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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘Where is she now?’

  Jean shrugged. ‘She was beautiful, Michel. Blonde hair streaming down her back, blue eyes, and a smile that bowled me over. She was with us in the circus for a while. A snake charmer, if you can picture it! She was my goddess. We all have one, Michel. A goddess.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jean stood and stretched his arms above his head, his hands reaching the roof of the wagon.

  ‘My mother was tall,’ Michel said.

  ‘She was?’

  ‘Not as tall as you, or even your shoulder, but tall. She was thin and tall; she called herself a pencil.’

  Jean laughed.

  ‘She was a good woman. Kind, thoughtful – cared for anyone she met.’

  ‘How long since…?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Five – no, six years now. I was a teenager. A shy, stupid boy with a stutter. Monsieur Bertrand, my old neighbour, helped me – found me a job, cared for me.’

  Jean sat down beside him once more, his legs dangling so far off the side that Michel was worried his feet would touch the moving earth and he would be swept away.

  ‘My mother died before I knew her,’ Jean said softly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I had a father and he was a fine man. Tall too, though not as tall as me.’

  ‘He’s still alive?’

  ‘Somewhere, yes. Not in our town anymore. He moved. I’ll find him again. We always find each other.’

  ‘What does she see in him?’ Michel suddenly asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Frieda and Werner.’

  Jean shrugged. ‘You know the girl I told you about – she was killed. Well, I think she was. She was taken by the Germans at the beginning of all this mess – they came into this German town we were travelling through to get back to France. We were stopped and we handed over our papers. It was fine at first – you know Werner has his German heritage, the right papers, the right bribes. We thought we were going to be let go, but then they decided to take a better look at us and found her papers – the wrong kind.’

  ‘A Jew?’ Michel asked.

  Jean nodded.

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘A Jew?’

  ‘Perhaps once I was.’

  The train reached a bend and the wheels screamed as the brakes took hold and guided them onwards.

  Once the quiet tack-tack of the train had resumed, so did Jean. ‘It does not matter who we are, Michel, we are all here and we work together. That’s all that matters.’

  Michel glanced quickly at Jean, then changed the subject. ‘So, the next show will be different, you think? Smaller?’

  ‘Smaller, definitely. You saw the workers go this morning? More will soon. You won’t really go, will you, Michel?’

  ‘I really don’t know… I have no money to get me far anyway.’

  ‘Good. Stay awhile. Werner will calm down soon enough. He’s just worried about the war, money. These are funny times, Michel, strange funny times. Who knows what will happen? Just live for today. We can worry about the rest later.’

  Michel nodded and swung his legs back inside the carriage, then leaned back against the inside of the wooden car. Jean followed suit, and soon the two friends had closed their eyes as the train rocked them to sleep.

  The train was slowing, its wheels grinding as it pulled into a station, finally coming to a shuddering stop. Michel awoke and nudged Jean in the ribs.

  ‘We’ve stopped,’ he said.

  Jean yawned and raised his arms above his head in a stretch.

  Michel jumped down onto the gravel of the tracks and waited for Jean to follow – but he did not.

  Serge emerged first, then Werner and Felix. Steam billowed from under the train and Felix shook his head at it. He spoke with Werner, who shouted something then pointed at the engine. Felix shook his head again.

  The tracks ahead were covered with weeds and broken-down carriages, and Michel watched as bulky Serge and stout Werner wandered further up the track, each looking left then right as if trying to understand where they were.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Jean asked, his voice soft with sleep.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Jean sat on the edge of the carriage whilst Michel walked backwards and forwards as he waited, now and again scuffing at the gravel with the tip of his boot.

  Soon, Werner and Serge made their way back towards them, Serge climbing aboard and Werner approaching Michel.

  ‘We’re staying here tonight,’ he said.

  ‘On the train?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Where else? You want to set up camp on disused tracks?’ Werner pulled a slim silver flask from his pocket. He swigged then, uncharacteristically, offered it to Jean and then to Michel.

  ‘Make sure the horses are fed, take them for a small walk, then come to the seating car, get food and whatnot, then sleep here.’

  ‘It was hard enough to sleep with all of us sitting up in the seating car last time – how about I stay in here with Michel?’ Jean asked. ‘I’ve long legs, after all.’

  Michel tried not to smile at Jean’s dig at Werner.

  ‘I’ll tell Giordano to join you too then, seeing as you’d rather stay here – I’m sure your partner wouldn’t want to be left out. That way there should be room for all the performers to sleep.’

  ‘Giordano won’t like that.’

  ‘He can suffer one night of discomfort.’ Werner turned and walked away.

  Michel dragged the wooden ramps onto the gravel and secured them so Beau, Claudette and Bisou could disembark.

  Lead ropes in hand, he took the horses to the edge of the tracks, down a small grassy verge and out into the fields.

  He took off his shoes, the blades of grass a soft cushion for his bare feet. Only once he reached the middle of the field did he stop. He untied the ropes and set the horses free. They immediately galloped away, running in circles around him, their long tails high and swaying with joy, their ears pricked forward and nostrils flared. Only Bisou remained by his side, content to chomp on the fresh grass. Behind him, Jean led the four workhorses to the field and set them loose.

  Michel sat and drew his knees upwards, resting his arms on them as he watched his charges play.

  ‘They’ve no names, you know, the workhorses,’ Michel said to Jean, who was scanning the horizon.

  ‘Then give them some. I think I can see a church spire down there.’

  Michel shielded his eyes against the lowering sun. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘You’d be able to if you were my height.’

  ‘What should we call them?’ The larger black-and-white male carthorse stuck with his smaller female counterpart; the other two, younger tan geldings, plodded slowly around, investigating everything.

  ‘Those two we should call Abigail and Jacques.’ Jean pointed at the couple.

  ‘Was that her name, Abigail? The girl with the long legs.’

  Jean nodded, and watched them walk and eat in unison.

  ‘And the other two?’ Michel asked.

  ‘They are the nosiest pair I’ve ever met. Always into boxes, investigating things. Once, one of them managed to open a box of costumes and ended up with Geneviève’s petticoat stuck on his head!’

  ‘Let’s call one of them Bertrand – my friend from Paris – gentle but hardworking and inquisitive.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s your middle name, Michel?’

  ‘Louis.’

  ‘Then let’s call him Louis – a questioning sort of fellow.’

  Michel play-punched Jean in the arm and then they sat quietly, Jean with his eyes on Abigail and Jacques, and Michel watching his horse counterpart with his best friend Bertrand.

  A crow cawed from a nearby tree, its yellow eye focused on Michel. He watched it as he took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. The bird followed the movement, then tilted h
is head to the side.

  ‘Have you any paper, Jean?’

  ‘Writing paper? I do.’

  ‘May I borrow some, and a pen?’

  ‘Feeling reminiscent now, Michel?’

  ‘A little.’ Michel stood, went to the newly named Louis and Bertrand, and patted their flanks as they walked around the field together.

  That night, as the others ate and talked, Michel sat with the horses in their carriage and smoothed down the piece of paper with the palm of his hand. The fountain pen Jean had given him leaked as he wrote, staining his fingers a deep navy blue.

  Dearest Bertrand,

  I write to you now from a sloping hillside somewhere in the country – where, I do not know. The evening breeze is welcome as it has been another hot day, full of work, dust and little rest. I yearn now for a wash, but we are stuck here overnight, and I smell worse than the horses, who you may like to know are my bunkmates.

  If you ever wondered what train you forced me to stow away on, it was a train carrying a circus troupe, and after some trials I have been welcomed into their family (well, by most!). I’m training their newest horse, Beau, a beautiful black stallion, and caring for the others. In fact, just this evening, I christened two of the workhorses Bertrand and Louis – an inquisitive pair who get themselves into mischief. It made me think of you, and an ache appeared that I had been trying to keep down since I left by working all the time – a homesickness for Paris, for your apartment, for our conversations and your guidance.

  I wish I could ask for your guidance now. This job, whilst a joy in some ways, is not without its troubles. There is no money – at least none has been given to me – and the boss hates me so much that I wonder why he bothers to let me stay.

  What should I do, Bertrand? Leave? Go to Saint-Émilion? Hope that I find a job and a place to stay somewhere else?

  I just laughed to myself as I heard your voice instantly in my mind – ‘You have a job, Michel, a home, food; why are you risking this? You always were a hothead.’

  You are right, of course you are.

  There is a woman, Bertrand. I am amazed by her. You once told me that you cherished your wife. I never knew what you meant by that before, but I think I do now. I cannot win her love – even talking to her is difficult for me. All my words get stuck and come out in a jumble, and I sound stupid. Even if I could speak to her, she would not be interested in me – I know this, and I have to remind myself of this fact – she is far superior to me.

  And there is Odélie, an acrobat in the troupe. She likes me, and I her. But it feels fleeting, like those women I met at Odette’s café – a night, a week, a month perhaps, but that is all. And yet I wish it weren’t that way. Odélie is beautiful too – a little older than me, intelligent, quick-witted – why can I not cherish her instead? Why do I want what I can’t have?

  Enough now. Enough of me and my thoughts. How is Paris? Has it changed? How is Odette?

  I have heard so little of the war since I left. A man here, Anton, a trapeze artist, has a radio. He tells the others now and again of the war. I have not listened to it all – I don’t want to, not for now. I’d rather sit here and enjoy this summer evening, as the birds sing and circle before becoming silent, tucked in their nests, as the air becomes still and cool before the stars begin to appear. Here it is easy to pretend that all is well. I know, once more, you would chastise me for this; tell me how things are, what I should and should not do. You are right, of course. But what could I do if I knew more? I cannot stop the war; I cannot save anybody.

  Our workman and train driver is called Felix. He’s from Poland. He’s a hard man and I’m sure he has seen much, yet he does not say so. He told me one needs to look after himself and no one else. I don’t agree with him – but I am alone, so I suppose I can only look out for me right now… but to be honest it fills me with sadness. I feel like I have less worth. Does this make sense?

  I’m tired, Bertrand, so I apologise now for my ramblings, but I had to write to you, I had to talk to my friend.

  I have enclosed an address in Vodable. A friend from my travels called Lucien who showed me kindness lives there. I am sure he will not mind if you send letters to him. I shall write to him and forewarn him in any case. Perhaps we will return to that part of the country at some point, or perhaps I will leave here and go to him and stay. Please do write, Bertrand, I promise I will find your replies.

  Stay well. Give my love to Odette.

  Michel

  That night Michel slept next to Jean; Giordano had found safety from a night with the horses and had begged a place in the main seating carriage with Geneviève, insisting that he had to be there to look after the women.

  ‘Wake up, Michel.’ Jean shook him from a dream so deep that when he opened his eyes he did not know where he was.

  ‘My apartment…’ Michel said.

  ‘If your apartment in Paris was like this, you were a poor man indeed!’

  Michel sat and rubbed at his eyes, the milky early dawn seeping into the gloom.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Werner has found us a spot to set up, a mile or so away.’

  ‘We are leaving the train here?’

  ‘Even Werner must sleep in a tent from now on.’ Jean winked, a cheeky gleam in his eye.

  A haphazard procession began to emerge just after the sun rose over the hills. Performers and workhands alike carried luggage, food rations and costumes, whilst the four carthorses pulled at a large worn wooden carriage piled high with the tents and stalls; so much so that the wheels screamed as the carriage moved, and Michel thought they would soon give way.

  Michel gave lighter loads to Beau and Claudette; even Bisou was given the task of shouldering a woven bag containing a few lead ropes and bridles. Michel joined Hugo, who had decided that the ingredients for his génépy were the most important things to take with him, and asked Michel for Claudette to carry his bag with his clothes and personals.

  ‘We have not talked much since our card game, you and I,’ Hugo said.

  ‘No. Not much.’

  ‘Jean gave you some of the génépy though. He told me you liked it.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘This batch will be my greatest – you’ll see. I’ll let you know when it is ready, and we will drink together and maybe we can talk then.’ Hugo ambled off to secure his perfect tent position – not too close to anyone, so that his stash of alcohol and ingredients would not mysteriously disappear.

  Michel became distanced from the group. The horses insisted on stopping every now and then to chew at grass, stubbornly unmoving, an air of mischief about them since leaving the train behind.

  He looked ahead and saw that most of the troupe had turned a dusty corner near an old oak and disappeared from view. He tried to reason with Beau that they should move more quickly, but the stallion was anchored in his desire to take his time and try each leaf or patch of new grass.

  ‘You were waiting for me?’ Odélie appeared at his side, her cheeks red with the growing heat, her breathing slightly quickened as if she had run to catch up with him.

  He smiled at her. ‘Beau wants to sample every blade of grass, it seems. He has encouraged the others too.’

  ‘So, you were not waiting for me?’ She pouted like a spoiled child, then laughed. ‘Come, Michel, let’s catch up and perhaps place our little canvas homes near one another?’

  Odélie took the lead rope of Claudette who was unhappy to be dragged away, but as soon as she began moving, the other two sensed adventure and decided upon a quick walk to catch up.

  Once Michel and Odélie turned the corner by the oak, there in front of them was a steep hill, and a sign marking that the village was now only one mile away.

  On the right side of the track was a low farmhouse and two large hay barns off to the side, and on the left a field, mottled with coarse bushes, the grass already brown and patchy. In its middle, a storm of gritty powder was being churned up by those who were already maki
ng camp and smashing poles into the ground to erect their tents.

  ‘Not great,’ Odélie muttered. ‘Dirt. Couldn’t he have found a decent field? Perhaps by a stream or river?’

  As they joined the others, Maximillian the strongman and his daughter Adeline, their bags over their shoulders, pressed past them and headed in the direction of the village.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Leaving.’ Odélie waved her hand dismissively.

  ‘Leaving?’

  ‘Probably. He was moaning the whole night about the war and the soldiers and all that. Said it was too dangerous for his beloved Adeline.’

  ‘And you aren’t scared of the war?’

  Odélie looked at him. ‘Why should I be? It will all blow over. You’ll see. A fuss about nothing. Besides, I always get by – there’s always someone who wants to take care of me.’

  ‘Michel, over here!’ Werner shouted from in amongst the bustle.

  Michel took Claudette from Odélie, who was suddenly eager to get to the triplets when she saw that they had found the best pitch, close to a thicket of blackberry bushes. They were already picking the ripe berries and eating them from their cupped hands, like squirrels.

  Werner was distracted. ‘Michel – I want you over there, far corner, bordering that next field. See? Grass for Beau and the others. Rope off a section for them; we’ll fashion an awning of sorts now. Felix will help you.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘And you what? You’ll be in your tent next to them.’

  Michel led the horses to the far corner as instructed, and with the help of Felix set up his own area, away from the others, away from Odélie.

  By six, the troupe had thinned: some had returned to sleep on the train for one more night and guard the rest of their equipment; others had dozed off in the warm evening air, and still others had ventured into the village to get supplies.

  Michel threw down the hay he had procured from the farm for the horses, who ate slowly, tired from the day, the heat and the sudden changes.

  ‘You look as tired as they do.’

  ‘Odélie.’ Michel turned to look at her, pretty in her pale yellow cotton dress, her feet bare, her lips painted red like her nails.