The Orphan's Tale

by Pam Jenoff

  Soon the forest breaks to reveal a stream. Willow trees rise from its banks then arch, not quite dipping low enough to break the glass-like surface of murky water. “There,” Astrid says, stopping and gesturing across the slight arc of a wooden footbridge that marks the edge of town.

  “You aren’t coming with me?” I ask, disappointed. It would have been so much easier and more pleasant to go into town together.

  She shakes her head. “Best not to be seen.” I wonder if she is talking about herself or Theo or both. Is she thinking still of the German who had come to the show that first night? But her eyes still look longingly toward the village. “Anyway, someone has to mind Theo,” she reminds me. “You have your papers, yes?”

  “Yes.” I pat my pocket.

  “Be careful.” Her brow furrows as she studies my face. “Speak with no one unless you absolutely must.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” I say, kissing Theo on the head. He reaches out his tiny hand, as if to say: take me with you. More and more each day it is as if a veil has been lifted and he sees the world, understanding.

  A tiny piece of my heart seems to break off then and there as I squeeze his fingers gently. “You should go now if you are going at all,” Astrid nudges. I kiss Theo once more then start toward the base of the hill on which Thiers is situated, and begin to climb the steep path that winds through the half-timber houses with shutters the color of ash set close to the road. Partridges call out to one another from the eaves. The main street is quiet on a Sunday afternoon, with most of the shops closed. A few old women in shawls make their way toward the Romanesque church at the top of the town square. It is the oddest sort of normal—a café with well-coiffed women sipping coffee and nibbling madeleines behind round windows, men playing boules on a grassy patch by the town square. A boy of ten or eleven sells newspapers at the corner.

  The hotel is no more than a large pension, two tall adjoining houses that had been combined by knocking out the wall that had once divided them. I take the key from the proprietor, who seems to know without my saying why I have come. Had he been to one of the shows, or was there something about me now that marked me as circus? I make my way through the tiny lobby, packed thick with guests sitting in chairs and smoking as they lean against the walls. The circus had been lucky to get rooms at all; the hotel is filled with refugees who had fled from Paris at the start of the war or villages farther north that had been destroyed by air raids or fighting. L’Exode, Astrid had called it. Whatever the reason, they had not gone back but stayed for lack of a home or place.

  The second-floor room is narrow and plain, with a poorly made wrought-iron bed and drops of water from the last guest not quite wiped from the basin. I undress quickly, brushing away a bit of the ever-present sawdust from the ring that had somehow found its way beneath my skirt. I pause to study myself naked before the mirror. My body has begun to change from all of the exercise, as Astrid had predicted, hardening in some places and lengthening out in others.

  But it is more than just my physical shape that has been transformed from my time on the trapeze: since we’ve been on the road, I find myself working harder, constantly thinking about the act. For hours after a performance, I feel the air rushing beneath my feet, like a train I cannot get off. I even dream about the trapeze. Sometimes I jerk awake, grasping for a bar that is not there. I am obsessed during my waking hours, too. I’d even crept into the arena in the darkness one night. Though the stands were empty, eyes seemed to follow me from all directions. Only a bit of moonlight peeked in. It was foolish to practice alone without anyone to spot or call for help if I fell. But the hours of training during the day simply were not enough.

  I told Astrid, hoping she would applaud my determination. “You might have been killed,” she spat. Whatever path I choose it is always wrong, too much or not enough. Still, the lure of the harder tricks calls me: if I can just add a pirouette, get a little higher to perhaps manage a somersault. I don’t have to do it. I am keeping up my end of the bargain just by performing. But I find myself wanting more, reaching for it.

  A half hour later I step from the hotel, freshly bathed. I eye the row of shops, tempted for a minute to wander and enjoy. Perhaps despite what Astrid said, there might be a store or two open to find some food. Theo will be waiting for me, though. I turn to go.

  Across the street a young man of eighteen or so with coal-black hair loiters in a doorway. He watches me in a way I’d almost forgotten, that I had felt only one time before. My skin prickles. Once I might have been flattered. But I cannot afford to have anyone notice me now. Does he mean to make trouble? I lower my eyes and hurry past.

  At the corner, a man sells fruit on the back of an upturned crate. I see strawberries for the first time since the war, mottled and too green to be ripe, but strawberries nonetheless. Desire floods my mouth. I imagine Theo’s face as he tastes the unfamiliar sweetness for the first time. I fish in my coat pocket for a coin as I walk toward the crate. After I’ve paid the seller, I put the two strawberries I could afford into my pocket, fighting the urge to eat one now.

  Behind me I hear a snicker. For a second, I wonder if it is the dark-haired man I’d just seen. Instead I turn to find two boys, twelve or thirteen years old, pointing in my direction. I glance around to see what they might be laughing at and then realize that it’s me. I look down at my sheer red skirt with patterned stockings and my low V-necked blouse. I no longer fit in with ordinary people. I raise my hands to cover my chest, my shame rising. On the trapeze I’ve learned how to hide behind the lights and pretend it isn’t me. But here, I feel naked and exposed.

  A woman walks up to the boys, their mother perhaps, and I wait for her to scold them for their rudeness. Instead, she shoos them back, putting them behind her as if to shield them from me. “Keep your distance,” she warns them in French, not bothering to lower her voice. She stares at me as though I might bite. Seeing us in the ring is one thing, an encounter on the street something different entirely.

  “Pardon, that’s quite enough,” a voice says behind me. I turn to find the man who had been watching me a minute earlier. He looks at me oddly and I wait for him to take her side. “The circus performers are our guests in the village,” he says instead. I wonder how he knows I’m from the circus, and then I realize it must be how I am dressed. I take a step back.

  “But look at her,” the woman protests, gesturing in my direction with disgust.

  I flush. Outsiders think of the circus as dark and sexual, Astrid had warned me once. In reality it is the furthest thing from the truth. If anything, life on the road is more strictly run—there is a chaperone in the girls’ tent and a curfew earlier than the one the Germans had set. We are too tired to get up to trouble. Still nosy fans stick their heads in the backyard, trying to get a glimpse of something exotic or untoward. In fact our lives are boringly simple—wake, eat, dress, practice, repeat.

  The woman opens her mouth to speak, but the young man interrupts before she can say a word. “Au revoir, Madam Verrier,” he says dismissively and she turns and walks down the street with a huff.

  “Bonjour,” he says to me when the woman has gone.

  Remembering Astrid’s admonition about not mingling with the townsfolk, I turn to go. “Wait,” he calls. I look back over my shoulder. “I’m sorry that woman was so rude. I’m Lucienne,” he continues, extending his hand. He does not give his last name as people did back home when introducing themselves and I wonder if that is the custom here. “They call me Luc for short.” Closer now, he is taller than I realized. I barely come up to his shoulder.

  I hesitate, then shake his hand lightly. “Enchanté,” he says. Is he mocking me? There is no guile in his face, none of the leering of the other townsfolk.

  “Noa,” I say haltingly.

  “Like the ark,” he remarks. I cock my head. “In the Bible.”

  “Oh yes, of
course,” I reply. From across the street, the boys snicker again, their mother having disappeared into one of the shops and out of earshot. Luc starts toward them, face thunderous. “Don’t,” I say. “You’ll just make it worse. I’m leaving anyway.”

  “That’s too bad,” he says. “Can I walk you?” Without waiting for a response, he takes my arm.

  I jerk away. “Excuse me,” I say. Is it because I’m with the circus that he has the nerve to presume he can do that?

  “I’m sorry. I only meant to help you.” His tone is apologetic. “I should have asked.” He holds out his hand once more. “May I?”

  Why is he being so nice? He is friendly—too friendly. No one is nice just for the sake of it these days, not unless he wants something. The German soldier appears in my mind. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say.

  “A boy walking a girl, what is so wrong with that?” he asks. His eyes meet mine, a challenge.

  “Fine,” I relent, letting him take my arm. He starts walking once more, leading me toward the edge of town. His fingers are warm through my sleeve. He moves quickly with self-assurance, the kind of boy whom I never would have dared speak to back home.

  We cross the footbridge, near the edge of the forest. I stop and pull away, more firmly this time. “I can manage myself.” Letting him walk me out of town is one thing. If he comes any farther with me, though, someone from the circus might see me mingling, as Astrid said I should not. I can almost feel her eyes on me. I turn in the direction of the woods, wondering if she is watching. But I see no one. Still I am not supposed to be here. It has been well more than an hour and she will be waiting for me to practice, perhaps even worrying. “I have to go,” I say firmly.

  He brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, his face a mix of hurt and puzzlement. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” he says and begins to walk away.

  “Wait!” I call out. “Lucienne...”

  “Luc,” he corrects, starting back toward me.

  “Luc.” I roll the name across my tongue. “I need to buy some things.” In my haste to get away from those awful boys and their mother, I had nearly forgotten about finding food for Theo.

  “What sort of things?” Luc asks.

  I see Astrid in my mind, hear her cautioning me not to ask. “Milk, some rice cereal.” I falter, not wanting to reveal the truth about Theo.

  He eyes me evenly. “For yourself?”

  “Yes.” I meet his gaze, not wavering. He is a stranger, not to be trusted.

  “Or for the baby?” he asks. I freeze, panicked. How does he know about Theo? “I saw you holding him in the parade the day the circus arrived.”

  Goose bumps form on my skin. I hadn’t realized he had noticed me. Our lives even outside the ring suddenly seem like a fishbowl. “My little brother,” I manage, praying that he will not suspect otherwise as Astrid had.

  “Don’t you have ration cards?” he presses, seeming to accept my explanation.

  “Yes, of course,” I reply, “but they’re never enough.”

  He looks back over his shoulder toward the town center. “The shops are closed on Sunday,” he says finally. “Perhaps if you come back during the week.”

  “It’s difficult with all of the performances,” I reply carefully. I consider asking him about the black market but do not dare.

  “What do you do with the circus, anyway, tame tigers?” Luc’s tone is chiding.

  For a second I want to tell him that I have been here only a few weeks and am not really part of the circus. But they are my people now. I lift my chin. “Trapeze, actually.” I am proud of how good I’ve become at my new craft, the work I’ve put in to become so. It is lost in translation to noncircus folk like Luc, who still looks simply amused. “You haven’t seen the show, have you?”

  He shakes his head. “Maybe I should,” he says, then smiles. “But only if you’ll meet me afterward. For a coffee,” he adds, to make sure I hadn’t thought he was suggesting something improper. “I’m sure I’ll have questions about the show. What do you say?”

  I falter. He seems nice enough and in another time I might have said yes more easily. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say.

  Disappointment flashes across his face, then vanishes again just as quickly. “I can walk you the rest of the way,” he offers. “In case you see those boys again—or their mother.”

  “It isn’t necessary,” I reply. No good would come from encouraging him. And I do not want any of the circus folk to see me with him—especially Astrid.

  I start down the road before he can offer further, feeling him watch me as I go.

  11

  Astrid

  I watch Noa cross the footbridge. A wave of protectiveness swells in me. Her first time off the fairgrounds. Will she manage it or will her nervousness cause her problems? For a minute I want to go after her and remind her again to be careful and not speak to anyone and a thousand other things. I’d like to go to town and wash properly myself, but after the German nearly recognized me the other night I do not dare risk being seen. I look around warily. The place where I am standing near the edge of the woods is not so very far from town and I don’t want to run into anyone and answer questions about the child—or myself.

  My mind reels back to the previous night’s performance. As I peered into the tent, someone caught my eye. A man in uniform, SS pin glinting on his lapel. Roger von Albrecht. He had been a colleague of my husband’s in Berlin, and had visited our apartment on Rauchstrasse a few times.

  How was it, I wonder now, that of all the towns in Germany and France, Erich’s colleague had come to see our circus at its very first performance, hundreds of miles from Berlin? Such misfortune hardly seems possible. Of course he had not been such a close friend of Erich’s, just an associate we encountered at holiday parties and such. Close enough, though, that he might have recognized me. We had thought by traveling to France we were moving farther from danger. But it looms here just as real.

  I watch as Noa walks toward the town center, shoulders squared. She is nervous, I can tell, going into town for the first time all by herself. But she presses forward. “She really is a good girl, you know,” I say aloud to Theo as I start back for the woods. I can almost feel him nod in agreement. “She loves you very much.” She. What will Theo call Noa when he is old enough to speak? “Mama” seems a betrayal of the woman who gave birth to him and whose heart surely still breaks. But every child should have a chance to call someone his mother. I shift and Theo nestles contentedly into my neck. I have never taken to children, but there is something wiser about him, an old soul. I lift him higher on my hip and begin to sing “Do You Know How Many Stars?” a merry children’s tune that I have not thought of since my childhood:

  Do you know how many little stars are in blue heaven’s tent?

  Do you know how many clouds trail all over the world?

  The Lord God has counted them,

  So that none of them are missing,

  Among this great vast amount.

  I look down at Theo. Has he heard the song before? I wonder about his parents, whether they might have sung it to him. Were they religious Jews or perhaps not observant at all? I switch to “Raisins and Almonds,” a Yiddish lullaby, searching his face for some sign of recognition. He watches me with wide, unblinking eyes.

  It seems so improbable, a Jewish baby finding its way to the circus and to me—another Jew. What were the odds of that happening? But we are not the only ones, I remind myself. I had been with the Circus Neuhoff about a month when I realized I was not the only Jew. I had spotted an unfamiliar man across the dining hall on the side where the workers sat, a slight, quiet laborer with a trim graying beard and a limp who kept to himself. One of the girls said he was a handyman called Metz, good at fixing small things, and so I went to him with my watch, a treasured sixte
enth birthday gift from my father that no longer ran.

  Metz’s workshop was contained in a small shed at the edge of the winter quarters. I knocked and he bade me enter. Inside the air smelled of fresh wood and turpentine. Through a door at the rear, I could see a narrow bed and a washbasin. Small appliances and broken machine engines filled the shelves and covered the floor of the cramped space. Scattered among them were clocks of different sizes and makes, more than a dozen of them. “I was a clockmaker in Prague before the war,” Metz said. I wondered how he had come to be here, but circus folk did not share much of their past. It was always best not to ask. I handed him the watch and he examined it.

  As he opened a drawer to find tools I saw it: a tarnished silver mezuzah. Keeping it could have cost him his life. “Is that yours?” I asked, in spite of myself.

  Metz wavered, perhaps no more knowing of my past than I his. I assumed my Jewish background was not a well-kept secret among the circus folk, but he had come during the years I was gone and perhaps had not heard. He lifted his chin slightly. “Yes.”

  At first I was alarmed: Did Herr Neuhoff know about this other Jew? Of course he did—he was sheltering this man just like me. I should not have been surprised. I had assumed Herr Neuhoff had taken me in only to help the show, and perhaps as a favor to an old family friend. His kind of courage was boundless, though, and he would not have turned away a person in need, whether a star performer or a simple laborer or a child such as Theo with no skills at all. It was not about the circus or family connections, but human decency.

  Herr Neuhoff had not told us of one another, though, perhaps trying to protect us in anonymity. “Beautiful.” I paused. “My father had one just like it.” A silent kinship passed between us.

  But the mezuzah sat in plain sight at the front of the drawer, threatening his safety—and mine. “Perhaps you should be more careful with that.”

  The clockmaker looked at me evenly. “We cannot change who we are. Sooner or later we will all have to face ourselves.”