The next morning the news is released as promised. Austria--Hungary will have Germany’s help if war is declared. Von Schilling looks alive in a way I’ve never seen before. But he is gone from morning until night. I call Alfred, deciding that I will risk women hissing at me, yet I don’t hear back from him. After a week, a phone call explains why. His family is offering me three hundred thousand marks never to call on him again. The choice is so simple I don’t even think twice. The next evening I take a train to the Potsdamer Platz, and at the Grand Hotel Bellevue, I take tea with the Kiepert family attorney.
We sit across from each other in the pastel-colored room with its pretty lace curtains and finely dressed women. I can hear mothers gently scolding their children and women talking to each other about sewing. A grandmother is bouncing a baby girl on her lap.
“The money?” I say.
The old man pushes a fat envelope across the table at me. I tuck it into my purse. “I’m delighted we could come to such a satisfactory arrangement.”
“My clients are far less delighted,” he says, but his voice isn’t stern. He’s staring at me, trying to divine the secret of my power over Alfred.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But they can rest assured they will never see me again.”
“How will you do it?” he asks. “Force their boy to leave you alone?”
“I’ll let him see me with someone else.”
“He might not be deterred.”
“Don’t tell me,” I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “that you wouldn’t stop chasing a woman on the arm of a crown prince?”
The attorney is impressed. “Is that true?”
I shrug—it could be.
Back at my own apartment, Irving Berlin is playing. I pour myself a drink and count out three hundred thousand marks.
*
I answer a knock on my door, and it’s Edouard. He doesn’t say a word as he moves past me and looks through my window at the people singing in the streets, and the military officers hanging posters urging men to join the army. “We need to leave Berlin and go back to France. Pack your things.”
Even though I have longed to see him, I am surprised at how angry I feel. How many months has he ignored me? “Don’t be ridiculous. I plan to perform—”
“The theaters are going to be closed, M’greet. There is going to be a war. Do you understand? Dangerous things are happening—”
“Do what you like. I’m not leaving Berlin.”
“Jesus. You don’t know what you’re saying, Margaretha.”
“Mata Hari,” I correct him. I look out the window. “It doesn’t matter where we go, Edouard. Germany or France—everyone will be at war. That’s what General von Schilling says.” I’m exaggerating. He hasn’t said a word about France going to war. The idea is preposterous and I wait for him to contradict me.
Instead, his eyes meet mine. “This is serious. We have to go. I’m leaving as soon as possible.”
I don’t want Edouard to leave me alone in Berlin. I look out the window and gesture to the streets below. “It will only last a few weeks.”
“Are you coming with me or no? This isn’t the time for nursing feelings.”
“No. I’m staying in Berlin.”
He walks out, slamming the door behind him.
*
During the days, I hear cheering from the streets. I see women waving red and black flags. The men in their starched uniforms look young and excited. The general arrives to collect me and we are escorted into a long, black convertible. The car rolls along the street and the people begin chanting the general’s name, blowing kisses to him and even to me. Kiepert has been forgotten. Berlin loves me again. I wave back, caught up in the euphoria. There is elation in the air, as if spring has descended and everyone is in love.
*
In August, Germany declares war on Russia and France. The news comes to us over the radio in the general’s apartment. For a moment I feel as if I can’t breathe. I think of Edouard hearing the news in Paris. I think of Non and wonder if she’ll be safe in Amsterdam. Russia and France. The Germans want to battle them both. I express my horror to the general, who’s so still behind his newspaper that at first I believe he isn’t listening.
“Yes, a two-front war,” he says simply. He lowers the paper. “That’s been von Schlieffen’s plan all along.”
Alfred von Schlieffen, the chief of staff of the German army.
“A man named Günther Burstyn, an engineer, makes this possible.” The way the general says this drowns out the sound of everything else around us, even the somber-voiced man on the radio. “He’s invented an armored vehicle with a powerful gun. It will change war.”
“How can a vehicle do that, change war?” It sounds preposterous.
“They’re calling it a tank.”
He pours me more coffee, but I’m not warmed by it. “A tank?”
“It can destroy anything in its path. Imagine that.”
He’s smiling and I’m glad he doesn’t have a wife or children.
*
“What do you mean there isn’t bread? There was bread last week.”
This is the fifth shop we’ve come to this morning, and in each one the story is the same. An abundance of nothing.
“I want an explanation,” von Schilling tells the baker after the man informs us there is no bread.
The man shrugs. “I’m sorry, general. The farmers are on strike.”
“And how long is this situation”—he means the bread—“going to last?”