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

by Carly Schabowski

  Michel shook his head.

  ‘No matter. My point is, think about what you have seen with us – we are hardly world-famous performers. We are nothing more than a bunch of street performers with worn costumes and a train that hardly ever works. We can’t even put on a full circus show anymore, and have turned ourselves into a fair to distract everyone from the lack of talent, animals and magic. So, to say that you don’t fit in is absurd. None of us fit in! That’s the point!’

  Michel smiled at Jean. ‘That’s kind of you to say, Jean, but Werner, he wants me gone. Better to leave before I’m thrown out.’

  ‘Just wait until after tonight, Michel. You have worked hard with Beau.’

  ‘He’s not finished training yet – he can behave when ridden now and isn’t as flighty, but he’s a far cry from dancing like Werner wants.’

  ‘And he’ll see that. He’s a reasonable man – really.’

  ‘Ha! That’s the best joke you have ever told!’ Michel laughed.

  ‘No, really he is. He’s always like this on the day of the show. Trust me. Just wait.’

  ‘You really do like him, don’t you?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Most of the time. Sometimes I don’t.’

  ‘But he’s beastly to everyone.’

  ‘He likes perfection.’

  ‘Why do you excuse him so much? I’ve heard the way he talks to you too.’

  Before Jean could answer, Felix appeared, leading a carthorse with each hand, and then following behind, Frieda with two more.

  ‘They OK here?’ Felix began grounding their lead ropes with a peg. ‘Brought some more pegs for these so they can move about. No good having them tied to a tree all day.’

  ‘They’ll be fine, thank you, Felix.’

  ‘Giordano’s looking for you, Jean,’ Felix said as he began to walk away. ‘Something about how your costume is always better than his and he’s going to cut yours to his size.’

  ‘I need to go!’ Jean leapt up and chased after Felix, yelling, ‘What else did he say?’

  Michel saw that Frieda had not left. Instead she was running her hand down Claudette’s rear leg before lifting it to inspect the hoof.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ Michel walked over to her.

  ‘I thought I noticed her kicking it out in rehearsals. She injured it not long ago. I told Odélie but she said she rode fine. I just wanted to check though.’

  Michel crouched next to her – she smelled of lemons. He snatched a glance at her face as she inspected Claudette’s hoof, her eyes quick, her lips pursed as she concentrated. A wisp of hair had escaped her red polka-dot headband and it took all his concentration not to tuck it behind her ear.

  ‘See anything?’ he asked, just so she would turn her face to his.

  ‘Looks OK. I think I am just overprotective. Werner says I am like a mother without a baby sometimes – always wanting to care for something.’

  ‘Surely that’s a good thing?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She stood and brushed her hands on her white summer dress.

  ‘Here, wash your hands, you’ll get it dirty.’

  Frieda followed him to the riverbank and dipped her hands in the cool water. ‘It’s an old dress anyway. I made it out of some material that Madame Rosie had left over.’ She flicked the excess drops off her hands then sat down. ‘Join me?’ She patted the damp grass next to her.

  ‘You’ll get grass stains now.’

  ‘Doesn’t bother me, a bit of dirt here and there. Werner would rather have me cooped up, all pretty and clean at home. But it’s boring, isn’t it, trying to be so perfect all the time?’ She looked at Michel, her eyes unblinking and serious.

  ‘I’m not sure I have ever been perfect.’

  ‘I’m sure your mother thought you were perfect.’

  ‘Maybe, when I was young.’

  ‘I’m sure she still thinks you are.’

  ‘She died, some years ago. I think if she was here now she’d cuff me behind the ear and tell me to get myself a proper job.’

  ‘I’m sorry you lost her.’ Frieda laid her hand on his.

  Michel looked at her hand, then at her. She held his gaze, then took her hand away. They both turned to watch as a dragonfly hummed on the surface of the water.

  ‘Anton says he found a radio channel that comes from England. He says the war is moving on, that things are getting worse.’ Frieda pulled at a blade of grass and wrapped it around her finger.

  ‘Did you hear it? What they said?’

  ‘No, Anton just tells me what he hears. Says there are warships in the Channel, bombs dropping.’

  ‘It feels unreal to me,’ Michel said.

  ‘I know. We are sitting here whilst fish are leaving small bubbles on the water as they eat their breakfast, the birds are flying in the clear blue sky, the trees are swaying in the breeze – all of it seems so normal.’

  ‘I feel guilty. Like I should be doing something, but I’m not sure what.’

  ‘You are doing something, Michel; you are caring for the horses. It’s a kindness and a help. What more could you do?’

  ‘I—’ Michel began.

  ‘I have to go.’ Frieda suddenly jumped up and looked around as if someone had been watching. ‘I was only meant to be five minutes or so. Must get back, costumes to be fitted!’ Her voice was high, but her expression was serious.

  ‘Frieda…’ Michel stood. ‘I’ll walk you back.’

  ‘No! I’ll go. You stay here and take care of this lot.’ She touched his hand again. ‘I’ll see you later, though?’

  Michel nodded and watched her lightly run back towards the camp, the smell of lemons lingering in the air.

  Michel waited next to the riverbank until the heat had dipped enough to walk the horses back to camp.

  Felix had set up a roped-off area for them to graze in as he continued banging and clamouring over the engine.

  ‘Not gone then?’ Jean sat outside Michel’s tent, his legs stretched out in front of him, the chair underneath barely visible.

  ‘Still here, for now.’

  ‘I’ve just been to see Madame Rosie. You met her yet?’

  Michel sat on the grass next to Jean and took a cigarette from his shirt pocket. ‘I heard she’s the circus fortune teller, yet she is a whisper, a ghost – always heard and never seen.’

  ‘Quite poetic of you, Michel. She lodged in town this week. Had a cough, or so she says, and needed a private room. Giordano says she only wanted that so she could earn more money – selling trinkets and things of hers.’

  ‘She’s back now, though?’

  ‘Back and brighter than ever. Her tent is up. I just popped in to see what she had to say about my fortune for the evening.’

  ‘And what did she tell you?’

  ‘That she was tired and busy, and until I had money in my hand, my fortune wouldn’t reveal itself.’

  ‘When’s dinner?’ Michel looked about but could not see the food tent.

  ‘Ah, yes. No dinner tonight, but there are some local vendors selling food.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Seems the cook and his lot got a better offer. Or, if you listen to the rumours, they walked out after not being paid. Depends who you want to believe.’

  ‘Will we get a new cook?’

  ‘Listen to you! We. I thought you were leaving. You’re one of us, then?’

  Michel looked up and saw Frieda talking to a workman outside the Big Top, her hands gesturing. Then she patted the man on his shoulder. ‘Perhaps I am.’ Michel smiled.

  ‘Better get some rest then. Going to be a late one. I’m off to have a nap myself… although,’ he stood, ‘it depends if Giordano is snoring or not!’

  Michel took his advice, and ignoring the noise of voices, of hammering and yelling outside, he lay down on his bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  The warmth from the torch flares and the day’s heat made Michel’s cheeks red and plump like a small child as he sat at the entrance to his tent. He leaned back in
his chair and watched as the triplets, Eliška, Edita and Eliáš walked past, their heads held high, their batons twirling in unison, the light blue sequins of their performance-day costumes catching the glow of the flames.

  Michel was nervous. Beau needed to perform – though even just to behave would be an improvement.

  He got up and walked over to Beau, who stood watching as the circus came to life. Michel talked to him and rubbed at his cheek until Beau’s ears twitched forwards once more, his eyes wide and ready.

  Michel turned to Claudette, who was dressed up for the evening’s performance. She wore a bejewelled bridle, a baby-blue feather crown tied to her head to match the triplets’ and Odélie’s costumes, and her saddle was decorated with cheap azure gems, which when the light snatched hold of them, made them look as expensive and lustrous as diamonds.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, stroking the mare’s neck. ‘You are looking wonderful this evening. I’m sure you will have the audience cheering for you.’

  Claudette stamped her foot in reply then nuzzled into his neck.

  ‘A story? You want a story?’ Michel pulled a bale of hay closer to Claudette, and as he did, Bisou the pony and Beau walked towards him, as if they too wanted to hear the tale.

  He pulled his book, Le Lotus Bleu, from his bag and smoothed his palm over the cover, feeling the worn blue leather and the gold embossing of the title.

  ‘Well, let’s see then – where is Tintin on his adventure?’ Michel opened the book and began. But as he started to read, a voice nearby called out to him.

  ‘Michel!’ Jean-Jacques appeared, his costume the same as at rehearsals, his regal wig slightly askew. ‘Isn’t it glorious?’

  ‘I haven’t seen it yet – I didn’t want to get in the way.’

  ‘Leave them for a while, and come and play mouche with me. Then we’ll seek out some food.’

  ‘You think Werner wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Trust me: he’s so busy flitting here and there, he won’t notice.’

  Michel and Jean sat outside Michel’s tent, each on a picnic chair with an upturned box serving as their card table.

  Jean took a deck of cards from his pocket. ‘Now. Tonight I will win, and you will lose, and everything will be right with my world once more. Here, take this.’ He handed Michel a small silver flask. ‘Génépy – calms the nerves.’

  Michel took a swig; it was thick and hot at the back of his throat. He passed it back to Jean.

  ‘Ah. Hugo has it wrong again. Not enough wormwood, too much vodka,’ Jean-Jacques commented.

  ‘Where is Giordano?’ Michel asked, coughing a little as the potent alcohol slid down.

  Jean’s enormous hands shuffled the deck. ‘Busy. He is worried about his hair. He says he’s found a grey one and now will not perform until it’s gone. So, he is seeing Madame Geneviève who may be able to help. I assume she will use shoe polish – what else is there these days?’

  ‘He could see the Great Vassily; perhaps he can make it disappear!’

  Jean grinned. ‘Giordano can’t help being vain – he’s Italian and his looks are everything to him.’

  ‘How did you two meet?’ Michel suddenly asked.

  Jean-Jacques picked up a card and studied his hand. ‘Ah, now. A giant and a dwarf – how else do they meet but at a circus!’

  ‘Werner’s circus?’

  ‘Maybe a little bit before.’

  ‘Did you come to Werner together for a job?’

  Jean-Jacques looked up. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And Werner made you an act?’

  Jean shrugged. ‘Are you going to look at your deal? Do you need a card?’

  Michel leaned back in his chair, studying his cards. ‘You think you can win?’

  ‘I can only try.’

  ‘Try this.’ Michel played his hand.

  ‘Are you sure you’re here to look after the horses? I am starting to think that you should be a magician; I’m sure you’re keeping cards in your sleeves.’

  Giordano, wearing his jester’s costume, appeared. Jean took one look at his face and offered him his chair. The dwarf sat down, his legs dangling. Jean-Jacques offered his partner a drink, and Giordano took a swig.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Michel asked.

  Giordano grumbled under his breath; something about the customers, the job, his hair.

  ‘Did you fix your hair?’ Jean-Jacques asked.

  ‘She put shoe polish on it,’ Giordano said sullenly into his chest.

  Michel laughed.

  ‘I told you she would,’ Jean said.

  ‘You would think a lady with a beard like she has would know something more about hair!’ Giordano exclaimed, then reached up and took the jester’s cap off his head, where they could see a thick black stripe down the middle, the rest of his hair a mahogany brown.

  ‘I always thought I had black hair, and so she put black polish on it, and it shows I do not have black hair, I have brown! What kind of Italian man am I? No shiny black mane like Beau!’

  Even though the man’s tone was light, Michel could see that Giordano was near tears. He stopped laughing and handed him the flask.

  ‘Well, the show goes on and I must perform,’ he said stoically. ‘I am a professional.’ He pulled the cap back onto his head.

  ‘Can you smell that?’ Michel asked suddenly.

  Jean lifted his face upwards, his nose sniffing the air.

  ‘Smells of butter,’ Giordano said.

  Michel closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Then, opening them with a start, he said, ‘Pancakes!’

  ‘We shouldn’t – people are arriving,’ Giordano said, but his eyes were fixed on the direction of the scent.

  ‘We won’t be long. Five minutes.’ Jean was already walking away, and Michel stood up to follow.

  Within seconds the trio were out of the camp and amongst the growing crowds. Multicoloured lights were threaded through the branches of trees and around posts, and blazing torches lit with petroleum led the way through the fair towards the Big Top. The small purple tent of the Mysterious Madame Rosie was lit with only small white lights and one torch, and visitors were assaulted by the thick scent of burning sage and lavender upon entry. Around the next bend was the tent of the Amazing and Strange. Later in the evening, Madame Geneviève would go there to groom her beard, the Great Vassily would astonish with his magic tricks, the strongman Maximillian would lift his daughter Adeline above his head, and Serge would delight by swallowing swords so long it astonished Michel that he was still in one piece.

  A light breeze rippled the canvas of the tents, creating a flap-flap noise which reminded Michel of the pigeons fluttering in the eaves at the Gare d’Austerlitz. The breeze picked up the sweet smell of caramel, mingled with the peppery grease of the sausages cooking over large skillets of onions, and sailed out towards those who queued between two ropes at the ticket booth; small children standing on their tiptoes to try and see the magnificent curiosities awaiting them.

  Michel stood aside to let a young family past, inadvertently leaning against the thick canvas of the Big Top, its red-and-white striped peak overlooking the many visitors. From inside the tent, he could hear the grumble of Aramis the lion.

  It was remarkable to Michel how the circus had transformed itself. During the day it was empty and abandoned; far too quiet, the white canvas tents grubby and unloved, the Big Top fraying at the seams. Even the animals were duller, quieter and lethargic. The peeling paint on the stalls had not been restored, the lettering on the signs was beginning to fade, and the costumes had small tears, patched with any material they could find. But by night, the circus came alive. Its broken parts and worn paint were unseen, the animals woken from their stupors, and the performers became strange and magical creatures, glittering under the twinkling lights.

  Michel walked past Kacper, who nodded a hello at him as he played his accordion, his small monkey Gino dancing, ready to be handed a banana for his troubles.

  Jean-Jacq
ues suddenly stopped the trio and pointed his long finger towards a stall awash with people. ‘Look!’

  Michel followed the direction of the giant’s finger and saw a man laughing with his customers as he poured thick batter into a pan, adding butter and cloying syrups. They patiently queued until Michel was finally handed a pancake for a coin; he groaned with pleasure as he took the first bite.

  ‘It’s the butter,’ the vendor said proudly. ‘My own. My cows made it.’

  Michel wiped the grease from his chin and walked after Jean and Giordano, who were making their way back towards Michel’s tent.

  Madame Geneviève stood outside her own tent, dressed in a tight red bodice dress, her large bosom spilling over the top, her thick beard oiled and perfectly groomed. She held a handkerchief to her face and dabbed at her cheeks now and again. When she saw Giordano, she bawled at him. ‘You said you had grey hair and now you do not have grey hair! I did what you asked! I am no magician! You made me cry just before the show!’

  ‘Ah, come now, Madame, don’t cry,’ Jean soothed, while Giordano shouted something back at her in Italian, his face as crimson as her dress.

  The Great Vassily walked past at that exact moment, producing out of thin air a fresh bunch of tulips for Madame and a new blue hat for Giordano. ‘Come see me next time.’ He winked at Giordano.

  ‘Michel!’

  Michel turned at the sound of his name, and saw Werner stepping out of the train and heading towards him, followed by Frieda.

  ‘Michel!’ Werner waved at him. He was dressed, ready for the evening, his plump body decked out in striped trousers and a red jacket, finished off with a large black top hat, and his ridiculous moustache nicely waxed.

  Michel made to move towards them but could not; his feet had planted themselves into the soil as soon as Frieda appeared. He could feel his heart beating faster and his mouth was dry. He watched every movement she made; the way she flicked her hair away from her face, her hand as it returned to her side, the way she gracefully turned, her whole body shimmering with sequins as she kissed Werner on both cheeks.