The Orphan's Tale

by Pam Jenoff

  “Yes, sir,” we say, almost in unison. Herr Neuhoff stomps from the practice hall.

  Something passes between Astrid and me in that moment. I had not sold her out. I wait for Astrid to say something.

  But she just walks away.

  I charge after her into the dressing room, my anger rising. Who does she think she is to treat me this way? “How could you?” I demand, too mad to be polite.

  “So go on and leave if things are so awful,” she taunts. I consider the option: maybe I should. There is nothing keeping me here. I’m well and the weather has calmed now, so why not take Theo and make my way to the nearest town in search of ordinary work? Even being on our own with nothing would be better than staying here unwanted. I had done it once; I could do it again.

  But I cannot let this go. “Why?” I demand. “What did I do to you?”

  “Nothing,” Astrid concedes with a sniff. “You had to see exactly what it is to fall.”

  So she had planned this. To do what exactly? Not kill me; she knew that the nets would hold. No, she wanted to scare me so I would give up. I wonder again why Astrid hates me so. Is it just because she thinks I am terrible at the trapeze and will never be able to manage the act? I had done what she wanted and let go. No, it is something more than that. I remember how her eyes blazed with fury moments earlier as she accused me of lying about Theo and my past. Her words echo back at me: How can I work with you if I cannot trust you? If I tell her the truth about my past, she might accept me. Or it could be the final straw that causes her to want me gone once and for all.

  I breathe deeply. “You were right: Theo...he isn’t my brother.” A knowing smile plays about her lips. “But it isn’t what you think,” I add quickly. “He’s Jewish.”

  Her smugness fades. “How did you come to have him?”

  I have no reason to trust her. She hates me. But the story pours forth. “I was working at the train station in Bensheim as a cleaner.” I leave off the part about what had brought me to the station—my own pregnancy. “And one night there was this boxcar. It was full of babies, taken from their parents.” My voice cracks as I see them lying on the cold floor of the boxcar, alone in their last moments. “Theo was one of them.” I continue, explaining how I had taken him and fled.

  When I finish, she stares at me for several seconds, not speaking. “So the story you told Herr Neuhoff was a lie.”

  “Yes. You see now why I couldn’t say anything.” My whole body slumps with relief at having shared at least part of the story with her.

  “You know, Herr Neuhoff, of all people, would understand,” she says.

  “I know, but having not told him from the start... I can’t right now. Please don’t tell him.” I hear the pleading in my own voice.

  “And Theo, you just grabbed him?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction.

  “That was brave,” she says finally. The compliment comes out grudgingly, almost an admission.

  “I should have taken more,” I reply. The sadness that I feel whenever I think of the infants on the train wells up and threatens to burst through. “There were so many other children.” Surely they are all gone now.

  “No, taking more would have attracted attention and you might not have made it as far as you did. But why didn’t you just take the baby and go home?” she asks. “Surely your family would have understood what you had done and helped you.”

  I want to tell her the rest of the story and explain why my parents had been so outraged. But the words stick in my throat. “What I said about my father being awful before was true,” I manage, resorting to that part of the lie once more. “That was why I had left, why I was at the train station in the first place.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She is not very brave.” Another part-truth. “Also, I didn’t want to cause them trouble,” I add. Astrid eyes me evenly and I wait for her to point out that I brought my troubles instead to her and the rest of the circus. I had told her about Theo in hopes that she might be more willing to accept me. But what if the opposite is true?

  Outside the practice hall there is a sudden clattering, a car of some sort screeching to a halt, followed by unfamiliar male voices. I turn to Astrid. “What on earth?” But she has turned and raced through the rear door of the dressing room, the one that leads outside.

  Before I can call after her, the front door to the dressing room flies open and two uniformed men barrel in from the practice hall, followed by Peter. “Officers, I assure you...” I freeze, my legs stone. The first I have seen since coming to Darmstadt, they are not Schutzpolizei as I had seen at the station, but actual Nazi SS. Have they come for me? I had hoped that my disappearance with Theo would have been long forgotten. But it is hard to see what other business they might have with the circus.

  “Fräulein...” One of the men, older and graying at the temples beneath his hat, steps closer. Let them take just me, I pray. Theo is thankfully not here, but well across the winter quarters. If they should see him, though...

  Terrified, I look over my shoulder for Astrid. She will know what to do. I start to go after her. But behind the men, Peter’s eyes flare. He is trying to signal some sort of a caution to me.

  As the officer nears, I brace myself for arrest. But he simply stands too close, leering down the low-cut front of my leotard.

  “We’ve received a report,” the second officer says. Younger by a good ten years, he stands back, looking uncomfortable in the close quarters of the dressing room. “Of a Jew with the circus,” he adds. Terror shoots through me like a knife to the stomach. So they know about Theo after all.

  The men begin to search the dressing room, opening the armoire and peering under the tables. Do they really think we’ve hidden the child there? I prepare myself for the questions that will surely come next. But the officers storm back out to the practice hall. I lean against the dressing room table, in a cold sweat and shaking. I have to get to Theo before they do and run. I start for the door.

  There is a sudden scraping sound beneath my feet. Looking down, I glimpse Astrid. She has somehow gotten below the floorboards into the crawl space. What is she doing down there? I kneel down, assaulted by the smell of sewage and manure. “Astrid, I...”

  “Shh!” She is curled up into a tight ball. Hiding.

  “What are you doing...?” I stop midsentence as the older officer walks in again.

  I straighten, smoothing my skirt and stepping on the crack through which I’d seen Astrid. “Excuse me!” I cry, feigning modesty. “This is the women’s dressing room and I need to change.”

  But the officer continues to stare at the floorboards. Had he seen her? He lifts his head, eyeing me. “Papers?”

  I falter. I’d fled the train station hastily the night I found Theo, leaving my identity card behind. Herr Neuhoff would get me papers, Astrid had promised, before we went on the road, assuming I managed the act. I do not have them yet, though. “I have to go get them,” I bluff without thinking. Peter’s look is approving: yes, draw them away from here, stall for time. I start for the door from the dressing room into the practice hall.

  “Follow her,” he instructs the younger officer, who lingers just outside the doorway.

  My panic worsens: if the men follow me, they will see Theo and ask questions. “Really that isn’t necessary. It will just take a minute.”

  “Fine,” the older man says, “but before you go, I have a few questions.” I freeze, skin prickling. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. “The woman on the trapeze.”

  “I was on the trapeze,” I manage, hoping no one heard the quaver in my voice.

  “Not you. A woman with dark hair.” They must have seen Astrid through the gym window. “Where is she?”

  Before I can answer, Herr Neuhoff rushes in. “Gen
tlemen,” he says, as though greeting old friends. This must not be the first time they have come. “Heil Hitler.” His salute is so authentic that I cringe.

  But the officer does not smile. “Hallo, Fritz.” He addresses Herr Neuhoff too familiarly, his voice lacking any sign of respect. “We are looking for a performer who is reportedly a Jew. Do you have anyone like that here?”

  “No, of course not,” Herr Neuhoff blusters, seeming to almost take offense at the suggestion. “The Circus Neuhoff is German. Jews have been banned from performing.”

  “So you are saying that there are no Jews with this circus? I know they’re good at trickery.”

  “I am a German,” Herr Neuhoff replies. As if that answers everything. “The circus is Judenrein.” Cleansed of Jews. “You know that, gentlemen.”

  “I don’t recall her,” the officer says, pointing his head in my direction. The ground seems to shift beneath me. Does he think I am a Jew?

  “So many new performers each year,” Herr Neuhoff says airily. I hold my breath, waiting for the man to ask further. “Noa joined us this year from the Netherlands. Isn’t she wonderfully Aryan? The Führer’s own ideal.” I admire the skilled way Herr Neuhoff makes the argument, but hate that he has to do so. “Meine Herren, you’ve come so far. Join me up at the villa for some cognac.”

  “We’ll finish our inspection first,” the officer says, undeterred. He flings open the armoire a second time, peers inside. Then he halts, standing just over the spot where Astrid is hiding. I hold my breath, dig my fingernails into my palms. If he looks down, he will surely see her.

  “Come, come,” Herr Neuhoff soothes. “There’s nothing more here to search. Just a quick drink and then you’ll want to be on the road to get back to the city before nightfall.”

  The officers storm from the dressing room, Herr Neuhoff and Peter in tow.

  When they are gone, I sink down into a chair, shaking. Astrid remains silent below the floorboards, still not daring to come out.

  Peter returns a few minutes later. “They’ve gone.” I follow him out the back of the dressing room. Along the edge of the practice hall, hidden behind a wheelbarrow, is the narrowest of cellar doors. He pries it open and helps Astrid from her hiding place. She is pale and covered in bits of hay and manure. “Are you all right?” I see then the way he holds her, a moment’s tenderness. I should leave them alone. But she turns away from him. Her pride is too hurt to let him close.

  I follow them back into the practice hall. I find a cloth and wet it in one of the buckets. “Thank you,” Astrid says as I hand her the cloth. It is the kindest voice I’ve heard her use. Her hands tremble as she wipes the brown muck from her hair and neck.

  I struggle to find the words to ask my many questions. “Astrid, you hid...”

  “A trick from the Great Boldini. He performed with my family years ago in Italy.” She smiles. “Don’t ask me how I did it. A good magician never reveals her secrets.”

  But I am in no mood for jokes. “Oh, Astrid!” I burst into tears. Though she hates me, I cannot help but care. “They almost found you!”

  “They didn’t, though,” she replies, a note of satisfaction in her voice.

  “But why did they want you?” I persist, even though I know my questions are too much for her right now. “Why did you hide?”

  “Darling...” Peter interjects with a note of caution.

  “I can trust her,” Astrid says. I straighten with pride. “She will find out soon enough anyway.” But she bites her lip and studies me, as if still deciding whether to confide in me. “You see, Theo is not the only Jew with the circus. I am also a Jew.”

  I am stunned into silence. I had not imagined that Astrid could be Jewish, though with her dark hair and eyes it made sense.

  I exhale, thanking God in that moment that I had not told her everything about my past and the German soldier. Something had held me back. And it is for the best, because surely if I had she would have thrown me out.

  “I was the youngest of five children in our family’s circus,” she adds. “Our winter quarters were adjacent to Herr Neuhoff’s.” I remember the dark, abandoned house over the hill that Astrid had eyed as we traveled back and forth between the women’s lodge and practice hall. “I’d left it to marry Erich and live in Berlin.” I glance at Peter out of the corner of my eye, wondering if it is hard for him to hear about the man Astrid loved before. “He was a senior officer at Reich headquarters.” A Jew, married to a high-ranking Nazi. I try to imagine what that life had been like for her. I’ve been training alongside Astrid for weeks, feeling as though I had come to know her. But now a whole different person seems to appear before my eyes.

  She continues, “When I came back to Darmstadt, my family had disappeared. Herr Neuhoff took me in. Ingrid is my birth name. We changed it so no one would know.” It’s hard to imagine anyone rejecting her. An image of my father standing at the door to my bedroom ordering me to leave appears in my mind. All of the old pain that I have worked so hard to push aside these many months wells up as fresh and awful as the day it happened.

  “What about your family?” I ask, fearing the answer.

  “Gone.” Her eyes are hollow and sad.

  “You don’t know that,” Peter says gently, placing his arm around her. This time, she does not turn away, but rests her head on his shoulder for comfort.

  “It was winter when I came back and they should have been here,” Astrid says numbly. She shakes her head. “They would not have been able to go far enough to outrun the Germans. No, it is only me. I still see their faces, though.” She lifts her chin. “Don’t pity me,” she says. How could I possibly? She is so strong and beautiful and brave.

  “Does this happen often?” I gesture in the direction in which the police had gone.

  “More than enough. It’s fine, really. There have been inspections from time to time. Sometimes the police come through to make sure we are in compliance with code. Mostly it has just been a shakedown and Herr Neuhoff gives them a few marks to be on their way.”

  Peter shakes his head grimly. “This was different. SS—and they were looking for you.”

  Her face grows somber. “Yes.”

  “We have to go,” Peter says, his face stony. Though I have seen him rehearse, it is impossible to imagine the dark, brooding man bringing levity to a crowd. “Leave Germany.” His words come in staccato bursts, breath urgent. He is thinking of Astrid—she needs to be out of the country, immediately, just as surely as I must get Theo to safety.

  “A few more weeks,” she says, soothing him.

  “Then we’ll be in France,” I offer.

  “You think France is so much better?” Peter demands.

  “It won’t be, really,” Astrid explains, answering for me. “Once we might have found some safety in the Zone Libre. But no more.” In the early years of the war, Vichy had not technically been occupied. But the Germans had all but done away with the puppet regime two years ago, taking control of the rest of the country.

  “I need to go speak with Herr Neuhoff,” Peter says. “Astrid, you’ll be all right?” Though he speaks to Astrid, he looks at me, as if asking me to care for her.

  I hesitate. I am desperate to go check on Theo and make sure the Germans had not seen him. But I cannot leave Astrid alone. “Come,” I urge, reaching out my hand. “I’ve got some questions about what we practiced today and a sore ankle that needs taping.” I make it sound as though I need her help instead.

  “Here,” I say, taking the now-soiled cloth from her once Peter has gone. I return the cloth to the bucket where I had found it, kneeling to rinse it and wring it out. When I straighten, Astrid is staring out the window across the valley. I wonder if she is thinking of the SS coming or her family or both. “Are you all right?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry,” she replies. “What I did to
you was wrong.”

  It takes a moment before I realize she is talking about the trapeze earlier, pushing me. With all that has happened, I had nearly forgotten. “I understand now. You didn’t want me to be afraid.”

  She shakes her head. “Only a fool is not afraid. We need fear to keep our edge. I wanted you to know the worst that would happen so you could be prepared and make sure it does not. My father did the same thing to me—when I was four.” I try to grasp the idea of someone pushing a toddler off a platform forty feet in the air. Anywhere else it would be a crime. But here it was training, accepted.

  “Do you have a trunk?” Astrid asks, changing subjects. I shake my head. I had left Bensheim with nothing and have only the bits of clothing she had gathered for Theo and me. “Well, we’ll have to get you one... That is, if you’ll stay?” There is fear in her eyes and a kind of vulnerability that had not been there before—or perhaps I had not seen it. “We can’t perform on the flying trapeze without a third aerialist. And I must perform.” With the Germans having come, the tables seem to have turned and she is begging me now, needing me for the act in a way I might have not imagined possible. I hesitate, considering my response.

  Later that night, I lie awake. Astrid, who had not gone to Peter for the first night since my arrival, snores beside me. I think about all that she’s been through. We had both been cast out by people we loved, me by my parents, her by her husband. And we both lost our families. Perhaps we are not so very different after all.

  But Astrid is a Jew. I shiver, feeling the danger that is so much worse for her than it is for me. In a thousand years, I would never have imagined it. I reach for her arm, as if checking to make sure she is still here and safe. I suppose I should not have been surprised to learn the truth about her. In wartime we all have a past, don’t we, even a baby like Theo? Everyone needs to hide the truth and reinvent himself in order to survive.

  Unable to sleep, I slip out from beneath Theo and climb from bed. I tiptoe past Astrid and out of the lodge, crossing the field in the cold darkness. The ground beneath my feet crackles, crisp with frost. Inside the practice hall, the air is thick with rosin and dry sweat. I look up at the trapeze. But I do not dare to practice alone.