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

by Carly Schabowski

  The pair continued in this way for over half an hour, with Michel never ceasing his calming song, the stallion not ceasing in his goal to eat.

  As the sun warmed Michel’s back, he took a risk and laid his palm flat on the stallion’s cheek, stroking it gently, whispering soft words in his ear. The horse welcomed Michel and sniffed at his shoulder, allowing Michel to rest his head on his cheek so the two of them would look to an observer to be in a lovers’ embrace.

  Michel slowly stood, all the while talking to the horse, now patting his neck, his flank. He gently took hold of the reins, and the stallion obliged as Michel led him to his sleeping spot, where he packed up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  Michel led the horse slowly down the steep hill until he reached the thicket of trees. He found a rough stump, stood on it, and prepared to mount. At that moment, a deep cry pierced the air, causing the stallion to skitter in fright, ears back and eyes wide. Michel looked up to the hill where, comically, a short man in red breeches and a white shirt that flapped open ran headlong towards Michel, his arms in the air, his voice deep with authority. Michel climbed down from the stump and watched as the man, sweating, rotund, pink as a suckling pig and hairy as one too, came into view. The ringmaster, Werner.

  ‘Le voleur! Le voleur!’ the ringmaster sang, all the while his round thick belly moving side to side as he ran towards Michel.

  Michel waited calmly and stroked the horse’s neck.

  ‘Le voleur!’ The ringmaster was in front of Michel now. Out of breath, he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, drawing in air quickly. ‘Le voleur,’ he gasped.

  ‘I am no thief,’ Michel answered.

  ‘My horse. You stole my horse! Le voleur!’ The ringmaster stood now, hands on hips, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his red face, soaking his twirled moustache.

  ‘I did not know he belonged to anyone.’

  ‘What, you saw no bridle? You are blind?’

  ‘I saw a scared horse. I calmed him,’ Michel said.

  ‘You!’ The ringmaster pointed a finger at Michel. ‘You! I recognise you! Coming onto my train and now stealing my new horse. I knew you were trouble the moment I laid eyes upon you!’

  Michel raise his palms in surrender. ‘I was just trying to calm him. No more. It is what I do, I train horses.’

  Although short, the girth and strength of the ringmaster was plain to Michel; his forearms were taut and large, his neck wide; a man used to getting his way.

  ‘I promise,’ Michel said. ‘I was just trying to calm him.’

  The ringmaster dropped his hand by his side, then with his other, wiped away the sweat that had pooled in his moustache. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me how you did that. Beau does not want to be tamed.’

  ‘I did not say he is tamed, but calmer; that is certain.’

  ‘And what would it take to tame him? For me to do it?’

  ‘I am not sure that you can,’ Michel said.

  ‘Who do you think you are, telling me what I can and cannot do? Un beauf! Eh! I can see from your clothes – poor, no refinement. You think you know more than me?’

  ‘Not at all. All I know is horses; that’s it.’

  ‘Listen to me. I know horses. I know acts, shows, animals. What I don’t know is why a piss-poor lad is plaguing me!’ the ringmaster spat.

  Michel picked up his bag then held the reins out to Werner.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘How long what?’ Michel asked.

  ‘To train him. How long?’

  ‘A week or so.’

  ‘Too long.’ The ringmaster reached into his pocket and pulled out an ivory cigarette holder, into which he inserted a long thin white smoke that he lit with a gold lighter.

  ‘Less than a week if I am with him every day, and all night. He needs to feel safe – secure.’

  ‘You’re not a performer, that’s for sure – the cut of you, with your skinny arms. No use to me really. Not that I’d ever give you the chance anyway. But the horses – perhaps.’

  ‘I’d be grateful for the work.’

  ‘I’m not paying you. Not for this. Trust must be earned. Food. Lodging. You have five days to get Beau ready. That’s it. No more.’

  ‘Five days.’

  ‘If you behave maybe I’ll give you a few more days. If not – you remember Serge?’ He grinned. ‘I’ll tell you now, this is my circus, my troupe, my rules. You are here to sort the horses and that’s it. You are not to annoy the performers; you are not to ask questions. I tell you what to do, and you do it. Understood?’

  The ringmaster walked away. Then he stopped and turned. ‘You coming, then?’ He beckoned.

  Michel took the stallion’s reins and followed this sour red sphere of a man, his thoughts immediately returning to the woman from the train.

  ‘Your name?’ Werner asked.

  ‘Michel.’

  ‘There’s a village not far from here. One of the farmers is a friend of mine and we are setting up in his fields as we speak.’

  Michel followed the line of Werner’s extended arm and waited for him to say more, but he was silent during the walk that took them three more miles to a field which edged around a railway track, a disused train shed and dilapidated platform crumbling and sad in the near distance.

  The red-and-white striped Big Top was already in place, dominating the field and, like a dancer performing on centre stage, it begged to be looked at and admired. Michel felt drawn to it, his gaze only broken by the sight of Serge from the train, his muscles bulging from his white shirt as he leaned against a wooden post and talked to a woman with long legs.

  ‘Over here,’ Werner said, indicating the static train and the wagons.

  Michel followed, the horse at his shoulder, now and again snuffling at his shirt.

  ‘Here. This is his.’ Werner drew open a wagon door and pulled down a ramp. The horse knew what to do and walked dutifully into his wooden home. ‘He’s Beau, my newest. He’s for me – a stallion for a stallion!’ The ringmaster roared at his own joke, his belly sticking out as hard and ripe as a watermelon.

  Werner gathered himself and pulled a pole across the open door. Michel saw Beau eye it as if it were a mere annoyance; it would not keep him inside if he wanted to leave.

  ‘Next door, this is Claudette and Bisou.’ Werner patted the nose of a white mare who received the affection with a low whinny and a nuzzle at her master, and then the nose of the miniature pony, piebald and jittery. ‘Our star horses. Two carriages down, that’s where we keep our working horses; not much to look at, but strong.’

  Michel dropped his bag on the ground and stroked Claudette’s nose.

  ‘We’ll sort you a tent – a small one, mind. Have it put up here, next to the horses. Wait here. I’ll send someone.’

  Michel watched as the ringmaster walked away, barking orders to men in brown trousers who wielded hammers and plunged pegs into the ground to secure the Big Top. Others were putting up smaller canvas tents and makeshift wooden stalls, and setting out large wooden poles atop which lanterns were hung, along with lengths of wires and bulbs to light the way through.

  Michel turned back to the horses, who had now lost interest in their new visitor and pulled and tore at the hanging nets of hay. He sat on the edge of the wagon and waited.

  From far off he saw the sway of a woman walking towards him. His mouth was suddenly dry. Is it her? He squinted in the bright light, then shielded his eyes, seeing, finally, that it was the woman with the auburn hair from the train, not the woman with the emerald eyes who had haunted his dreams.

  ‘You are from the train, right?’ she asked him.

  Michel nodded.

  ‘Werner giving you a chance, then? I’m not surprised, a strong man like you.’ She smiled at him and sat down, crossing her legs so that her skirt rode up just above her knee. She did not smooth it down.

  ‘Want a smoke?’ She shook one from a packet and handed it to Michel, allowing her to light it, he
r long red fingernails clicking at the lighter.

  ‘It’s Odélie, isn’t it?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Since the day I was born. And you are Michel. Michel, the man who can tame wild beasts!’

  ‘Only horses.’

  ‘All the same to me.’ Odélie rested her chin on a cupped hand, her elbow on her bare knee so that Michel had to look. ‘You’ll like it here. Easy money, different people all the time. It’s nice to have new faces, you know?’

  A man in a white shirt and tan trousers walked past, his blond hair neat and smooth, his tanned arms holding a small black box.

  ‘New wireless, Anton?’ Odélie called out.

  ‘It is.’ He stopped in front of them. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Michel,’ Odélie answered for him. ‘Our newest.’

  Anton dipped his head in a welcome.

  ‘Can I borrow it later?’

  ‘Not again. You broke my last one.’

  ‘I did not! I was listening to the music and then suddenly it just stopped working.’

  ‘More like you knocked it over!’

  ‘Either way, Anton, it stopped. That’s all.’

  ‘Buy your own.’

  ‘What do you listen to anyway? I’ve never heard it play anything nice.’

  ‘What’s it to you? You’re not to take it again, Odélie.’

  ‘And what would you do if I did?’ She ground the cigarette out under her bright blue heels.

  ‘Don’t do it. I don’t take anything of yours.’

  ‘You can have anything you want of mine!’ Odélie winked at him, and Anton blushed and walked away.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Odélie laughed and patted Michel on the knee. ‘Only a bit of fun. He gets all embarrassed at everything. You should see what he’s like when we are in our costumes, all tight and our legs out! It’s hilarious.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Anton? He’s trapeze. Strong, lean, beautiful to watch. But, like I said, shy and a bit of a loner. You’ll not get him as your friend.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of trying. The ringmaster says I’m to concentrate on my work and keep to myself.’

  ‘Werner? He says that to all the workers. Doesn’t like them being too friendly with the talent – says it distracts us.’

  ‘And are you talent?’

  ‘Is it not obvious?’ Odélie stood and pirouetted in front of him. ‘I am the lead acrobat; Werner did not mention me? No, of course not. He’s in love with the triplets at the moment and I, alas, am out of favour for now. But not for long. Have you met our triplets? Strange creatures.’

  ‘Michel! You’re here! I thought it was not true. But here you are.’ The long figure of Jean-Jacques loomed in front of him and Odélie turned, a crease of annoyance on her brow.

  Michel stood and allowed Jean to pull him into an embrace.

  ‘I am so sorry for what happened – it was my fault.’

  ‘It really wasn’t you.’

  ‘Ah, you are too kind.’ Jean-Jacques bowed as if asking Michel for a dance. ‘But I should have left you hidden. I had thought that perhaps a quiet word with Werner after his breakfast would have worked; but Serge beat me to it.’

  ‘You certainly know how to make an entrance, Jean.’ Odélie stalked away.

  Michel watched as she went; the swing of her hips, the sway of her hair.

  ‘Be careful there.’ Jean-Jacques followed his gaze. ‘She’s a tough one.’

  ‘Werner said I was to have a tent?’

  ‘Giordano is on his way with it.’

  ‘And you are here to help put it up?’ Michel grinned.

  ‘I’ll supervise.’

  The following hours were spent with heavy grunts from Giordano, shouting and swearing. Finally, a small white canvas tent, dirty and stained around the skirt, was erected. As Michel hit the last wooden post into the soft soil, a bell rang out, softly at first, but growing louder and more insistent with each chime.

  ‘Dinner!’ Giordano yelled, and disappeared around the striped Big Top.

  Michel laid down his sledgehammer and wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm.

  ‘Hungry?’ Jean asked.

  They ambled along towards where Giordano had disappeared and found themselves at the back of a long line.

  ‘Should have run with Giordano,’ Jean said.

  Michel tried to look down the line for the glimpse of blue-black hair but could not find her amongst the throng.

  ‘Odélie? She’ll be up front with the triplets – they’re young, see, so they get fed first.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘You know… Serge, and Werner.’

  ‘Ah, Werner will have his delivered. Serge will be delivering it to him. Anyone else you’re curious about?’ Jean raised his eyebrow quizzically.

  ‘No, that’s everyone.’

  ‘Of course, Madame Geneviève, being the lady that she is, will dine with the other ladies. Like Frieda, for example, our trapeze artist. Extraordinary talent – something to see when she is flying through the air.’

  Michel looked at Jean. ‘I thought Anton was the trapeze act?’

  ‘One half of it. You would have seen her on the train; green eyes, tall?’

  ‘So… she and Anton?’

  ‘Not Anton’s, no. She’s Werner’s, so don’t get any ideas about her. Trust me.’

  As the queue shortened, Michel could see crowded wood-slatted fold-out tables and chairs which were placed under a large awning. At one end was a larger wooden table, laden with blackened pots and pans that emitted curls of steam and were manned by a trio of cooks; kerchiefs tied around their necks, stained aprons around their portly bellies.

  Michel took a plate, and a short cook with fat arms filled it with a thick stew and vegetables. He followed Jean and sat at a table with him, Giordano, and a thin man who ate with his face close to his plate, spooning in the food as if he was afraid it would soon be taken from him.

  ‘This is Felix.’ Jean nodded towards the thin man. ‘Sets things up, carries things and such.’

  ‘Hello,’ Michel said.

  Felix looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Michel.’

  ‘Good. Eat your food, Michel.’

  ‘Not a big talker, is Felix!’ Jean laughed. ‘Don’t be offended.’

  Michel ate and listened to Giordano lament the lack of good food, and how, perhaps, he would have to return to Italy soon if things did not improve.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Michel attempted to engage Felix once more. ‘Your accent – I can’t place it.’

  ‘I am Polish,’ Felix said.

  ‘When did you come to France?’

  Felix stopped eating and looked at Michel. ‘A while ago. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘Don’t bother yourself with wondering. I am here and that is that.’ Felix stood, took his almost empty plate, and found another table to sit at.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Jean said. ‘Like I said, not one for talking.’

  Michel nodded and ate slowly, aware that now and again Felix looked over at him.

  That night, Michel slept uneasily in a fold-out bed that dipped in the middle, the sound of horses breathing heavily nearby. He hovered on the edge of sleep, where dreams and reality merged; more than once he awoke to the sound of rustling, believing that it was Felix, there to challenge him or perhaps to tell him why he had looked so afraid.

  Michel woke for good when it was still dark outside, and he was cold. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for the torch that Jean had given him. His winter coat was lying on his bag; he picked it up and wrapped himself in it. As he did, he heard voices outside. One voice, then another, low, murmuring. He cocked his head to the side to try and hear better, but the words were too muddled for him to make out what they were saying.

  Michel crept out of the tent, the grass cool underfoot, and walked a few steps into the dark.

  Then suddenly, he h
eard the crackle of static, another voice, then more static – it was Anton’s radio. Just as he was about to turn away, he heard another voice, this time clear – it was Werner.

  ‘What is it?’ Werner asked.

  A whisper from Anton.

  ‘You know what I said!’

  ‘It isn’t that.’ Anton’s voice was firm.

  ‘Better not be. I told you you’d go. I told you. Do you think I lie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t think you lie.’

  ‘I’ll not say it again…’

  The voices trailed away to strong whispers. Then, quiet.

  Michel picked his way back to his tent, and saw it was lit up from inside with a torch, a figure moving around like a shadow puppet behind the canvas. Drawing back the flap, he was confronted with his night-time visitor.

  Odélie.

  Her face and rouged lips glowed in the light of the torch she had placed on the ground; she perched on his small bed, smiling at him. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I was looking—’

  ‘For me?’ she interrupted. ‘Come, sit with me.’

  Michel sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Odélie, her eyes bright, her lips glistening. He smiled at her. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked, and took one from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Let’s share,’ she said, drawing in the smoke as he lit it for her.

  Michel nodded and took the cigarette from her. ‘Is this allowed?’

  ‘Sharing a cigarette? I think that’s OK.’ She grinned and took the cigarette from his mouth.

  As he blew the smoke out, she waited a second then kissed him, pushing herself against him so that he fell into the kiss and down onto the bed.

  He pulled away. ‘We shouldn’t. I’ll get thrown out.’