I followed him blindly, knowing I would be better protected if I mixed with strangers. I soon found myself surrounded by Gypsies and, instinctively, clutched my purse closer to my body. There was fear in their eyes, but they did not seem to give in to it, as though they were accustomed to having to change expressions. Clapping their hands, they had formed a circle, and three women danced in the middle.
"Do you want to dance, too?" asked the man who had brought me there.
I said I had never danced in my life. He insisted, but I explained that, even if I wanted to try, my dress did not allow me freedom of movement. He seemed satisfied, began to clap his hands, and asked me to do the same.
"We are Roma from the Balkans," he said to me. "From what I've heard, that's where the war started. We have to get out of here as soon as possible."
I was going to explain that no, the war hadn't started in the Balkans, and that it was all a pretext to ignite a powder keg that had been ready to explode for many years. But it was better to keep my mouth shut, like Franz recommended.
"...but this war will come to an end," said a woman with black hair and eyes, much prettier than her simple clothes might suggest. "All wars come to an end. Many will profit at the expense of the dead, and, in the meantime, we will keep on traveling far away from the conflicts while the conflicts insist upon pursuing us."
Nearby, a group of children played, as if travel was always an adventure and none of this was important. For them, dragons were in constant battle, and knights fought one another while dressed in steel and armed with large lances. It was a world where, if one boy didn't chase after another, it would be an extremely dull place.
The Gypsy woman who had spoken to me went to them and asked them to quiet down, because they shouldn't be so conspicuous. None of them paid any attention.
A beggar, who seemed to know every passerby on the main street, sang:
The caged bird may sing of freedom, but it will still live in prison.
Thea agreed to live in the cage, then wanted to escape, but no one helped, because no one understood.
I had no idea who Thea was; all I knew was I had to get to the consulate as soon as possible to introduce myself to Karl Kramer, the only person I knew in The Hague. I had spent the night in a third-rate hotel, afraid someone would recognize me and kick me out. The Hague was teeming with people who seemed to be living on another planet. Apparently, news of the war had not yet reached the city, stuck at the border along with thousands of other refugees, deserters, French citizens fearing reprisals, and Belgians fleeing the battlefront, all seemingly waiting for the impossible.
For the first time I was happy to have been born in Leeuwarden and hold a Dutch passport. My Dutch passport had been my salvation. As I waited to be searched--glad not to have any luggage--a man I didn't even get a good look at tossed me an envelope. It was addressed to someone, but the officer in charge of the border saw what had happened. He opened the letter, closed it, and then handed it to me without comment. Immediately thereafter, he called over his German counterpart and pointed toward the man, who had already disappeared into the darkness:
"A deserter."
The German officer ran after him; the war had barely started and already people were beginning to flee? I saw him raise his rifle and point it toward the running figure. I looked the other way when he fired. I want to live the rest of my life believing he managed to escape.
The letter was addressed to a woman and I thought perhaps he was hoping I would put it in the mail when I got to The Hague.
I will get out of here, no matter the price--even if it is my own life--for I might be shot as a deserter if they catch me on the way. It would seem the war is starting now; the first French troops appeared on the other side and were immediately wiped out by a single burst of gunfire fired on the captain's orders. Supposedly, this will all end soon, but even so, there is blood on my hands, and I will never be able to do what I've done a second time; I cannot march with my battalion to Paris, as everyone notes with excitement. I cannot celebrate the victories that await us, because this all seems mad. The more I think, the less I understand what is happening. No one says anything, because I believe no one knows the answer.
Incredible as it may seem, we still have postal service. I could have used it, but from what I've heard, all correspondence passes through censors prior to being sent. This letter is not to say how much I love you--you already know this. Nor is it to speak of the bravery of our soldiers, a fact known throughout Germany. This letter is my last will and testament. I am writing under the same tree where, six months ago, I asked for your hand in marriage and you said yes. We made plans; your parents helped with the trousseau, I looked for a house with an extra room, where we could have our first, long-awaited son. Now I am in the same place after three days spent digging trenches while covered from head to toe in mud and the blood of five or six people I had never seen before, who never did me any harm. They call it a "just war" to protect our dignity, as if a battlefield were any place for that.
The more I watch the first shots and smell the blood of the first casualties, the more I am convinced that human dignity cannot coexist with this. I must end now because they just called for me. But as soon as the sun sets, I am leaving here--for Holland or my death.
I think that with each passing day I will be less able to describe what is happening. Therefore, I prefer to leave here tonight and find a good soul to post this envelope for me.
With all my love,
Jorn
As soon as I arrived in Amsterdam the gods conspired for me to find one of my hairdressers from Paris, wearing a war uniform, on the platform. He was known for his technique for applying henna to women's hair so that the color always looked natural and pleasing to the eye.
"Van Staen!"
He looked toward the sound of my cry; his face was overcome with bewilderment, and, immediately, he started to turn away.
"Maurice, it's me, Mata Hari!"
But he continued to hurry away. I was outraged. A man to whom I'd paid thousands of francs was now running from me? I began walking toward him, and his pace quickened. I quickened mine as well, and he started to run, until a gentleman who had witnessed the whole scene took him by the arm and said, "That woman is calling your name!"
He resigned himself to his fate. He stopped and waited for me to approach. In a low voice, he asked me not to mention his name again.
"What are you doing here?"
He