The Orphan's Tale

by Pam Jenoff

  I open my mouth to protest but no sound comes out. It is the nightmare I have had a dozen times, now come true. Peter lifts his head slowly at the policeman’s summons. Fury burns in his eyes. He sits motionless, but I can see his mind working, calculating what to do. The police eye him warily, but keep their distance, as though facing a strange or dangerous animal. I hold my breath. Part of me wants Peter to fight and resist, even at this most futile of moments. But that will only make things worse.

  What do they want with Peter? I wonder. Why not me?

  Herr Neuhoff steps forward. “Gentlemen, s’il vous plait, what is the issue?” He mops his brow with a stained handkerchief. “I’m sure if we talk it over. Some of my best Bordeaux perhaps...?” He smiles invitingly. More than once he has dissuaded the police from searching the tents with good food and drink he kept for just such a purpose. But the police ignore him, drawing in closer to Peter.

  “What is the charge?” Herr Neuhoff demands, discarding his cordial tone and summoning authority to his voice.

  “Treason,” the captain replies. “Against France and the Reich.” Herr Neuhoff’s eyes shoot uneasily in my direction. He had warned Peter so many times about his act and now he will pay the price.

  But they haven’t taken him yet. Struggle, fight, run, I urge him silently. I look desperately across the field in the direction of the hiding place Peter had so lovingly created for me in his cabin. He’d meant for the small space to hold me, not him. Even if he could fit, though, it is too far away and too late. There is no hiding anymore.

  “Let’s go,” the captain says, but there is no anger in his voice. He is a gray-haired man, probably a year or two from retirement. He thinks he is just doing his job. Beside him, though, a younger officer taps a club against his leg angrily, just wanting the chance to use it.

  Peter’s eyes travel to the club at the same time as mine. At last he unfolds himself and stands. He will not make a scene and risk the consequences for me or the others. He walks toward the police slowly but without protest, his limbs stiff with rage. Through my horror, I feel a tiny flicker of hope. Perhaps this will prove to be not so much worse than the inspections. Herr Neuhoff can bribe the police and have him home by morning.

  Peter nears the police. A sound escapes my throat as one of the policemen puts Peter’s hands in cuffs, whitening his wrists as they cut into the skin and causing my own arms to ache. No one seems to hear.

  Peter stands calmly, offering no resistance. But then the officer with the club reaches up and knocks the top hat off Peter’s head. Surprise and rage seem to break Peter’s face into a thousand pieces. He lunges for the hat. Thrown off-balance by the cuffs on his wrists, he falls sideways to the ground.

  The policeman drags Peter to his feet. His wedding suit is soiled with dirt now and his limbs shake with anger. I know that he will not be held back now. “You won’t have any use for that where you’re going,” the policeman sneers, kicking the hat. The air hangs silent as Peter seems to be thinking of a retort.

  Then he spits in the policeman’s face.

  There is a beat of silence as the policeman stands stunned. Then he lurches forward with a roar, kneeing Peter hard in the groin. “No!” I cry as Peter doubles over in a heap. Though he does not get up, the man kicks him over and over again.

  Say something, I think. Do something. But I am frozen, paralyzed by horror. The man is using his club now, raining blows on Peter’s head and back. My body screams out with pain, feeling each hit as though I had been struck. Peter lies motionless in a ball. “Enough!” the captain says sharply, pulling the younger policeman away. “They want him alive.” Hearing this last part, I am terrified. Who wants him? And for what? “Get him in the truck,” the captain orders.

  Two of the police haul Peter to his feet and start for the truck. He offers no resistance now. I will never leave you, he said just days earlier. He seems aged years, a beaten man.

  But I will not give up. “Wait!” I cry, starting toward him. A policeman grabs the shoulder of my dress as I near, sharp nails cutting into my skin. I push him away, heedless as the fabric tears.

  I reach for Peter’s arm, but he shrugs me off. “Astrid, you can’t come with me,” he says in German, his voice low and terse. A large bump is beginning to form on his forehead where he was struck. “You need to stay here. You need to be safe.”

  “They’ll take you to the village jail. You’ll be back in a few hours,” I say, desperately wanting to believe it. “They’re just trying to scare us, send a warning. Soon you will be back...”

  “There’s no coming back,” he says before I can finish. “And you can’t wait for me here. You must continue on with the show. Do you understand?” His dark eyes seem to burn into me. “Promise me,” he says.

  But I cannot. “Enough!” the policeman who had struck Peter snarls, tearing us apart. I start to lunge at him, wanting to claw his eyes out. “Give me a reason,” he threatens. I pull back. I cannot make things worse for Peter.

  The police begin dragging Peter from the backyard toward an army box truck that has pulled up on the dirt road close to the edge of the big top. There is writing on the side in a Slavic language I do not recognize. A black police car sits in front of it. A driver emerges from the truck in a military uniform and opens the rear doors, revealing two long rows of benches inside. I understand then that it is all ending—he isn’t coming back.

  “No!” I cry, rushing toward the truck.

  Arms grab me from behind, restrain me. It is Noa, though where she has come from, I do not know. She wraps both arms around me. “Think of yourself...and your baby.” She is right. Still I fight against her with all the force of my body, a lion trying to break free from its handler.

  “They’re taking him, Noa,” I say desperately. “We have to stop this.”

  “This isn’t the way to do it,” she replies, her voice firm and low. “You can’t help him if you get arrested, too.”

  She is right, of course. But how can I stand here and do nothing while they take my whole world away? “Do something,” I plead, begging Noa to help me as I have helped her. But she simply holds on to me, as powerless as I am.

  Herr Neuhoff rushes forward once more, face red with anger and desperation. He holds out a small bag in his hand, heavy with coins, likely much of the remaining money the circus has. Giving it would leave us in ruin, but he would do it to save Peter’s life. “Officers, wait,” he begs. Please, God, I pray. Let it work. It is our last hope.

  The captain turns away and I see in his eyes a flash of remorse—which scares me more than anything has. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This is out of my control.”

  My panic redoubles and I break free from Noa’s grasp, racing forward. “Peter!” But it is too late—the police are loading him into the back of the truck and he does not resist. I lunge for the door, my fingers just inches from Peter, nearly grazing him but missing. I turn to the closest policeman. “Take me instead,” I say.

  “Astrid, no!” I hear Noa call from behind me.

  “Take me,” I repeat, ignoring her. “I’m his wife—and a Jew,” I cry, heedless of the danger I am bringing, not just to myself but the entire circus.

  The policeman looks uncertainly toward the captain for guidance.

  “Wait here!” the captain orders. He disappears around the front of the truck to the police car and returns with some papers. “We have no record of a Jew with the circus—and you aren’t listed for transport.” He turns to Peter. “Is it true that she is your wife?”

  “I have no wife.” Peter’s eyes are like stone. I step backward, ripped to the core by his denial.

  “Stand back,” the guard orders, closing the door and separating me and Peter for good. “No!” I cry. I reach for the truck once more. The police pry my fingers from the bumper, flinging me backward so hard I almost stumble. But I run
around the truck and stand in front of it, arms folded. They will have to run me over to leave.

  “Astrid, stop...” I hear Noa again call, her voice sounding so very far away.

  The policeman who had beaten Peter strides toward me. “Step aside,” he barks, raising the club.

  “Astrid, no!” Peter cries with more anguish than I have ever heard, his voice muffled by the glass that now separates us. “For the love of God, move!”

  I do not move.

  The policeman swings his arm downward. I try to step back, but it is too late. The club hits my stomach with a sickening thud. Pain explodes through my midsection and I fall sideways to the ground.

  “Astrid!” Noa cries, closer now, as she rushes to me. She throws her body on top of mine, trying to shield me.

  “Enough!” the captain orders, moving to restrain his subordinate. The policeman does not stop. He swings back his foot and kicks me hard across my side, finding the spot Noa has not managed to cover. Something seems to break loose inside me. I scream, my pain reverberating through the trees.

  Then hearing a growl, I lift my head. Herr Neuhoff marches toward the police, his face deep red with anger as he moves to place himself between us and the guard. “You dare to hit a woman?” I have never seen him so enraged. He draws himself to his full five feet three inches, seeming to grow larger and more resplendent as he faces down the German.

  The police officer raises his truncheon again. Terror surges through me. Herr Neuhoff is an old man; he will never survive such a blow.

  Herr Neuhoff brings his hands to his chest and a look of surprise crosses his face. He crumples to the ground, as though he has been struck. But the guard has not hit him and the truncheon remains in the air.

  Noa races to Herr Neuhoff. I try to stand to go to him, as well. A knife-like pain creases my stomach and I double over once more. I drag myself across the ground to where he lies, as quickly as I can manage. There is cramping low in my stomach now, growing stronger. I feel a dampness inside my skirt, as though I had soiled myself when I was a child. Let it be just the wet ground, I pray.

  I near Herr Neuhoff, whose face is ashen and covered with sweat. “Miriam,” he whispers, and whether he thinks I am his long-gone wife or he is simply remembering her, I cannot say. Noa loosens his collar and he gasps for air.

  A memory flashes through my mind then of playing in the valley between our winter quarters with my brothers when I was a child, sledding downhill in an unbroken sea of white. I had looked up and seen Herr Neuhoff standing on the hilltop. Set against an azure sky, he’d reminded me of the Greek god Zeus atop Mount Olympus. Noticing me, he had smiled. Even then, it seemed, he was watching out for us.

  “Medic!” I cry, but no one, not the police or the guards, moves to aid us. Noa crouches by my side and we watch helplessly as Herr Neuhoff’s eyes go blank and still.

  Below me my skirt is not just damp but wet now, the moisture too warm to be from the ground. Blood. Am I to lose my child, too? The baby, which days ago I was not sure I wanted, is suddenly everything I have in this world. I hold my stomach, clutching it to keep the life inside me from slipping away. Then I start to pray, in a way I have not done since I was a small girl.

  The truck engine revs. I raise up with my hands as it starts forward, belching exhaust down upon us. There is a banging noise, Peter pounding on the glass window, seeing what has happened but powerless to help.

  I reach out as if to touch him. Sharp pain, worse than when the soldier struck me, shoots through my lower stomach. I drop and curl into a ball once more, hugging my knees to my chest.

  Still lying on the ground, I turn my head to look at Peter one last time. Through the window, I see him sobbing openly now. His sorrow cuts through me, more painful than any blow. The eyes that just minutes ago gazed so lovingly at me grow smaller, the lips I kissed in our sacred vow farther away.

  The truck roars and Peter disappears from sight.

  19

  Noa

  “Astrid!” I cry, racing toward her as the rumble of the engine fades in the distance. She does not answer, but lies motionless on the ground, one arm outstretched in the direction the truck has gone.

  As I near, she curls into a ball. “No, no...” Astrid calls out beside me, over and over, clutching her belly and weeping. I sit down beside her and half lift her onto my lap, cradling her like a child.

  Then I turn back toward Herr Neuhoff. There is no sign of a blow. His skin is a deathly shade like ash, though, eyes cast toward the sky. I remember then his cough, his heart condition. Astrid lifts her head, her eyes widening in horror as she takes in Herr Neuhoff’s still body. “We need a doctor,” she says frantically, trying to sit. Then with a moan, she doubles over once more.

  I put my arm around her, unsure whether she really believes we can still help him or just in denial. “He’s gone, Astrid.” I hold her tighter as she sobs. Then with my free hand, I close Herr Neuhoff’s eyes and wipe a bit of mud from his cheek. His face is peaceful, as if he is sleeping soundly.

  Astrid lies pale and weak in my arms. Her hands are clutched tightly against her stomach. The baby, I think with panic. But I do not dare say that aloud.

  A crowd of performers and workers linger a good distance away, watching us. I gesture to one of the men, waving him over. “We need to return Herr Neuhoff to his carriage,” I instruct, forcing some authority into my voice in hopes that he will listen. “Then contact the undertaker...” Astrid turns away, not wanting to hear the details.

  “Astrid, come, let us help you.” I stand and try to raise her up. But she lies on the ground beside Herr Neuhoff, refusing to move, like a dog that has lost its master. “You aren’t doing Peter any good,” I add.

  “Peter is gone,” she says, each word heavy with grief.

  A hand touches my shoulder. I look up to see Luc, holding Theo. When we had reached the fairgrounds and seen the police, I had thrust Theo at Luc and raced to help Astrid. Thankfully, he had the good sense to keep Theo out of sight.

  Luc starts to kneel behind Astrid, as if to help me lift her. But I wave him off; Astrid seeing him will only make things worse. “Come, Astrid,” I plead, straining again to help her to her feet. I start forward with effort, nearly buckling under her weight. Luc follows at a distance, carrying Theo.

  “Why?” I cannot help but ask as we limp toward the train. “Why would they arrest Peter?” When I had first seen the police, I wondered if they had learned of the wedding, which violated the laws of Vichy and the Reich. But if that had been the case, they would have taken Astrid, as well.

  “The act,” she replies flatly. Part of me had already known the answer. They wanted Peter because of the way in which he mocked the Germans in the show.

  We reach the train and I help Astrid into the sleeper car. Though it is late, the carriage is empty, the others still clustered outside talking about everything that had happened. I help Astrid to her berth. “You should rest,” I say as I take off her shoes. She does not reply, but sits stiffly, staring straight ahead. Though I have seen her here dozens of times, she looks strangely out of place. She should be with Peter, celebrating their wedding night. Now that dream is gone. It hardly seems possible.

  I reach back through the door of the train to take Theo from Luc. Then I try to hand Theo to Astrid. Usually he is such a comfort to her, but now she waves him away. “Astrid, we’ll have to make arrangements for Herr Neuhoff,” I begin. “We’ll have to cancel tonight’s show, of course. But by tomorrow we should perform again. Don’t you agree?” I hear a note of pleading in my voice, wanting her to take charge as she always has. She sits motionless, though, her will gone. Tears well up in my eyes and spill over. I want so much to be strong for her but I cannot help it. “Oh, Astrid, I just can’t believe that Herr Neuhoff is gone.” Even though I had known him for only a few months, he was in so ma
ny ways more a father than my own had been.

  “He isn’t the only one,” she replies sharply.

  “Yes, of course,” I reply hastily, wiping my eyes. I have no right to cry in front of her when she has lost so much more. “We mustn’t give up on Peter, though. He’ll be back.” She does not reply.

  Suddenly her face blanches. She lies down, clutching her stomach. Then she turns away to face the wall and lets out a moan. This is not just grief, I realize, but pain. I see it then, a small pool of blood under her, seeping through her skirt onto the sheet. “Oh, Astrid, your baby!” I cry, blurting out her secret in my panic. The stain grows larger even as I watch. “I’ll go into town and find a doctor.”

  She shakes her head with resignation. “There’s nothing to be done,” she replies. “It’s too late.”

  “Someone should check you,” I protest. “Let me fetch Berta at least.”

  “I just want to rest.” How long has she known this was happening?

  “I’m so sorry...” I search for the right words. “I know what it feels like to lose a child.” But my child survived to be born; whether this makes it better or worse I do not know.

  “It’s for the best really,” she says darkly. “I never would have been any good at being a mother.”

  “That isn’t true,” I protest. “I’ve seen you with Theo and I know that isn’t true.”

  “You must admit, I’m hardly the mothering type.” Her eyes do not meet mine.

  “There are all different kinds of mothers,” I say, trying to help but feeling at the same time as though I am just making things worse.