by Pam Jenoff
Next comes the high wire. A girl named Yeta stands at the top of a platform, holding aloft a long pole for balance. The act terrifies me even more than the trapeze and I have thanked God several times that Herr Neuhoff had not selected me for that instead of the trapeze. There is a slow adagio in the music, a pause for dramatic value. Then as Yeta steps out on the wire, music thunders and the whole tent seems to shiver.
Yeta’s foot slips and she struggles to regain her balance. Why now, in this act she has practiced and performed dozens of times? She nearly rights herself, then wobbles again, this time too far to recover. There is a collective gasp as she falls through the air screaming, limbs flailing as if trying to swim. “No!” I cry aloud. In her descent, I see the day Astrid had pushed me all over again.
I start forward. We have to help her. But Astrid pulls me back. Yeta lands in the net, which crashes low to the ground. She lies there, not moving. The spectators seem to hold their breath, as if wondering whether to worry or if the fall is just part of the act. Workers rush forward to carry her from the ring, out of sight of the crowd. Watching Yeta’s limp body, I grow terrified. That could happen to me. Yeta is rushed outside to a Peugeot that has pulled up behind the big top. I expected an ambulance, but the workers bundle her in the back of the car and it drives away.
“An accident at the first show of the season,” a voice beside me says, spicy breath warm on my bare shoulder. Though we have never spoken, I recognize the woman with flowing silver hair as Drina, the Gypsy who reads fortunes on the midway before the show and at intermission. “A terrible omen.”
“Nonsense,” Astrid says, waving her hand dismissively. But her face is grave.
“Will Yeta be all right?” I ask, when Drina has gone.
“I don’t know,” Astrid says bluntly. “Even if she lives, she may not perform again.” She made living without the show sound almost worse than dying.
“Do you believe the fortune-teller?” I hear myself asking too many questions. “About a bad omen, I mean.”
“Bah!” Astrid waves her hand. “If she can really see the future, then what is she doing stuck here?” She has a point.
I peer into the tent where the crowd waits uncertainly. Surely the rest of the show will have to be canceled. But the performers stand close, still ready to go on. “Clowns, schnell!” Herr Neuhoff calls, signaling quickly for the next act. The clowns tumble in, pantomiming a city scene. Happy clowns with large shoes and tiny little hats. Musical clowns. Buffoons who mock everything.
Peter seems to fit into none of these. He steps into the ring last, his face white and red with great black lines, eyeing the audience as though they have kept him waiting. Not sad, but a serious clown, his wit acerbic, smiles hard-won. While the other clowns perform a skit in tandem, Peter dances on the periphery, creating a pantomime all his own. He holds the entire chapiteau captive, cajoling, teasing, sensing who is reticent to come along on the journey or perhaps weary and drawing them in. It is as if he wills the audience to please him with their response and applause, when in fact the opposite should be the case. From the darkness in the corner, Astrid watches Peter, eyes rapt.
Herr Neuhoff also watches from the edge of the ring, his face uneasy. I hold my breath, waiting for Peter to launch into the goose-stepping routine Herr Neuhoff had forbidden. Peter has not incorporated the pro-Vichy anthem Herr Neuhoff suggested earlier into his act. But he keeps his performance light, as if sensing that after Yeta’s fall, anything else would be too much.
The clowns are followed by the elephants in their jeweled headpieces, the bear and monkeys in little dresses not unlike my own. The show breaks for intermission and the house lights go up. Patrons make their way back to the midway to stretch their legs and smoke. But the break is not for us. “We’re next,” Astrid informs me. “We must get ready.”
“Astrid, wait...” A giant pit seems to open in my stomach. Until now I had just been a spectator at the show, nearly forgetting the real reason I am here. But to actually step out in front of the crowd...after what happened to Yeta, how can I possibly? “I can’t do this.” My mind is a blur and I’ve forgotten everything.
“Of course you can,” she reassures, placing a hand on my shoulder. “That’s just your nerves.”
“No, I’ve forgotten everything. I’m not ready.” My voice rises with panic. A few of the other performers turn in my direction. One of the acrobats curves her mouth smugly, as if everything she suspected about me has proved true.
Astrid leads me away and then stops, placing one hand on each of my shoulders. “Now, listen to me. You are good. Gifted even. And you have worked hard. Ignore the audience and imagine it is just the two of us back in Darmstadt. You can do this.” She kisses me firmly on each cheek, as if pressing some of her calm and strength into me. Then she turns and starts for the ring.
A bell sounds and the audience returns to their seats. As I peer beyond the curtain at the crowd that waits expectantly, my legs grow heavy. I cannot possibly step out there. “Go,” Astrid growls, pushing me out roughly as the music cues us.
As the houselights dim once more, we scamper into the ring. In the winter quarters, the ladder had been bolted to the wall. But here it dangles from above, scarcely held in place at the bottom. I struggle not to fall as it wobbles. The climb takes longer than I expected and I have only just reached the board when the spotlight rises. It licks the sides of the tent, finds me. And then I am displayed before the crowd. I shiver. Why is it that the clowns can hide behind the oily greasepaint while we stand nearly naked, nothing but a thin slip of nylon separating us from hundreds of eyes?
The music slows, signaling the start of our act. Then there is silence, followed by a drumroll that grows louder, my cue to leap. “Hup!” comes Astrid’s call across the darkness. I am supposed to release right after she says it, but I do not. Astrid swings, waiting for me. In another second it will be too late and the act will be a failure.
With a deep breath, I leap from the board. Suddenly there is nothing beneath my feet but air. Though I have flown dozens of times in the winter quarters, I feel a second of sheer terror, as if it is the first time all over again. I swing higher, pushing fear away and relishing the air as it whooshes around me.
Astrid flies toward me, arms extended. I have to let go at the top of the arc for the trick to work. The catch still terrifies me, though, and more so now than ever after seeing Yeta fall. Astrid had let me fall once before, caused it. Would she do it again?
Our eyes lock. Trust me, she seems to say. I let go and soar through the air. Astrid’s hands clasp mine, swinging me below her for a split second. Relief and excitement surge through me. There is no time to celebrate, though. A second later, Astrid flings me back in the direction I need to go. I force myself to concentrate once more, spinning as she taught me. Then I reach outward, hardly daring to look. Astrid has aligned me perfectly, and the bar falls into my hands and the crowd cheers. I swing up to the board, the world righting itself beneath my feet.
We’ve done it! My heart fills with joy and I am happier than I’ve been since I can remember. The act is not over, though, and Astrid is waiting for me, her face stern, intensity unbroken. We perform the second pass, this time Astrid catching me by my feet. The applause lifts me higher now. Another pass and return, then it is over. For an instant, I am almost more sad than relieved.
I straighten as the spotlight finds me on the board. The audience cheers on and on. For me. They haven’t seen the work Astrid had done as catcher at all. I understand then how hard it was for her to have given up the limelight, the things she has sacrificed to bring me into the act.
The lights go down and Peter prepares to enter the ring once more, this time for a solo performance. Unlike other performers who appear once or twice during the show, he goes on repeatedly between larger acts, a thread tying the whole show together. Now he distracts the crowd with hi
s routine, giving the workers time to finish positioning the lion and tiger cages, which had been brought in through the darkness beneath our act.
Astrid and I climb down and hurry out to the backyard in the semidarkness. “We did it!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around Astrid. I wait for her praise. Surely now she will be pleased with me. But she does not respond and a second later, I step back, dejected.
“You did well,” she says finally. But her tone is understated, and her face is troubled.
“I know I was late on the first pass...” I begin.
“Shh.” She shoos me away, staring into the tent. I follow her gaze to where a man sits in the front row—in an SS uniform. I am suddenly queasy. Surely I would have noticed him if he had been there during the first half of the show. He must have come in during intermission. In my nervousness, I had not seen him.
“I’m sure he is just here to see the show,” I say, wanting to reassure her. But there is no strength behind my words. What on earth is a German officer doing here? His expression is relaxed as he watches the trainer cajole the big cats into doing tricks. “Still you have to warn Peter not to do that bit in his next act...” I stop, realizing she isn’t listening, but still peering rapt through the curtain.
“I know him.” Astrid’s voice is calm, but her skin has gone pale.
“The German?” She nods. “Are you sure?” I ask over the tightening in my throat. “They all look so similar in those awful uniforms.”
“An associate of my husband’s.” Ex-husband, I want to correct, but in the moment it seems unwise.
“You can’t go out there again,” I fret. Though I am done for the show, Astrid has a second act on the Spanish web. My chest tightens. “You must tell Herr Neuhoff.”
“Never!” she spits, sounding more angry than scared now. “I don’t want him to worry about having me in the act. If I cannot perform, I have no value to the show.” And then Herr Neuhoff’s protection would be just charity. She faces me squarely. “It would be the end of me. You must swear not to tell. No one can know.”
“Let me go on for you,” I plead. Of course my offer is hollow—I have no training on the ropes or any other act beyond the trapeze.
I turn and look behind me desperately. Peter, if I can find him, might be able to persuade Astrid not to go on. “Astrid, please wait...” But it is too late—she strides into the ring, shoulders squared with determination. In that moment, I see just how brave she really is. I am awed—and petrified—for her.
Astrid climbs a different ladder from the one she had used earlier. This time she hangs from a single satin rope, seemingly suspended in midair. I hold my breath, studying the officer’s face for some sign of recognition. But he watches her, too mesmerized to suspect. She tells a story, weaves a tapestry with her moves. It holds him—and the entire audience—captivated. I remain terrified, though, unable to breathe. Astrid’s beauty and the legendary skill of her act scream like a bullhorn, threatening to betray her true identity.
“Hidden in plain sight,” Astrid muses over the thundering applause as she exits the tent. There is a note of self-satisfaction to her voice, a part of her that liked deceiving the German. But her hands tremble as she undoes her wraps.
Then it is over. The entire circus steps out for a final bow, the full panoply of spectacle unfurled for the audience to admire once more. I climb the ladder as Astrid had instructed me and we take our final bow from opposing boards, not flying but simply extending one leg high out into the air like ballerinas. Children wave furiously at the sweat-glistening performers, who bow modestly in return, like actors not breaking from their roles.
Afterward some of the performers sign autographs for the crowd that has gathered at the edge of the backyard. I watch nervously as Astrid accepts praise: perhaps she should not be out here. But the German officer does not appear.
At the far end of the yard I see Peter, not signing autographs, but pacing and talking to himself as intently as he had before the beginning of the show. He is going over his performance, finding the mistakes and marking the things he will fix for next time. The circus artists are every bit as intent as a ballet dancer or concert pianist. Every tiny flaw is a gaping wound, even though it had not been noticed by anyone else at all.
When the last program has been signed, we make our way back to the train, past the workers scrubbing down and feeding the animals. “Once there might have been fireworks after the first evening show,” Astrid remarks, staring up at the darkness of the sky.
“But not anymore?” I ask.
“Too expensive,” she replies. “And no one seems to find explosions enjoyable these days.”
Weariness engulfs me then. My bones ache and my skin is chilled with dry sweat. All I want to do is return to Theo and collapse around the sweet warmth of his body. But Astrid cajoles me back to the dressing car, where we hang our costumes and remove our makeup. She rubs warm salve into my shoulders, pine scented and tingly. “I just want to sleep,” I protest, trying to shrug her off.
“Our bodies are all that we have in this business. We must take care of them. You’ll be glad tomorrow,” she promises, her fingers digging hard into my neck. My muscles burn like fire.
“You did beautifully,” Astrid continues, her voice full and sincere, offering the praise I had longed for earlier. My heart seems to skip a beat. “Of course your legs could have been a bit straighter on the second pass,” she adds, bringing me down to earth. Because Astrid will always be Astrid. “We can fix that tomorrow.” Tomorrow, I think, the days of endless practices and shows stretching out before me. “I’m proud of you,” she adds, and I can feel my cheeks flush.
We start from the dressing car toward the sleeper. Then I stop. I am worried still about the German officer who saw her and the possibility that he might realize who she is. Astrid will not tell anyone, but should I? I look in the direction of Peter’s car. He cares for her, I can tell, and would be the best person to keep her safe. If I go to him, though, he will tell Astrid. Herr Neuhoff, I think. I have spoken little to him since arriving at the circus, but he has always been kind. It is his circus. Surely he will know what to do. I see Astrid’s glowering face, hear her voice: No one can know. She will be furious if she finds out I have gone against her. But Herr Neuhoff runs the circus; he is my best hope of keeping Astrid safe.
I desperately want to get to Theo. He will be sleeping, though—and there is something else I must do first. “I forgot something,” I say, turning back in the other direction before she can answer any questions.
* * *
I knock at the door of Herr Neuhoff’s carriage, the last one before the caboose. “Come in,” he calls from inside, and I open the door. I’ve never been here before. Inside, it is pleasantly furnished, a curtain separating the bed and sitting areas. Herr Neuhoff sits at a desk, his girth threatening to topple the rickety chair beneath. He’s taken off the velvet jacket he wore in the ring and opened the collar of his ruffled linen dress shirt, which is now darkened with perspiration. A cigar stub in the ashtray gives off a scorched smell. He is going over the books, head bowed. Running a circus is a huge enterprise that goes beyond the ring or even the winter quarters. He is responsible for everyone’s well-being, paying not just their wages but the rent and food. I see then his weariness and age, and the heaviness of his burden.
He looks up from the ledger in front of him, brow still furrowed. “Yes?” he says, his voice brisk but not unkind.
“Am I interrupting?” I manage.
“No,” he replies, but his voice is flat, eyes more sunken than a few hours ago. “This awful business with Yeta falling. I have to file a report with the authorities.”
“Will she be all right?” I ask, half-afraid of the answer.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I will go to the hospital at first light. But first the authorities have asked for a tax to be p
aid tomorrow. A sin tax, they call it.” As though what we did, providing entertainment, was wrong. “I’m just figuring out where to draw the money from.” He smiles faintly. “The cost of doing business. What can I do for you?”
I waver, not wanting to add to his problems. A small radio plays in the corner of Herr Neuhoff’s carriage. They are contraband now and I hadn’t realized he had one. I notice, too, a neat box of writing paper and envelopes on his desk. Herr Neuhoff follows my gaze. “Do you want to write to your father and let him know you are well?” I have considered it any number of times, wondering what my parents thought had become of me, whether they worried or had written me off completely. What would I say—that I have joined a circus and I have a baby now, so very much like the one taken from me? No, there is nothing about this life that they would understand. And if they knew where I am, part of me would always hope they would come for me—and I would be heartbroken all over again when they did not.
“I could write for you,” he offers. I shake my head. “Then how can I help?”
Before I can explain why I have come, Herr Neuhoff wheezes, his cough deeper and more barking than it had been in the winter quarters. He reaches for a glass of water. When the coughing subsides, he swallows a pill. “Are you all right, sir?” I hope the question is not too forward.
He waves his hand, as though swatting a fly. “A family heart condition. I’ve always had it. The damp spring weather doesn’t help. Now, you needed something?” He pushes for my question, eager to return to the books.
“It’s about Astrid,” I begin hesitantly. Taking a deep breath, I tell him about the German in the front row who knew her.
His face darkens. “I feared something like this might happen sooner or later,” he says. “Thank you for letting me know.” I can tell from his tone I have been dismissed.
