“Well,” said the stranger, “if they can make a sacrifice like that I think I can give $10,000.”
On the way to the office of Charles R. Crane, the treasurer, the donor was told of an old woman who wrote she had no money, but would give her old paisley shawl—an heirloom which had been in the family many years and had once been her mother’s. He listened also to a letter from the mother of a little girl, 4 years old, who had earned 2 cents sweeping the sidewalk. She wanted to give 1 cent to the Belgian babies and the other to the starving Armenians.
“If other people are willing to give up things,” commented the stranger, “I ought to be willing to do the same. I think that every one ought to help save this old Christian race. I believe I can give $15,000.”
Before he entered the treasurer’s office the stranger seemed to make some mental calculations and when he wrote out his check it read $18,000.00. “Under no circumstances is my name to be made public,” said the stranger, so the treasurer, to keep faith, personally deposited the check in the bank.
When I board the Zeelandia, I am one of four hundred -people. The other passengers walking the gangplank with me seem reserved. Before the war we all would have greeted each other warmly, maybe invited each other to drinks after dinner. But everyone is suspicious now: of traitors, of enemies, of anyone with more. I can sense the other passengers watching me warily. A woman by herself, no husband or even children in tow. What must I look like to them? A widow maybe. The war has certainly made enough of them.
On board, I keep to myself. No one trusts a woman alone. If I speak with a married man, it’s because I’m interested in seducing him. If I chat with a woman, she will want to know about my children. No one is safe, so I sit in my room or on the hard metal chairs of the windy deck and read the papers. It’s gloomy reading. How many soldiers have died in this ridiculous war? How many women and children have starved? I keep reading and reading, but there’s never any answer.
*
When the ship sails into port, I’m the first one down the gangplank. I don’t want to see the bittersweet reunions or the tears of the women returning, widowed, to their mothers’ homes. At dockside, I hail a cab. A freezing bitter wind is blowing and I curse the German soldiers who seized my furs. As we drive down Rue Danton I am shocked: Paris has become a stranger to me. Planes fly overhead, making low, ominous sweeps. I look out the car window and the streets are desolate. The cafés and shops are empty. I see women gathered around papers nailed to posts. Some of them are doubled over, wailing.
“What are they reading?” I ask the driver.
“Names. Those who are crying have sons and husbands who aren’t coming home.”
He passes Boulevard Voltaire. I’m unnerved by the silence of the thoroughfare, by all of the white flowers hung over closed doors. We stop at the entrance to the Grand Hotel. I hand him a generous tip and he carts my remaining luggage, fifteen pieces, into a glittering foyer. Inside the hotel the war doesn’t exist. I allow myself to imagine that Edouard is just around the corner, coming to tell me our rooms are ready. I act lighthearted as I check in and am given a suite on the second floor. But as I stand alone, gazing out over Paris, my heart aches. There’s a radio in my room and I turn it on. It’s all news of the war. I should eat, but I want to find Edouard.
I know I could call, but I want to hear his voice. I want to see his face.
I walk the three blocks from my hotel to his office. In the streets, I see the same patterns again and again on women’s dresses. They’ve been made from sacks. Flour companies have taken to embroidering pretty patterns on their cotton bags so women can turn them into clothes when they are empty. I haven’t purchased a new dress in months, but now I feel wealthy.
I reach Edouard’s office and knock. His secretary answers.
“Mata Hari.” She makes no move to let me inside. “I don’t believe Monsieur Clunet will want to see you,” she says.
“That is not your decision to make,” I reply, affronted. I am ready to say more when she shocks me into silence.
“He is married, madam. He’s a respectable man now and does not require your services anymore.”
She shuts the door and for several moments I can’t breathe. I press my back against the door to keep from sliding to the pavement. Married? It has to be the blonde from Berlin. Pearl Buttons. The thought of them together, living in a house, talking about the war over coffee at breakfast, makes me physically ill.
*
I return directly to the Grand Hotel. I order dinner in bed. I stay in my blue silk robe all the following day. When I hear the bellboy leaving newspapers outside my door, I don’t rise to fetch them. I don’t even turn on the radio for news. I don’t care what’s happening anymore. I stay in bed for days.
After a week, I feel the strength to get up and get dressed.