Snuff

My name is Gertrud Margarete Zelle, and I am a whore. Yes, I sell my body for money, and occasionally I enjoy the experience.

I am also a spy. The French call me an actress, a courtesan, the toast of Paris. The Germans call me Mata Hari.

There was a man once—an exquisite specimen of a man. He was French—hair as black as the raven’s wing, eyes blue as the sea. A sensuous mouth that brought me such pleasure, for he kissed me everywhere.

He was a wonderful lover and I loved him. I did. His name was Julien Trevigne—and I killed him.

Are you shocked that I killed him or that I enjoyed it? You shouldn’t be; it was all in the name of war. Despite the ages and sages, I have discovered one thing: War is exciting and killing is poignant.

I slept with Hitler—that madman. No matter what I have done, I have never questioned that it was for my self-preservation. Until Hitler. He was a veritable quasimodo where women were concerned. But he wanted something from me and I wanted something from him. He wanted me to kill Julien and I wanted to keep my head attached to my shoulders.

So while my lover slept, I lay beside him in the dark thinking of all the different ways I could kill him. I became giddy. I was no novice; I had killed before. But I loved this man—as much as I had ever loved anyone.

This was the reason I felt such heat, such passion, such desire. Excitement engulfed me and I woke him.

“Julien,” I whispered urgently. “Make love to me, Julien. Now.” My body raged under his ministrations and I reached between the mattresses until I felt the cold steel of my dagger. I slowly drew it out until it was clear of the bed. I raised it until it was poised above Julien’s back.

I laughed. “I love you, Julien,” I said as I plunged the knife into his back and twisted it. His eyes bulged, he coughed, and blood spurted out of his mouth onto my naked breast. He choked and twitched before he landed on top of me, still—the stillness of death. I knew my pleasure then, complete, and I gasped.

Julien never knew I was one of Hitler’s own. Julien told me things he should not have. Julien was the leader of a French unit.

Julien was dead by my hand and it was his face that swam before my eyes when the French commandant shouted, “Ready, aim, fire!” and I heard the report of fifteen French rifles that were aimed at me.

©1990 Moriah Jovan

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