He calls the only witness who has agreed to speak on my behalf: Henri de Marguerie. We spent one evening together and haven’t seen each other in more than a decade.
“You’re military?”
“I was a pilot.”
I allow him to continue complimenting me as we cross the dance floor. An orchestra replaces the string quartet and the new musicians strike up a waltz. He tells me about his family in London. I tell him about my time in Bombay. Then the musicians abandon Johann Strauss and begin playing a more scandalizing tune; I learned the accompanying dance my first week in Paris. The handsome aviator raises his eyebrows at me, asking if I’m willing to accept his invitation.
Henri speaks kindly about me but it is apparent that none of the judges are interested in the warm memories of a long-retired aviator who bedded a woman easily at a party, and Mornet makes short work of him.
“Before spending the evening with you did Miss Zelle ask about your military affiliation?”
“I was retired—”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
In no time, it’s Edouard’s turn to deliver a summation and I feel like a passenger on the Titanic.
“Margaretha Zelle, better known to the world as Mata Hari, is one of the most photographed women of our time. Her image has appeared on everything from cigarettes to packages of tea. How can any person in this courtroom today believe that she could be a successful spy for the Germans? What man would trust her with secrets—a dancer, an actress, a courtesan? My client stands on trial today not because of secrets divulged—for we have heard no compelling evidence that she had access to any sensitive information—but rather, for the number of men she’s taken to her bed. Of this, we have heard ample evidence. Can you condemn her for the life she’s chosen to lead, one of financial and moral promiscuity? Yes, but you cannot convict her of treason. Is Margaretha Zelle guilty of making poor decisions? Yes. Is she guilty of seduction? Most certainly. But is she guilty of treason against the nation of France? Absolutely not.”
*
After the judges withdraw, we are instructed to wait. I lean over in my chair and Edouard takes me in his arms. “They’re going to find me guilty,” I predict.
“If that’s the case, we will appeal,” he says. “Immediately.”
I start to weep. “If they deny the appeal?”
“Then we will submit another one,” Edouard whispers into my ear. “Pray for a quick end to this war, M’greet. When it’s over, this country will regain its sanity and everyone will see that the only thing you’re guilty of is being a foolish woman.”
It hurts to hear him call me foolish. But it’s true. I should have married him. I should have left Berlin with him when he asked me to leave. If I had done that simple thing, none of this—none of it—would have happened. Vadime de Massloff never would have loved me; he was a foolish distraction. The weight of this realization hits me hard and I bury my head in his chest. “I love you, Edouard,” I say.
His arms tighten around me. “I love you, too, Margaretha Zelle.”
*
It takes the judges forty minutes to reach a verdict. They file back into the courtroom one by one and refuse to meet my gaze. I decide that I am not going to cry in this room again.
“Margaretha Zelle, also known as M’greet MacLeod, also known as Mata Hari, the judges of this tribunal find you guilty of espionage against the country of France.”
“What shall the sentence of the accused be?” the prosecutor asks.
“The sentence of the accused shall be death by firing squad.”
Chapter 21
What Legacy Can I Leave Her?
Inside the Conciergerie, I’m moved to a new cell: It’s called the Slaughterhouse. Two women join me: one a convicted murderess, the other a young girl also charged with espionage. We rarely speak to one another. Instead, we keep to ourselves and sleep as often as we can, trying to dream away our misery. I can dream while I’m awake now. Today, it is August in The Hague, and the pink azaleas are in bloom. “Tell me about our lives in Java,” I say. “Tell me again.”
“It’s going to be magnificent,” Evert promises, sprawling on the clean cotton sheets. “We’ll buy a house by water so clear you can see to the bottom.”
“And our children?” I feel perfectly safe with him.
“We’re going to have three of them. Two boys and a girl. We’ll name the boys Evert and Hans. And the girl shall be—”
“Not M’greet.” I say, decisive. For the first time I know my future.
“But M’greet’s a lovely name.”
“I like the name Antje.” Our family will be cradled in tropical nights and sands the color of eternity.
He runs his fingers through my hair. “Whatever you wish.”
*
As I sit on my cot I stare at my hands: The fingers painted with henna in Java, the wrists that Guimet’s silver bangles adorned. I look at the arms that held Norman and Non. I study my feet. Someday soon they are going to walk their last. The court hasn’t said when I am going to die. Someone will simply come one morning and take me away. Unless I win an appeal.