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

by Carly Schabowski

  Isabelle looked at her husband, tutted under her breath, then turned to Michel. ‘Wine? Yes? Lucien, pour him some wine. I am making dinner – just chicken, vegetables, nothing like your food in Paris. Tell me. What is it like there now, with everything?’

  ‘With everything?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Take this.’ Lucien handed Michel a glass of deep red. ‘We’ll try the white with dinner. But I want you to taste this. See how good it is compared to the café.’

  Michel sipped. ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Cherries? Strawberries? What do you taste?’

  Michel drank again, sniffed the wine. ‘Strawberries.’

  ‘Very good, very good.’ Lucien sat across from him, satisfied with his guest’s palate.

  ‘Hush now, Lucien. Michel wants to tell me about Paris. Is it true what they say? That the Germans are everywhere now? Taking what they want, even the women and children?’ Isabelle asked, one hand on her heart.

  ‘No, no, Madame. Not yet – they were not there when I left. They were coming, of course, but I don’t know what they will do when they arrive.’

  ‘I do,’ Lucien said, and poured more of the red from a dense green bottle into Michel’s glass.

  ‘Ignore him. He went to war once – once! And he thinks it will be the same.’

  ‘It will be worse,’ Lucien said. ‘If we are to believe what has already happened, what is happening – it will be worse. They target people now; Jews, gypsies, the Poles, the educated, the dark-skinned – anyone they decide isn’t German, just like that.’ Lucien snapped his fingers.

  ‘I had heard—’ Michel began.

  ‘Quiet, now. Both of you. Lucien, get the white. Michel, eat this before we begin; you look pale.’ Isabelle placed a warm bread roll in front of Michel with a knob of crumbly cheese.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Lucien said, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed the last of his wine in one gulp, then stood and placed his coarse hands flat on the table. ‘You think I know nothing, but it is the opposite – I know too much.’

  Isabelle took the seat that Lucien had vacated. ‘Go and find the white,’ she repeated, her voice quieter.

  ‘Is he right?’ she asked Michel.

  ‘I don’t know. I hope he isn’t.’ Michel thought of Bertrand, of Madame Odette.

  ‘I went to Paris twice, you know. The galleries, the cafés, the restaurants – I was in love, Michel. Tell me they will not ruin it? Will it be German now? All their names – those strange names that are harsh on the tongue. Not civilised, not good enough for Paris.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone would dare ruin Paris,’ Michel replied. ‘It is Paris. It will always be Paris.’

  The answer calmed Isabelle, who returned to stirring pans on the stovetop and checking the roasting chicken in the oven.

  ‘White!’ Lucien pronounced, and sat down again, placing the bottle in the middle of the table.

  Michel sipped more slowly now and watched as Lucien drank one, then two glasses.

  ‘Careful now, Lucien,’ Isabelle warned as she placed the hot food between them.

  Michel ate as quickly as Lucien drank, wiping the chicken juice from his chin with the cream napkin that Isabelle handed him. As his stomach filled, his fork slowed, and Isabelle noticed.

  ‘Tell me more about yourself, Michel. Where are you going?’

  ‘None of our business.’ Lucien grinned at her.

  Isabelle leaned back in her chair, taking a small glass of wine for herself. A contented look passed over her face that smoothed the lines on her brow. ‘Tell me more of Paris then.’

  ‘There is not much to tell, Madame. I worked as a horse trainer and then I had to leave. Just like most of Paris have, or will have by now, unless of course they thought they should stay…’

  ‘I dare say no one would choose to stay.’ Isabelle shuddered and pulled her cardigan closer to her.

  ‘Not everyone has somewhere to go,’ Lucien offered. ‘Where would we go, if they come here?’

  ‘They won’t come here. Why would they? What do we have that they would want?’

  ‘They want whatever they can get their hands on. My wine. You know I have started to hoard my wine, my best bottles? Hidden them here and there so if they come, they won’t find them!’ Lucien laughed.

  ‘Indeed, he has hidden them. Hidden them so well, in fact, that he cannot remember where half of them are!’ Isabelle lightly cuffed the back of Lucien’s head.

  ‘How will you get to Saint-Émilion? The nearest train station is in the next town, but I think you may have to go back to Paris to get the connection.’ Lucien lit a pipe and sucked until the fragrant tobacco burned slowly.

  ‘I can’t go back. The stations were full of people trying to get away; packed like animals. I was lucky – a friend helped me to stow away.’

  ‘A stowaway? Ha! I love it. Just like I used to dream of doing as a child,’ Lucien said. ‘When I was bad, which was often, I would pretend to run away. Had a stick with my little handkerchief tied on the end, filled with a toy and a piece of bread. I had the idea to jump on a train and go somewhere new – see wild animals, explore jungles.’

  ‘A train wouldn’t get you to the depths of Africa!’ Isabelle laughed.

  ‘I didn’t know that then. It was a sense of adventure; that outside this little village there was a magical world just waiting for me.’

  ‘Did you ever succeed on your quest?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Never. I once got close to the train tracks and I waited for an hour or so, but nothing came, and I got bored and went home. Papa hadn’t even noticed I had gone!’

  ‘There were wild animals on the train I hid on.’ Michel leaned forward, as did Lucien and Isabelle. ‘I heard a roar – a lion. There were all sorts of people on there too – a giant, a dwarf, a monkey!’

  ‘A monkey! Oh my!’ Isabelle exclaimed.

  ‘He was a tiny monkey; stuck his tongue out at me as I walked past him.’ Michel stuck his own tongue out at the pair, who fell about laughing.

  ‘You are joking, of course,’ Lucien said.

  ‘Not at all. Hand on heart, I am telling you the absolute truth. It was a circus troupe – they even had a bearded woman!’

  ‘Ha! They should employ you, my dear.’ Lucien stroked Isabelle’s chin where a few grey and white hairs stuck out.

  Isabelle swatted his hand away. ‘You’ll pay for that. I’m off to bed. You with your silliness.’

  ‘Ah, come now. I am sorry, my dear!’ Lucien called after her. ‘She’ll be fine, don’t you worry. I’ll buy her a gift tomorrow, and all will be well. She knows I am just joking.’

  Lucien poured the rest of the white wine into Michel’s glass. ‘You told me of the circus people, the train you were on. There is a story I know from my childhood about a great magician, who they say is still alive today.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be possible,’ Michel said, and smiled at Lucien, whose cheeks were a darker hue than the Burgundy he had drunk at the café.

  ‘No! It is true. I saw him myself at a fair, and I tell you now it is true. Listen to me, Michel. His name was… wait, I forget his name, but he was a magician, a wonderful one. He was from Paris, they say, and he joined circuses or fairs and would entrance anyone who paid to see his tricks.’ Then, one day he fell in love with a beautiful young woman who worked at the same fair as him. They became lovers, but she was promised to a merchant who would give her a home and a title. The woman, rather than marry the merchant, threw herself from a bridge, and the magician, angered by his love being taken from him, travelled the world thwarting young love wherever it bloomed. They say he took a different form each time – that was his magic, to appear as someone else, so no one would ever be able to catch him.’

  ‘And you met him?’ Michel asked, yawning, his eyes closing.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And…’ Lucien dropped his voice low, moved closer to Michel. Michel leaned in, awake now.

 
; ‘He was… Isabelle’s father!’ Lucien cackled and slapped his knee with mirth.

  Michel joined in, but mostly from politeness.

  ‘Lucien!’ Isabelle stood in the doorway, her hair in a net, her nightdress glowing white in the darkened room. ‘Enough. Bed.’

  Lucien nodded and followed his wife up the small staircase, Michel behind them. ‘Your room is there.’ Lucien pointed to a door across from theirs.

  ‘Thank you. Goodnight, Lucien.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ Lucien turned to walk away, then said, ‘Michel, you know the story is true. Not that the magician was Isabelle’s father – although he may have been – but it is true. If you fall in love, watch out for him. He is always there, waiting to take it away.’

  ‘Lucien!’ Isabelle shouted.

  ‘Ah, he should have taken this one away.’ Lucien grinned and closed their bedroom door.

  Michel lay in bed, thinking that sleep would come quickly, yet when it did not, he lit the candle on the bedside table and lay back once more, thinking of Lucien’s tale of the magician and the woman he had loved. The candle flickered as the light wind that came from the open window teased it, and Michel watched as the flame danced, taking on the silhouette of a woman that moved and swayed her hips as if entertaining a guest. The shadows on the wall jumped, danced and somersaulted, and Michel imagined them to be the circus troupe – look there: the elongated shadow, that was Jean, and the smaller, grumpier, immovable shadow, that was Giordano. Michel scanned the dancing shadows, looking for the one person he wished to see more than anyone. And there – suddenly, against the cracked plastered wall of the cottage, she flipped mid-air, turning and twisting. There she was. The woman from the train; her emerald eyes gleaming at him. Just as Michel smiled, the wind, sensing the change in mood, blew out the flame, encasing him in darkness.

  The morning woke Michel with its sounds of the country; first the crow of the cockerel, sure and confident as he stood on top of the barn, close to the iron weathervane, and sang his morning tune, hoping that the females would hear him and wonder at his magnificent voice. Next came shouting and swearing from the farmyard as Lucien meandered to the toilet at the bottom of the garden, shooing chickens out of his way and the twin cats who, after a night of hunting, were curling themselves around their master’s legs, asking to be fed before they would sleep the day away.

  Michel lay in his bed, his face to the ceiling, which was covered with the finite tendril-webs of its resident spiders, and let the sounds of the morning wash over him. They were somewhat softer than he was used to in Paris. There, his morning wake-up call was the traffic, both human and vehicular, that arose before dawn had broken, as people shuffled and dragged themselves along the Parisian streets to jobs that required them to be up earlier than most. The baker, the butcher, the café owner – all were up early to prepare for the day’s customers. Michel had always listened to that hustle for half an hour or so before he would rise, wash his face, and meet Bertrand for a coffee before heading to his own job. Now, Michel had nowhere to be, no friendly coffee to welcome him to the day, so he turned onto his side and fell again into a dreamless sleep, whilst the cockerel crowed above him and morning life stirred all around him.

  When Michel woke once more it was because of a nose, wet and cold, pressed against his own, snuffling loudly as if it were checking that Michel was still breathing. He opened his eyes to be greeted by the sight of Coquette. Upon seeing his eyes open, she gave him an enthusiastic lick, welcoming him back to the world.

  Michel laughed and shielded his face, which made her all the more determined to complete her mission of cleaning him.

  ‘That’s enough, leave him!’ Lucien’s voice rang out and she obeyed, trotting to her master’s side, sitting close to his heel.

  Michel sat up.

  ‘She wake you?’

  ‘I heard the cockerel.’

  ‘He is a noisy one. I’m surprised you found sleep again after that.’

  ‘I should be going.’ Michel climbed out of bed and tucked his shirt into his trousers, everything mussed and creased from his travels the day before.

  ‘Take some bread and coffee before you go. Isabelle has it ready. Then be on your way. Try and flag yourself a car if you find someone going in that direction. And, if you can, try to stop at a town. I’ll give you a few francs so you can take some lodgings; you do not want to find yourself outside at nightfall. Not these days.’

  Michel nodded his thanks and Lucien shook his hand. ‘Take care of yourself. Perhaps we will meet again?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Michel said.

  ‘If you need anything, you know where we are now. Just in case no one helps you where you are going.’

  ‘I am forever in your debt, Lucien.’

  ‘Ha, begone with you! Kindness costs nothing. Remember that one. That, and always drink the best wine: anything else will make you ill!’

  Michel said a quick goodbye to Isabelle after breakfasting on bread, pastries and thick rich coffee. She had prepared him a picnic of sorts, as if he were taking a lady for a quiet walk in the country, to spread a blanket under the shady arms of a tree, where they would eat and discuss a happy future together. Lucien tucked their address and some money into Michel’s pocket. ‘Just in case you ever need us.’

  It was a quarter past nine by the time Michel found himself in the small village square once more, the church clock dully chiming whilst the woman from the café decked the two outdoor tables in their chequered cloths.

  ‘You leaving already?’ A chuckle.

  Michel saw the gummy man – Armand – who Lucien had been playing backgammon with, sitting down at one of the café tables, book in hand.

  ‘You’d better be. No visitors here, my friend. Unless of course you are a good Catholic?’ The man waved the brown leather book in the air, and Michel saw the dull gold of a cross on the front. Armand chuckled again, then accepted his small cup of café from the Madame. ‘Only Catholics here, my friend! You see any of those others, you tell the Germans where they are hiding – do your duty, man! You are French. Remember that…’

  The man’s voice faded with each step Michel took, but he imagined that he would never stop – the words of hatred ringing out in the bare village square, bouncing off the quiet walls for no one to hear.

  Five

  Le Cirque Neumann

  That night, in a field which sloped towards a valley of pine trees, Michel lay on his side, the earth warm from the day’s heat, the grass prickly underneath his bare forearm. As the light faded, he ate a sandwich and a boiled egg from the pack Isabelle had given him that morning, his stomach growling as he bit into it. When he could no longer see, he took his winter coat and, wrapping it around him, lay down once more, falling asleep before he could worry about his fate.

  Michel dreamt of the cats that had seen him jump into the river. Their eyes were no longer blue but the deepest black. In his dream he reached for the twinned eyes, trying to coax them near, trying to ask them what they wanted. Saint-Émilion, they whispered. Saint-Émilion. Come to me, they whispered.

  And then he awoke.

  He looked about him; all was calm. The grass was still and heavy under the early morning dew, the sky lightening with every moment – all was as it should be. Michel sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His clothes were damp, and he could feel the chill reaching his bones.

  The dawn brought with it the sounds of waking crows, and blackbirds that squawked as they flew then dived for food, accompanied by the lighter trill of a sparrow or the coo of a wood pigeon. The wind had let up into a gentle breeze that now stirred the leaves into a soft murmur, and the long grass into whistles and squeaks.

  Michel was hungry. Hungry and cold. He pulled his knees to his chest and listened to the morning chorus as it sang sweetly above him, wishing for Odette’s café – for hot coffee and a warm croissant. He took some bread from Isabelle’s parcel and ate it dry, ignoring the ham and cheese in the greaseproof paper – he had to
ration the food.

  From behind the rustle of leaves came a new sound – not new to Michel for he had heard it before, but new to this field, full of blue and pink wildflowers that tipped their heads above the long grass, competing in their height as to who should be the prettiest, the brightest. It was the stomp he knew – a pawing almost, irritable and scared. He closed his eyes to help place it. The clack of wheels, the loud voice of Madame Geneviève – yes! He opened his eyes. The horse, the horse he’d heard on the train – the one he knew had wanted to get away – it was here. As soon as the thought entered his mind, from behind a thicket of blackberry bushes it appeared, a young Friesian stallion with a shining blue-black coat that shimmered with each movement in the daylight.

  Michel stood and watched as the stallion cantered, then trotted and came to a stop a few yards away. It was tired; its nostrils flared and its flank was slick with sweat. The horse bent its head and sniffed at the damp morning grass before he began to pull and chew at it, as if he had not eaten for weeks.

  Michel was in awe of him. The sheer height, perhaps seventeen hands or even more; the gloss of his coat and his strength was something to behold. Certainly Monsieur Abramowski had never had a stallion of this calibre. Michel edged closer, shuffling on his hindquarters, picking at blades of grass with his thumb and forefinger, as if he too were eating. Within a minute or so, he was a few feet away and could hear the rhythmic chomp and grind of the stallion’s teeth as he ate. Suddenly, the stallion noticed him and raised his head. His ears bent back, with one hoof he pawed at the ground as if in warning for Michel not to come any nearer.

  Michel began to hum a tune, a tune that he had mastered over the years; a soothing song that perhaps his mother had sung to him as a baby, but one which he had always used on horses to gain their trust.

  At first the stallion had no interest, snorted at Michel, and took a few steps backwards. Michel sat on the ground and dipped his head, not making eye contact but continuing with his song. The horse soon dipped his own head once more, sensing no threat from Michel. Michel moved closer still, ripping some grass and holding it out in his palm, eventually nudging the stallion’s nose. The horse gently ate the grass from Michel’s hand; the hairs on the silky soft muzzle tickling his palm. He was bedecked in a bridle and reins of rich black leather and gold. No saddle meant no rider, and to Michel that meant this horse was in need of a new master.