And it was then, only then, after many interrogations at the hands of the man we call "Torquemada de Paris," that you contacted me and I went to visit you at Saint-Lazare. But it was too late; many of the statements given had already implicated you in the eyes of that man who, as half of Paris knew, had been betrayed by his own wife. A man like that, dear Mata Hari, is like a bloodied beast who seeks revenge instead of justice.
Reading your testimonies before my arrival, I saw you were much more interested in showing your importance than in defending your innocence. You spoke of powerful friends, international success, and crowded theaters, when you should have been doing just the opposite, showing you were a victim, a scapegoat for Captain Ladoux, who had used you in his own internal battle with his fellow colleagues to take over the general management of the counterespionage service.
According to what Sister Pauline told me, when you returned to the cell, you cried incessantly and spent sleepless nights in fear of the mice that infested that infamous prison. Nowadays, it's used only to break the spirits of those who thought they were strong--women like you. She said that the shock of it all would drive you mad before the trial. More than once you asked to be admitted, since you were confined to a solitary cell, with no contact with anyone; the prison hospital, with the little resources it had, would at least allow you to talk to someone.
Meanwhile, your accusers were beginning to get desperate, because they had not found anything among your belongings to incriminate you; the most they found was a leather purse with several business cards. Bouchardon ordered that those respectable gentlemen--who for years begged for your attention--be interviewed one by one, and they all denied any more intimate contact with you.
The arguments of the prosecutor, Dr. Mornet, bordered on the pathetic. At one point, in the absence of evidence, he claimed:
"Zelle is the kind of dangerous woman we see nowadays. The ease with which she expresses herself in several languages--especially French--her numerous relations in all areas, her subtle way of worming into social circles, her elegance, her remarkable intelligence, her immorality, all this contributes to her being seen as a potential suspect."
Interestingly, in the end, even Captain Ladoux testified in writing in your favor; he had absolutely nothing to show Torquemada de Paris. And he added:
"It is evident she was at the service of our enemies, but you must prove it and I have nothing with me to confirm this statement. If you want vital evidence for questioning, it is better to go to the Ministry of War, which has such documents. For my part, I am convinced that a person who is able to travel during the time in which we live and has contact with so many officers is already proof enough, even though there is nothing in writing or that is not the sort of argument admitted in war tribunals."
I am so tired, I've entered a state of confusion; I think I am writing this letter to you, that I will deliver it to you and we will still have time together to look back, with wounds healed, and be able to, who knows, wipe all of this from our memory?
But in fact, I am writing this for myself, to convince myself that I did everything possible and imaginable; first by trying to get you out of Saint-Lazare; then by fighting to save your life; and finally having the chance to write a book telling the injustice of which you were victim for the sin of being a woman, for the greater sin of being free, for the immense sin of stripping in public, for the dangerous sin of getting involved with men whose reputations needed to be maintained at any cost. This would only be possible if you disappeared forever from France or the world. There is no use describing here the letters and motions I sent to Bouchardon, my attempts to meet with the consul of the Netherlands, nor the list of Ladoux's errors. When the investigation threatened to come to a halt for lack of evidence, Ladoux informed the military governor of Paris that in his possession were several German telegrams--a total of twenty-one documents--that implicated you to the core. And what did these telegrams say? The truth: that you sought out Ladoux when you arrived in Paris, that you were paid for your work, that you demanded more money, that you had lovers in higher circles, but NOTHING, absolutely nothing, that contains any confidential information on our work or the movement of our troops.
Unfortunately, I could not attend all your conversations with Bouchardon, because the criminal "national security law" was enacted, and at many sessions defense lawyers were not allowed--a legal aberration justified in the name of "national security." But I had friends in high places and heard you questioned Captain Ladoux severely, saying you had believed in his sincerity when he offered you money to work as a double agent and spy for France. At this point, the Germans knew exactly what would happen to you, and they also knew all they could do was jeopardize you further. But unlike what's going on in our country, they had already forgotten agent H21 and were focused on stopping the Allied offensive with what really counts: men, mustard gas, and gunpowder.
I know the reputation of the prison where this morning I will visit you for the last time. A former leper colony, then hospice, it was transformed into a place for detention and execution during the French Revolution. Hygiene is virtually nonexistent, the cells are not ventilated, and diseases spread through the fetid air that has no way of circulating. It is basically inhabited by prostitutes and people whose families pull strings to have them removed from their social lives. It also serves for study by physicians interested in human behavior, despite having already been denounced by one of them:
"These young women are of great interest for medicine and moralists--small defenseless creatures who, because of feuding heirs, are sent here at ages as young as seven or eight years old, under the guise of 'parental correction,' spending their childhoods surrounded by corruption, prostitution, and disease, until, when they are released at eighteen, twenty years old, they no longer have the will to live or return home."
Today, one of your cell mates is what we now call a "fighter for women's rights." And what's worse, a "pacifist," "defeatist," "unpatriotic." The charges against Helene Brion, the prisoner to whom I refer, are very similar to yours: receiving money from Germany, corresponding with soldiers and ammunition manufacturers, leading unions, having control of workers, and publishing underground newspapers stating women have the same rights as men.
Helene's fate will probably be the same as yours, though I have my doubts, because she is a French national with influential friends in the newspapers, and did not use the weapon most condemned by all moralists, the one which makes you a favorite to inhabit Dante's Inferno: seduction. Madame Brion dresses as a man and is proud of it. Furthermore, she was judged treasonous by the First War Council, which has a fairer history than the tribunal headed by Bouchardon.
I fell asleep without realizing. I just looked at the clock and there are only three hours to go before I am at that wretched prison for our final meeting. It is impossible to recount everything that has happened since you were forced to hire me against your will. You thought innocence was enough to extract you from the web of the legal system on which we have always prided ourselves, but that in these times of war has become an aberration of justice.
I went to the window. The city is asleep, except for groups of soldiers coming from all over France, singing on their way toward Gare d'Austerlitz, not knowing what fate awaits them. The rumors do not let anyone get any rest. This morning they said they had pushed the Germans beyond Verdun; in the afternoon some alarmist newspaper said Turkish battalions are disembarking in Belgium and moving toward Strasbourg for the final attack. We go from euphoria to despair several times a day.
It's impossible to tell everything that happened from February 13, 1917, when you were arrested, until today, when you will face the firing squad. We will let history do justice to me, to my work. Perhaps one day history might also do justice to you, though I doubt it. You were not merely a person unjustly accused of espionage, but someone who dared to challenge certain customs. And for that you could not be forgiven.
However, one page will suffice to summarize: They attempted to trace the origin of your money, and then that part was sealed as "secret," because they came to the conclusion that many men in high positions would be implicated. Former lovers, without exception, all denied knowing you. Even the Russian with whom you were in love and for whom you were willing to travel to Vittel despite suspicion and risk appeared with one eye still bandaged and read his deposition text in French, a letter read in court with the sole purpose of humiliating you in public. The boutiques where you used to shop were placed under suspicion, and several newspapers made sure to publish your unpaid debts, although you insisted all along that your "friends" had changed their minds about the gifts they'd given you and disappeared without settling anything.
The judges were forced to listen to things from Bouchardon such as: "In the battle of the sexes, all me
n, no matter their expertise in various arts, are always easily defeated." And he managed to make heard other pearls, such as: "In war, simple contact with a citizen of an enemy country is already suspicious and reprehensible." I wrote to the Dutch consulate asking them to send me some clothes that had been left in The Hague, so you could present yourself with dignity before the court. But to my surprise, despite articles being published fairly often in the newspapers of your country, the government of the Kingdom of the Netherlands was notified of the trial only on the day it began. In any case, it wouldn't have helped; they feared it would affect the "neutrality" of the country.
When I saw you entering the courtroom on July 24, your hair was unkempt and your clothes faded, but your head was held high and you kept a steady pace, as if you had accepted your fate, refusing the public humiliation to which they wanted to subject you. You understood the battle had come to an end, and that all you could do was leave with dignity. Days earlier, Marshal Petain ordered the execution of countless soldiers, all accused of treason because they had refused a frontal assault against German machine guns. The French saw in your stance before the judges a way to challenge those deaths and...
Enough. There is no use dwelling on something that, I'm sure, will haunt me for the rest of my life. I will lament your departure; I will hide my shame for having erred on some obscure point or for thinking that the justice of war is the same as in peacetime. I will carry this cross with me, but I need to stop scratching the site of infection if the wound is to heal.
However, your accusers will bear much heavier crosses. Though today they laugh and shake hands with one another, the day will come when this entire farce is unmasked. Even if that never happens, they know they condemned an innocent person because they needed to distract the people, just the way our revolution, before bringing about equality, fraternity, and liberty, had to put the guillotine in the public square to provide bloody entertainment to those who still lacked bread. They tied one problem to another, thinking that would result in a solution, but all they did was create a heavy chain of indestructible steel, a chain they will have to drag for the rest of their lives.
There is a Greek myth that has always fascinated me, and that--I think--encapsulates your story. Once there was a beautiful princess who was admired and feared by all because she seemed to be too independent. Her name was Psyche.
Desperate his daughter would wind up a spinster, her father appealed to the god Apollo, who decided to solve the problem: She was to go alone, in mourning dress, to the top of a mountain. Before dawn, a serpent would come to marry her. Intriguing, because in your most famous photo, you have this snake on your head.
But back to the myth: The father did what Apollo ordered, and to the top of the mountain she went. Terrified and freezing cold, she went to sleep, certain she would die.
However, the next day she awoke in a beautiful palace, having been turned into a queen. Each night her husband came to meet her, but he demanded she obey one single condition: to fully trust in him and never see his face.
After a few months together, she was in love with him, whose name was Eros. She loved their conversations, found great pleasure in their lovemaking, and was treated with all the respect she deserved. At the same time, she feared being married to a horrible serpent.
One day, no longer able to control her curiosity, she waited for her husband to fall asleep, gently moved the sheet aside, and with the light of a candle saw the face of a man of incredible beauty. But the light awakened him, and realizing his wife had not been able to be true to his only request, Eros disappeared.