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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘Michel!’ Werner shouted again. Finally, Michel had no choice but to respond. ‘Are you deaf? Could you not hear me? Is Beau ready?’

  Frieda stood behind Werner and gave Michel the tiniest of smiles.

  ‘Michel! Is he ready?’ Werner’s stern voice broke through Michel’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Frieda.’ Anton appeared next, dressed in a similar sequinned costume. He bowed slightly and took Frieda by the elbow, guiding her away.

  ‘Now. Let us get Beau, shall we? Did you change the saddle for my old one? I don’t like that new leather, it irritates me.’ Werner smoothed his trousers over his ample behind as he spoke. ‘You like it here, don’t you, Michel?’ he continued unexpectedly.

  ‘Most of the time I do…’ Michel replied, his eyes still on Frieda as she was led away by Anton.

  ‘Felix tells me you were asking him questions, on your first night with us.’

  Michel looked at Werner with surprise.

  ‘Some of my workers don’t like strangers asking them questions. In fact, none of us do.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean…’

  ‘I mean that I gave you a week to prove yourself, and I am in doubt as to whether you have succeeded.’

  ‘I did as you asked. I have trained Beau. He’s not perfect, not yet. But he has the potential.’

  ‘I also asked you to work and nothing else.’

  Michel thought of Frieda, of their swim, of their talks. Then he thought of Odélie.

  ‘Your tongue fallen out of that thick head of yours? I wish it would.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I just tried to fit in,’ Michel said.

  They reached the horses and Werner looked at Beau, then held his hand out to him. The stallion sniffed it then allowed his master to pet him. The tiniest of smiles appeared on Werner’s face – so briefly Michel thought he might have imagined it.

  ‘Don’t try to fit in. No one can. Keep to yourself, Michel.’

  ‘I can stay?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Werner clambered aboard Beau and, heartened by his dignified stallion, trotted out into the crowd, laughing and joking with the customers.

  Michel spent the evening sitting on a chair next to the horses’ enclosure, ready to bring out each one when required. Around six, he heard the band start up with a trombone – umpah pah, umpah pah – as the crowds milled into the tent. Hugo, in his thick clown’s make-up, stood on stilts, ruffling children’s hair and honking his bright red nose as they passed.

  Soon, it was quiet outside the candy-cane canvas. Still, Michel sat and waited. Suddenly the band slid into their next number, which meant only one thing. Werner’s voice boomed around the tent and floated out towards Michel. The ringmaster welcomed the crowds, promised them an evening of amazement, and introduced the first act – the flying trapeze. The audience cheered and clapped, and Michel stood up, ready to deliver Claudette. His palms were so sweaty as he took the mare’s reins that he dropped them twice. Claudette sensed Michel’s lack of confidence and pulled away from him a little, stamping her hoof on the dusty floor, as if demanding an explanation for this change in behaviour.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma chérie.’ Michel kissed her nose, held the reins tighter and walked her out of the tent to the Big Top, where Eliáš waited. He accepted the reins from Michel, who took the opportunity to snatch a glimpse of the show happening on the other side of the curtain.

  ‘You need to move out of the way,’ a stagehand said, pushing past Michel and grumbling at his uselessness.

  But Michel did not hear him. He did not hear the crowd cheering, clapping, laughing – he did not even see them. All he saw was Frieda, tumbling down to earth. He gasped when she bounced into the net alongside Anton, but then they stood, held their hands high and took their bow. They turned and did the same for the audience behind them, and for a moment Michel caught her gaze; in that instant he felt incredibly powerful, and for that brief second, he knew he could not leave the circus – leave her, even though he could not have her.

  ‘Take Beau,’ the stagehand prompted, handing Michel the stallion’s reins. ‘The boss is done with him.’

  He did not move.

  ‘Take Beau! He’s finished for tonight.’

  ‘I’ll wait for Claudette after the acrobats are done,’ Michel said, as Frieda and Anton climbed out of the landing net.

  ‘No room. Get Beau out of here before the ringmaster sees you.’

  But Michel took his time gathering up the reins, turning Beau, waiting, hoping…

  ‘I said, get him outta here!’ The stagehand’s face was puce with rage.

  Beau pulled Michel on, and out into the night, the flap of the tent closing in their wake.

  Eliáš brought Claudette back to Michel just after ten. People were streaming out of the tent like ants and scurrying towards the exit, the village beyond, leaving the grass strewn with papers, bottles and napkins in their wake.

  ‘Here,’ Eliáš said, his French thick and unnatural on his tongue.

  ‘Where are you from, Eliáš?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I was just asking – your accent is different.’

  ‘Czechoslovakia,’ Eliáš said, and turned quickly away, striding to his own tent, his shoulders hunched.

  A few hours later, Michel was deep in a sleep that had him dreaming of his apartment in Paris. Only this time, both Beau and Claudette filled the space, and on the chair near the window sat Frieda. As Michel moved towards her, others appeared – first Jean, then Giordano, Serge, Werner, and then Odélie…

  ‘Odélie…’ he said, half asleep.

  ‘I’m here.’

  The voice was louder, closer.

  ‘Odélie…’ he said again.

  ‘Michel, wake up.’ He felt a hand on his face, opened his eyes and saw the real-life Odélie standing over him.

  ‘You were dreaming.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of me.’ She smiled.

  He nodded and Odélie bent her head to his, kissing him, moving her body onto his.

  ‘You dreamt of me,’ he heard her murmur once more, as she slipped her dress over her head and brought Michel close to her.

  Seven

  Le Vent du Changement

  Michel awoke before dawn and once more Odélie was gone. He lay on his bed for a moment and let the trill of birdsong spread throughout the camp, building with each minute that the sun rose.

  The clanging resumed behind him as Felix set to work on fixing the engine. Michel dressed and left the tent, rubbing his eyes and yawning as Anton passed him, his radio under his arm again, heading for a small gathering that had sprung up around Madame Rosie and Madame Geneviève, who were dispensing hot coffee and stale bread.

  ‘Michel, is it not?’ Madame Rosie greeted him as he took a tin cup of coffee from her. Her black hair was scraped back into a twist, a string of gold coins around her forehead, a small gold ring in her nose.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I have heard about you.’

  ‘Good things?’

  She cocked her head to the side as if deciding. ‘Things.’

  ‘Move it.’ A workman from behind pushed against him. ‘Got to get the tent down by four.’

  Michel moved away from the queue and made his way to the horses, greeting them each with a pat on the nose, then fed them the last of the hay that Felix had dumped nearby.

  Werner emerged from his carriage, dressed unusually in plain navy trousers and a pale green shirt. He said something to Felix, whose face was smeared with grease as usual, his dungarees almost falling off his wiry frame. Michel saw Felix nod, then return to the engine, and Werner made eye contact with Michel, hitched his waistband up over his belly – which immediately fell back below it – and walked up to him.

  ‘That’s the last of the hay,’ Michel told him.

  Werner stroked Beau’s nose.


  ‘I can ask the farmer for some more?’

  Still Werner did not speak.

  ‘The show went well…’ Michel ventured.

  ‘Did it?’ Werner turned to him.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No. I just worked.’

  A small smile appeared on Werner’s face. Michel shifted uncomfortably and placed his hands in his trouser pockets.

  ‘You worked. Is that what you did?’

  ‘I did as you said to do. Worked and nothing else.’

  Werner nodded, then said, ‘Beau rides well. He didn’t have a hint of fear about him, not even when the band struck up.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  Werner scratched at his early morning stubble. ‘You can stay, Michel. Don’t even ask me why I’m letting you. I know I’ll regret it. You can thank that long-legged idiot friend of yours, Jean, for vouching for you. I told him that if you mess up, he goes too – and the little Italian.’

  ‘Thank you, Werner.’

  ‘Keep your head down, work hard, do as you are told, keep your nose out of everyone’s business, and you’ll get along fine. But I warn you,’ Werner leaned into him so there was less than an inch between them, ‘keep away from the performers. Leave them alone. You are nothing but an animal yourself; your friends are the horses. Know your place and for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut – no questions, no talking back. Understood?’

  Michel nodded, his face growing warm.

  Werner grinned. ‘Good.’ He walked back towards the train.

  Michel’s breathing came quickly, his fists bunched in his pockets. He wanted to run after the man, push his fat little body to the ground and watch him squeal. But he didn’t. He stood and watched and waited until his breathing calmed, all the while keeping an eye on something, or rather someone, who had just appeared from the train, her cornflower-blue dress already stained with an oil smear from handing Felix his tools. She laughed at something Felix said and Michel felt his body relax.

  He began to pack his things, then pulled down his canvas tent, storing it safely in the back of Beau’s carriage along with the fold-out table, chairs and bed.

  Around him, tent pegs were being pulled from the ground with the help of the four large carthorses that no one had bothered to name. With each peg, the tents deflated like sad balloons, until all of them lay on the ground; skeletons of the night before.

  Shacks and stalls were dismantled with care and stored in the rear carriage ready for their next show.

  Michel worked all morning, unpegging canopy after canopy from the summer-hardened ground, packing costumes, food and props into large wooden crates and sealing them with a few knocks of a hammer on nail.

  ‘You need to work quicker, Michel.’ Felix was beside him, wrapping rope around his arm, the length of it quickly trailing towards him over the flattened grass.

  ‘The train fixed, then?’

  ‘No. I’m packing rope because it’s still broken.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘My mother used to say, ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. If you ask me an intelligent question, I shall oblige you with the same courtesy.’

  Michel stood and rubbed at his lower back. ‘Why are you so angry all the time? Surely that’s a question that deserves an answer.’

  ‘You haven’t noticed? There’s hardly anyone here. Five workmen we’ve got now. That’s nothing – not enough.’

  ‘Where’d they go?’

  ‘You’re back on the stupid questions again – how am I meant to know?’

  ‘Fine. Why did they leave?’

  ‘Money. None of it.’

  ‘What, after last night? The show was packed.’

  ‘Was it? What I saw were half-empty seats. You know, it all used to happen in that tent – none of this business of having little stalls here and there. It’s more of a hassle now; takes longer to arrange. Want to get back to it, or are you going to stand rubbing your back like a pregnant woman all day?’

  ‘You could give me a break, you know. I’ve been working since dawn.’

  ‘Haven’t we all, Michel. No more questions now, not even intelligent ones – just work so we can get out of here.’

  They laboured for another hour, dismantling the next tent, until Felix, wiping sweat from his brow, sat down on an upturned wooden crate and invited Michel to do the same.

  ‘Smoke?’ Felix offered.

  Michel took a cigarette from him. They sat and smoked whilst others continued to pack the train wagons and Serge tried the engine, which rumbled and groaned.

  ‘It won’t last much longer. That engine’s older than I am.’ Felix laughed.

  ‘What will happen if the circus runs out of money?’

  ‘We’ve only two choices: either leave and go our own way, or sell the train if we can and make it on foot, like the Roma do – caravans and such.’

  ‘I’m not sure where I would go. Before, I had this idea that I would go to my grand-mère’s village… but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Michel, I’m not sure where you got the idea from that I want to hear the thoughts that run through that head of yours. Let me be perfectly clear – I don’t care. I have to think about me. Me,’ Felix pointed at his chest, ‘is the only thing that matters.’

  Michel stood, ground the cigarette out under his boot and walked away.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Felix shouted after him.

  ‘The horses. Just me and the horses. That’s who I’ll think about.’

  ‘Good lad, Michel!’ Felix laughed. ‘You’re learning! Not so stupid after all.’

  By early afternoon the field was cleared, the only trace of what had been in strange outlines on the ground – brown, pressed grass in squares, circles and rectangles. Michel wished he could see the sight from high above; a map of something that had left, soon to be covered with fresh grass over the ghostly shapes.

  The train whistle screeched in the balmy afternoon air, ringing out a call to everyone that it was time to leave. Michel stood outside Beau’s carriage and watched everyone board. First Werner climbed on, strutting towards his own carriage, then Serge with Odélie on his arm, followed by the triplets, Geneviève, Hugo and the other performers.

  Another whistle, then steam streaked from under the chassis and Michel swung himself up into Beau’s carriage, closing the door almost all the way, leaving enough room so that he could sit, his legs dangling as the train pulled away.

  ‘We not good enough company for you?’ Jean dragged the inter-carriage door aside and stepped over the empty air in between with one stride.

  Michel turned and smiled. ‘I just like the air. The scenery.’

  ‘Werner tell you to stay here?’

  ‘Not in so many words. But I figured he didn’t want me in the seating car.’

  Jean sat down next to Michel and offered him a cigarette. Michel blew the smoke away from him and watched as it was dragged back by the speed of the train.

  ‘You shouldn’t stay here – go and sit in a comfortable seat,’ Michel said.

  ‘Are you bored of me?’

  Michel shook his head. ‘Felix and the others are in the stock car; they don’t sit with performers.’

  ‘So? They used to when we had more space – we had two seating carriages and bunks. In fact, the night you clambered aboard they were in the stock car to start with, where I found you, but Werner made us all squash into the seating car – said it wasn’t safe for them in the stock car.’

  ‘He’s a caring man,’ Michel said.

  ‘Sarcasm, Michel? It does not suit you.’

  ‘I’m thinking that maybe I’ll leave soon. Felix says the train won’t last much longer.’

  ‘Ah, now you want to leave again. Well, that’s true enough about the train. But I can bet all Hugo’s génépy that Werner will die before he lets his circus fall apart. What’s got into you? I thought you would be happy now – I spoke with Werner.’

  ‘He told me.’<
br />
  ‘So?’

  ‘So, thank you for speaking up for me, but he’s just so frustrating, so patronising. I think if I stay much longer we will come to blows.’

  Jean slapped him on the back. ‘You’re overreacting! He’s tough on everyone at the beginning. He just wants to see how much you want it, that’s all – you know, to prove yourself.’

  ‘If I’m going to do that, I can’t talk to you anymore. Workers and performers don’t mix – he said so this morning. And I can’t mix with the workers either – Felix has made it clear that I am not welcome there. I’m on my own. I don’t fit anywhere here.’

  Jean shook his head. ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ he said quietly. ‘Felix, or Werner.’

  ‘He called you a long-legged idiot, you know. Yet you still defend him. What’s he got on you anyway?’ Michel looked at Jean, who would not meet his gaze.

  ‘He’s just joking,’ Jean replied with a weak smile.

  Neither spoke after that, and Michel concentrated on the fields of green, then tilled brown soil, vines and thickets of trees rushing by. Jean shifted a little and coughed.

  ‘I have only been on a train a handful of times before,’ Michel said eventually.

  Jean looked at him, his face eager for the conversation. ‘Really?’

  ‘When we visited Grand-mère. Other than that, I’m used to my legs.’

  ‘Giordano is unhappy about the train.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He is convinced that if the train goes, he will go – his legs are too short to ride or walk for long. I told him it will be fine, but you know what he is like.’

  The train rounded a bend, the silvery new heads of corn visible amongst the green stalks.

  ‘I fell in love once,’ Jean-Jacques continued, gazing out over the fields. ‘Just the once. With a girl with long legs. Just like those legs of corn. Long. Thin. Her head seemed to be sitting atop them.’

  ‘She’d have to have long legs with a man like you.’

  ‘Indeed! Yes. I suppose so. I never really thought of myself as tall until I met her, and she was tall – her head was at my shoulder. For a woman that is tall, I suppose.’