The Ringmaster's Daughter: A beautiful and heartbreaking World War 2 love story

by Carly Schabowski

  Giordano reappeared carrying a plate of bread and cheese in one hand, and in the other a jug of coffee with small cups stuffed into the pockets of his breeches.

  ‘You could help, you know,’ he snorted, as he struggled to close the carriage door behind him.

  Jean stood and relieved him of the coffee and plate, and Giordano removed the cups and joined Michel on the floor, crossing his legs as Jean poured him some coffee.

  ‘Did they ask anything?’ Jean asked.

  ‘No,’ Giordano said sulkily.

  ‘They didn’t notice your new suit and that you were taking your breakfast in here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My friend,’ Jean laughed and slapped him on the back, which spilled the man’s coffee once more, ‘you need to stop being so vain!’

  ‘I’m not vain. I just like to look nice.’

  ‘We shouldn’t quarrel; we have a guest. Michel, this is Giordano. He is moody and sulky, but he is also the best man you shall ever meet.’

  With the compliment, Giordano lifted his head and held out his small hand to Michel. ‘I am not moody. Nor sulky. The rest is correct.’

  ‘Eat.’ Jean passed Michel some bread and a slice of cheese.

  The trio ate in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the crispness of the air that whistled through the half-open carriage door, smelling of wildflowers and now and again the scent of water, clean and fresh. As the carriage rocked gently from side to side, Michel felt calm, as if he were a child once more and his mother was rocking him to sleep.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Giordano suddenly asked, slurping his coffee.

  ‘Saint-Émilion,’ Michel said. ‘My grandmother used to live there.’

  ‘And you come from where?’ Giordano asked.

  ‘Paris.’

  ‘Ah, Paris!’ Jean leaned back against a stuffed woven sack. ‘I love Paris. The theatre, the romance, the life on every corner!’

  ‘You come from Paris too?’ Michel asked.

  ‘No. Not Paris. It was not really a home for me. I was the freak – I was the gossip.’

  ‘Me also,’ Giordano said. ‘But my home was in Italy, where the food and wine are far superior, but perhaps the thoughts are the same.’

  ‘Eh! Your food was inspired by the French! You would be nothing without it.’

  ‘You always say this, but how you think it could be true I can’t imagine!’

  ‘Come now, settle down, we have a guest. Although I wager that Michel, as a Frenchman, agrees with me. France is better.’

  Giordano’s face reddened, and he looked to Michel like an overripe tomato about to burst its skins.

  ‘Have you always been in the circus?’ Michel asked, trying to defuse the argument.

  ‘I was eighteen – no, nineteen,’ Giordano began.

  ‘He asked me,’ Jean said. ‘But you can go first.’ He sat back once more against the stuffed sack and waved his hand languidly in the direction of Giordano, giving him permission to continue. Giordano swatted his friend’s hand away, poured himself another cup of coffee and spoke.

  ‘If you know Italy, it is shaped like the boot of a woman. I know this shape very well, not because it is my country but because my mother wore such boots and would kick me with them when I would tumble and fall as a child. My legs, as you see, are not like yours, but though my body is small, the rest of me is just like you – like everyone. But my mother, a woman who had five children – who were, as she said, normal – hated the way I looked, the way I moved and perhaps just who I was.

  ‘Yet, do not despair for me just yet, Michel. I was loved. I was loved by my father and his mother, my grandmother, who gave me everything I needed. My grandmother was the one who saw the opportunity for me to become famous in the circus – what else would I do? My mother laughed. Of course she did, and told me a lion would eat me or an elephant would trample me into the ground. But I did not stop trying. I joined every show, every visiting troupe I could. I learned magic, how to spin plates, how to tame a lion. I learned it ready for the day when it would be my turn. I found my way to this circus like so many others. So many others just like you. By pure accident.’

  ‘Or perhaps by fate?’ Jean said, and Giordano nodded.

  Before Michel could ask either of them what they meant, the door to the carriage burst open, and in front of Michel stood a tall woman in a deep orange corset dress, peacock feathers adorning her long black hair, and – perhaps the strangest thing of all – a glistening curly beard covering her chin and above her top lip.

  ‘Oh my! Who is this? A stowaway?’ the woman cried.

  She did not wait for an answer and strode quickly towards Michel, pulling his head into her bosom for an embrace.

  ‘It is all right now,’ she said. ‘A stowaway. A poor boy. I shall take care of you.’

  ‘He is no boy!’ Giordano laughed. ‘Young, yes. But a man nonetheless. You can’t have him this time, Madame.’

  The woman let go of Michel, who was grateful to breathe air once more – her scent was flowery and spiced, with a hint of natural musk which made Michel’s head swim and dip.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ Madame screwed her eyes into tiny slits as she addressed Giordano, who stood and stretched as if nothing important was happening.

  ‘I am trying to say that you collect things. And this time, you cannot have it.’

  ‘What? What do I collect?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh now, let me think… my peacock feather I brought from Italy, the green gem presented to me on our last night in Venice, or perhaps,’ Giordano’s eyes were wide, ‘the diamond pendant currently around your swollen neck, given to me by a fair aristocratic lady in Versailles as we waved goodbye!’

  ‘How dare you! They are mine! Why would women give you – a man, and a small man at that – jewels and feathers? You are mad. That is what you are. Mad!’

  With that, and before Giordano could take the necklace from her, she stormed off, a fit of tears streaming down her face, tracking through the thick rouge on her cheeks.

  As soon as she departed, Jean-Jacques laughed. He laughed so much that he had to lie on the carriage floor and pound at the rough wooden boards.

  Michel watched as dust filled the air with each of Jean’s thumps, and looked to Giordano for explanation. But Giordano, far from being angry, was laughing too, tears streaming down his face; much like Madame’s, but filled with mirth.

  ‘I don’t understand…’ Michel began.

  ‘They are mine; they are!’ Giordano squealed. ‘But a long time ago I replaced the real stones with fakes. She has glass around her neck. But it amuses us every time, and every time she storms away we imagine this: she sits in her room, and then polishes her precious stones, and thinks she has won – but she has not!’

  Jean controlled himself and sat up once more. ‘You think we’re crazy, yes? Perhaps a little, Michel. We have been on the road together for some years now. We must entertain ourselves. A thief is thwarted but does not know it, giving us a great many tricks and games to play. No one is hurt. No, Madame is happy – she thinks she has nice, real treasures, stolen like a magpie in the night. And we,’ he shrugged, ‘we have some fun, a laugh. What else can we do?’

  Before Michel could answer, Jean held out a hand to pull him to his feet. ‘May as well meet the others. Madame Geneviève would have told them of your existence by now. No need to hide. We will take care of you.’

  As Michel followed the pair to the carriage door, he heard the muffled stamp of a hoof on the floor, the familiar snort and whinny of a spooked stallion preparing to take flight. But before he could move towards the sound, Jean had pulled Michel’s arm through to the next carriage and with a quick sure hand closed the door behind them.

  The carriage they entered was clouded with cigarette smoke that hung below the roof and made the daylight grey. Michel looked at the rows of blurred faces, talking, laughing, not noticing the new arrival.

  Jean moved ahead down the aisle with pur
pose and Giordano followed. Michel hitched his bag over his shoulder and began to follow slowly, yet with each step taking in the faces around him. Here sat three identical young ladies – and yet no, one was male, he realised. All with short blonde hair, blue eyes and elfin features, they sat close as if they were stitched together, and looked and talked to no one but each other. Across from them was a woman with deep auburn hair and a beautiful open face, though there was a slight crease in her brow as she looked at Michel. Michel smiled at her as he passed, and the wrinkle disappeared. The woman smiled back and was ready to speak, when a voice from further down the carriage called out, ‘Odélie!’ and she turned to see who had called her name.

  Odélie. It was a nice name, Michel decided. A name that befitted a woman like her. Michel turned to glance at her again. She caught his eye and winked.

  Michel saw that the next row held a man with a thick grey moustache and wire-rimmed spectacles. He had a brown sack at his feet and a monkey perched on his shoulder. He did not take his gaze away from the window, but the monkey regarded Michel with its coal-black eyes, then stuck out its tiny pink tongue.

  Michel took the seat that Jean offered him, next to the window and opposite the bearded Madame Geneviève and Giordano. Jean sat next to Michel, his large frame pushing Michel close to the carriage wall.

  ‘We have someone new then!’ Madame Geneviève exclaimed, her voice high and rich like an opera singer.

  ‘Not yet,’ Jean said. ‘I have to get approval first.’

  The woman pretended Jean had not spoken. ‘So, what is your talent?’ she asked. ‘A magician? No. A musician? Oh, how I love someone who can play an instrument! Tell me, what is your talent?’

  Seeing the glow of excitement in Madame Geneviève’s eyes, Michel wanted to lie and tell her he did indeed play an instrument – the piano, or perhaps the accordion. But he feared being put to the test. ‘I have no talent, Madame.’

  ‘Oh, you are not to be believed I’m sure!’ Geneviève looked heartbroken.

  Suddenly the monkey appeared and climbed onto Geneviève’s shoulder.

  ‘This is Gino. Say hello, Gino,’ she demanded.

  The monkey stuck its tongue out at her and scampered back to its owner.

  ‘Well, that’s pure rudeness, Kacper, pure rudeness! You should teach him better manners!’ Geneviève turned to reprimand the old man, who now held an accordion in his hands. With the wheezing soon came a flurry of notes, which silenced Geneviève and the rest of the carriage. Then, as if all the notes had now properly arranged themselves, a mellifluous jaunty tune emerged from the accordion with each push and pull. A fiddle joined in, then drumming hands, which kept a steady beat on the wood of the seat rests. Soon, the only person not joining in was Michel, as Geneviève sang, with Jean and Giordano accompanying her in sombre baritones.

  Michel relaxed back into his seat, letting the music envelop him. He looked out of the window, which was now spattered with raindrops, the sun still shining as though reluctant to let the rainclouds win. He watched the drops shiver as the wind blew over them, almost as if they were dancing to the music. He thought of Bertrand, of his apartment, of the life he had left behind. He traced a drop as it made its escape and ran away down the glass.

  Jean-Jacques pulled him out of his reverie. ‘Here, take this.’ He handed him a glass of water and two sweet crackers that were flavoured with lavender and orange, a taste of summer.

  Kacper’s accordion began to slow, and he allowed the fiddle to take over most of the work – a slow, melancholic tune that had everyone nodding quietly, as if they all knew the lyrics but no one dared sing them.

  ‘It’s about love and loss,’ Geneviève said, taking one of the sweet crackers from Michel. ‘It was a French ditty but has spread all over, in so many languages, that there is not now one rendition.’

  ‘I like it,’ Michel said.

  ‘Good.’ Geneviève grinned. ‘I knew you would. I wouldn’t trust a person who didn’t.’

  Geneviève ceased talking as a large man in a red shirt open to his waist, revealing bulging hairy muscles, and tight black trousers covering toned thighs, entered the carriage and stopped in the aisle; his long, black, curled moustache twitching as if it were counting the seconds before he would speak.

  ‘Serge.’ Jean finally acknowledged his presence.

  ‘Who is that?’ The man pointed at Michel.

  ‘This? This is Michel.’

  ‘And why is he here? Does Werner know?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You need to speak to him.’ Serge did not take his eyes off Michel.

  ‘Why should I? I have no doubt you will relay the message before I have a chance.’ Jean said.

  ‘You need to learn your place, Jean.’

  ‘I do?’ Jean got to his feet, towering over Serge who stood his ground.

  ‘Tell him. Or I will.’ Serge turned from them both, his large thighs rubbing together with a swish-swish sound as he walked away.

  Michel heard Serge speak once more, and he turned to look. Serge was talking to a slight man who swayed as they spoke.

  ‘You owe me money,’ the slight man said.

  ‘And you’ll get it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When the boss says so.’

  ‘I want it now.’

  Serge smiled at the man. ‘You’ll get it when you get it.’

  ‘How about I just leave, eh? Everyone’s scarpering. Why don’t I? Who’ll put your tents up? Feed the horses?’

  ‘Then leave.’ Serge’s smile was stuck in place.

  ‘When I get what I’m owed.’ The slight man lit a cigarette, blew the smoke into Serge’s face and laughed.

  Serge grew bigger, outwards and upwards, and then pushed him hard against the carriage doors.

  Within a second everyone had left their seats to either watch or stop the fight. Suddenly, the veil had lifted and the carriage held a drab collection of everyone the world no longer wanted; their colourful costumes hiding their fears, their voices too light, too high, masking who they truly were. The triplets so elfin and sweet now looked like scared, skinny orphans; Odélie, the woman with the auburn hair, seemed much older as she pushed her way towards the fight. Even the monkey was not funny and endearing anymore; he had transformed into a wild animal, jumping from seat to seat, afraid and excited, squealing and screeching at the melee.

  In that moment Michel wanted to leave, yet he could not, as something or someone appeared, changing the kaleidoscope once more, back to the burning colour of light and life, muffling the pitch of voices, silencing the caustic tongues. She had arrived.

  At first, all Michel could see was the top of her head – raven-black shining hair that glowed in the muted light of the carriage. Her presence had stopped the fight and within moments people returned to their seats. Odélie’s face, no longer contorted, was beautiful and young again. Gino the monkey was quiet, and the triplets were now back to being otherworldly. As the crowd dispelled, Michel saw more of the woman. Her forehead, smooth and a light olive tone, then her eyebrows, black as her hair and perfectly arched; underneath, her eyes were green, but not any green Michel had ever seen before. Emerald, he would have called them, but even that did not seem to do them justice. She spoke quick, quiet words to Serge, then surveyed the rest of the troupe. As she did, her eyes stopped for a moment and lingered on Michel’s face. Serge swiped his head to see what she was looking at, and she smiled ever so slightly at Michel, then turned on her heel and beckoned Serge to follow.

  ‘Who is that?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Who?’ Jean did not look at Michel and instead shuffled a deck of cards with quick, expert hands.

  ‘That woman.’

  ‘You should go and see him now,’ Giordano muttered to Jean, taking the cards from him.

  Jean stood and walked in the direction of the next carriage, where the woman with the emerald eyes had taken Serge.

  ‘Is it his wife? That woman?’

  ‘Who? Se
rge’s wife?’ Geneviève smiled over at Michel. ‘Hardly!’

  It felt to Michel that mere seconds passed before Jean reappeared, his face pale. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Jean was suddenly pushed roughly aside as two strong arms lifted Michel from his seat. He heard Madame Geneviève gasp as he was dragged down the aisle, away from the frightened-looking giant and the solemn dwarf.

  Once in the next carriage, a door was opened and the arms, which Michel had realised belonged to Serge, threw him into an opulently decorated parlour.

  Michel scrambled up, steadying himself on a gilt-edged chair.

  ‘A stowaway then?’ a voice said.

  Michel looked around the compartment to find the source of the voice; at the back of the carriage was a compact four-poster bed, thick purple curtains hung around it; nearby stood a rich mahogany writing desk and seat, then the chair Michel was leaning on, and across from that a sofa of the deepest reds and purples, strewn with heavy cushions coloured burgundy and stitched with gold thread.

  ‘You won’t answer me? You come onto my train, infiltrate my troupe, and you won’t answer me, the ringmaster?’ The voice was loud, the person near.

  It was then that Michel realised the voice was coming from the mound of pillows on the sofa. In fact, the voice was the mound of pillows. It moved and shifted towards Michel so he could see now that the sofa’s occupant was dressed in a burgundy jacket and riding breeches, a white shirt unbuttoned to show a red potbelly. The speaker’s face was lined with crimson spidery veins, and Michel was reminded of those clients of Odette’s who drank her cheap wines and beers late into the night.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all Michel could think of to say.

  The man managed to heave himself into a sitting position. His black, twirled moustache rivalled Serge’s for its lustre and movement as he spoke. ‘And what are you sorry for?’

  ‘For being on your train?’

  ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ The man lit a pipe, and as he did the flame illuminated his face, showing Michel cool black eyes under heavy brows and the puffy skin of one who did not often get to bed before late. ‘You woke me from my nap. I do not enjoy being woken from my nap prematurely, do I, Serge?’