who do you think will raise their children, now that they’re gone?” I muse.
The general stares at me. “What does it matter?” He folds the newspaper and rises from the table. “There’s going to be war, Mata Hari. Focus on what is important.”
After this, he is relentless in mentioning Elsbeth Schragmuller. To appease him, I agree to go to the Palasthotel to meet with her. I dress in red, from my long silk skirt to my wide-brimmed hat. Schragmuller is a short woman; when she recognizes me, she marches across the lobby, and despite her green skirt and simple blouse, she moves like a man, stomping across the marble floor without any grace whatsoever. I feel embarrassed for her and suggest we walk outside, where there will be fewer spectators.
“You are a dancer,” she says.
“Yes. Eastern dance.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit Java,” she discloses, holding my gaze.
Java, not India. I understand by her tone that Elsbeth Schragmuller is telling me she knows my story is false and I put myself on guard. “Is that so? Why?”
“I’m fascinated by Hinduism,” she says. “Such an extraordinary religion. Are you Hindu?” she asks.
Do I believe that life is a cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, governed by Karma? “I don’t know,” I say, unwilling to share myself with her. I do believe in Karma. It’s a Sanskrit word that literally means action. Every action will have an equal reaction. It can happen immediately or at some time in the future. Good actions will create good reactions. Bad actions will bring bad consequences.
“You’ve worn the mask for so long you’re not sure anymore.” Without giving me a chance to respond, she offers, “I’d like to visit Prambanan. Though I doubt I will.” She glances up at me. “The world is changing, Mata Hari.”
“How so?” I decide I will let her do the majority of the talking.
“Look around.” She indicates the men and women leisurely strolling in the gardens. “Are any of these people preparing for the future? Or are they taking a pleasant stroll through life, spending what they earn, living for today, worrying nothing for tomorrow?”
I look at her. “What should they be doing, in your opinion?”
“Peace never lasts, Margaretha.”
Her use of my real name startles me.
“Anyone who reads history knows this. Yet these people act as if the good times are going to last forever. They should be reading. Talking about things that matter.”
I’m curious. “How do you know they aren’t? This is only one activity in their day.”
“Look.” She gestures to a group of men sitting on a bench, talking excitedly. A newspaper is spread out over the lap of the man in the middle. “Horse races,” she says, and I hear the disgust in her voice, the disdain.
“But you’re preparing,” I say cautiously. She has been talking to me about guns, planes, and ships.
“Of course.”
We walk and talk together for some time, although what von Schilling imagines she can teach me I cannot conceive. She enjoys talking about books—especially The Riddle of the Sands. But in the main she talks about this phantom war, while I would rather discuss just about anything else. When I relay her preferred topic to von Schilling, he scolds me.
“What else is more pressing? Mata Hari, when Austria-Hungary declares war on Serbia, Russia will come to Serbia’s aid. Then Germany, as an ally of Austria, must declare war on Russia.”
How can the actions of one crazy man be so significant? I am sure he is mistaken, but von Schilling misinterprets my silence.
“I understand. The implications are sobering. This hasn’t been made public yet. Tomorrow.” He reaches out and pulls me to his chest. “We have until tomorrow to enjoy ourselves.”
He takes me into his bedroom. A chilled bottle of wine is waiting. We drink and he toasts to the future of Germany.
*