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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘We should sit together this evening; drink some wine, tell some tales.’ She smiled at him and took a step towards him suggestively.

  ‘Michel!’ Giordano appeared, dressed smartly in navy-blue trousers, a crisp white shirt and shined shoes. ‘Jean and I, we heard of a café – good wine, cheese, bread. You will come? Jean says you must. Cheese, during war! We need to eat as much as we can now.’

  Michel looked to Odélie, then back to Giordano. Then, he thought of Frieda.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll just wash and change,’ he said.

  Giordano walked away with a little skip in his step. Without a word, Odélie turned and strode away, her back straight, her shoulders squared.

  Michel wiped his face with his kerchief and waited until she was out of sight before he went inside his tent to get ready.

  The walk into the village took twenty minutes through long grassed fields, over styles and along a small stream. The church spire peeped at them as they walked, never out of sight, guiding their way.

  ‘Do you even know where we are?’ Michel asked Jean.

  ‘We were heading south before the train died. Somewhere in the middle?’

  ‘He was never good at geography,’ Giordano muttered.

  ‘And you are? Tell us then, oh wise one, where are we?’

  Giordano stopped and surveyed the landscape. ‘Mountains over there. See? We are on a hill. I’d say we are in the countryside.’

  Michel and Jean laughed.

  ‘That is your expert opinion, Giordano?’

  ‘Indeed, it is. When I see more clues, I will tell you exactly where we are.’

  The trio entered the small village. The houses, packed close together, ran up a cobbled street. Some shops were boarded up; the streets were eerily quiet with no children playing, no one coming home from work.

  With nobody to water them, the flowers in the window boxes were brown and wilted; a lone dog trotted towards them, skinny and with wary eyes. It peed against a lamppost before hurrying on.

  ‘Where’s this café you say sells cheese?’ Jean asked, his voice forcibly jolly.

  They came to the market square, where only one café remained open.

  ‘There, that one,’ Giordano said, and hurried towards it.

  ‘Hardly a detective, is he?’ Michel said.

  They sat down at a small wobbly table, and the local woman who ran the café bustled over, clearly thrilled to see customers.

  ‘Where are we, Mademoiselle?’ Giordano asked her.

  ‘You don’t know where you are?’ She raised her eyebrows suspiciously.

  ‘We have been travelling far, please forgive us.’

  Jean smirked at Michel and hid his smile behind a menu.

  ‘You’re not far from the city of Clermont-Ferrand – it’s a few miles away.’

  ‘Ah, see! A volcanic town, is it not?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘My geography is intact. Jean, you owe me a drink.’

  ‘Did I agree to that?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Mademoiselle, my friend here will be buying the drinks.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ the woman said, patting her grey hairs into her bun. ‘I am a Madame.’

  ‘Oh! I did not realise. I do apologise.’

  ‘No apology necessary.’ She smiled at him.

  They clubbed together what little money they had and ordered a bottle of wine. The food was brought without them asking – a thick cassoulet of beans and sausages that burst from their skins in the rich tomato rich sauce, fresh bread, a brie, and a whole camembert so ripe it was one day away from being inedible – the perfect age.

  ‘No goose tonight,’ the Madame said by way of apology, as she placed the bubbling cassoulet in its terracotta pot in front of them. ‘Soon, no cheese, and then, no wine!’ She fanned herself and looked as though she were going to cry. ‘They are coming, you know – everyone has left. We get no newspapers now; the telephones don’t work. My sister lives in the village a few miles north of here; she says they came and took the church and the mayor’s office for their own. My sister can’t go out at night now – no one can. They must stay at home all day – all night. No cheese, no wine either, she says. They have to live on tinned vegetables.’

  ‘God forbid!’ Giordano stood and wrapped his small arms around her ample waist, his hands not quite meeting. ‘No, no, Madame. It will not come to this! Do not fear.’

  The Madame was cheered by this and gave the trio another bottle of red on the house.

  ‘I used to think that wine grew on vines,’ Jean-Jacques said. ‘Literally. Bottles hung on vines. That’s what I thought when I was young.’ He shoved a piece of bread in his mouth, then with the silver cheese knife cut a wedge of melting camembert and filled what space was left.

  Michel smiled. ‘When I was young, I used to think that there was only one country – France. Then, Monsieur Bertrand showed me a map and it was magic – utter magic – all those other countries.’

  ‘I used to think that I was the most handsome man in all of Italy!’ Giordano said, his lips stained purple from the wine. ‘I still do, too!’

  Jean and Michel laughed.

  ‘Werner hasn’t got rid of you yet, Michel Bonnet? Still here?’ A voice and a scrape of chairs nearby interrupted their merriment.

  Serge had sat down at the table next to them, Odélie on the chair opposite. She was dressed now in a flounced red dress, black heels on her feet, her hair pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She looked older. Older and angry.

  ‘Why shouldn’t he be?’ Giordano asked, pouring himself the last of the first bottle.

  ‘I just thought he wasn’t needed anymore. Beau is trained, so why is he still here?’

  ‘I’m taking care of all the horses now,’ Michel said, draining his glass.

  There was a pause as Serge and Odélie ordered. Serge waved his hand and shook his head when the Madame insisted that the whisky not be drunk on an empty stomach. Serge patted his well-built midriff, and the Madame smiled.

  Odélie sniffed at the glass of white wine handed to her, a crease on her brow, then sipped at it. Serge glugged his whisky back in one go, eyeing Michel as he did so.

  ‘You like it here, don’t you, Michel?’ Odélie asked, leaning across to their table. She lit a cigarette, the paper almost too white between her red nails.

  ‘I do, yes, Mademoiselle.’

  Odélie laughed. ‘So formal, Michel! Did you hear that, Serge – Mademoiselle!’

  Serge laughed loudly and Michel felt his face flame.

  ‘So serious, so formal…’ Odélie’s laugh trailed away, and she turned from Michel and his friends to speak in hushed tones with Serge.

  ‘I don’t trust them,’ Giordano said, his voice slurred and a little too loud.

  ‘Hush,’ Jean said, and passed him some bread.

  ‘I don’t!’ he whispered. ‘Never have. They came here together, you know. Had a story. Werner believed them. I did not. Not. A. Word. Lies.’ His voice rose again.

  ‘Hush!’ Jean repeated. Serge looked over, then grinned.

  ‘When will the next show be?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Tonight!’ Giordano raised his glass in the air and they laughed. ‘I will open the show. The Great Giordano with his hair and his brain and his handsome face! They shall come from miles around to see me! We must tell everyone. Madame! Madame!’ He waved to her. ‘I am the most handsome man you will ever meet. And, because you are so lovely and your food so great, you will be my guest at our next show!’ He kissed her hand and her husband, who until that moment had busied himself reading a paper behind the bar, now raised his head, and leaned over the bar to listen to what was happening.

  ‘Monsieur, of course you are,’ the Madame politely said, taking her hand away.

  ‘Indeed. One more bottle. And some beer! Yes, beer. Michel? Jean? Beer? Yes, three of them and wine too.’

  The Madame nodded. ‘Perhaps some more bread? A little cheese?’ S
he looked to Giordano, then Jean.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Bread is good. My friend will appreciate that,’ Jean replied.

  Michel started to relax again and soon forgot Serge and Odélie, listening instead to Giordano talk of hair, of women, and how he was sad that he had no girlfriend right now – why, he was used to two or three at a time!

  ‘Maybe the next show will bring you some lovely admirers,’ Michel said.

  ‘Indeed. Indeed. Yes, Michel. The next show. You are correct.’

  ‘Michel knows all about admirers, don’t you?’ Odélie had turned her attention once more to him.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘No?’ Odélie shrugged.

  ‘It is a hot summer, is it not?’ Serge asked the trio.

  ‘In-deed,’ Giordano slurred.

  ‘Quite. It will cool soon. Not to worry.’ Jean raised a glass to Serge, then the pair knocked their drinks back in unison.

  ‘Hard to keep cool though.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Giordano said again.

  ‘Michel, know any ways of keeping cool?’

  Michel shook his head and Odélie smiled, then drained her glass.

  ‘Shame there is no river here,’ Serge said.

  ‘No river, but we do have a lake or two – not large ones, mind you.’ The Madame had appeared with a tray of drinks and more food. ‘A mile west. A greater lake which feeds into a smaller one. I took the children there to learn to swim when they were young. It’ll be low by now, but you can get some respite.’

  ‘Aha! There you go, Michel, a lake. Michel is one for swimming,’ Serge said, then stood, took some coins from his pocket and flicked them onto the table, letting them clatter and roll.

  ‘He does like swimming. Not always alone…’ Odélie added and stood.

  ‘Well, I take the horses. When they are hot.’

  ‘The horses? Just the horses?’ Serge asked, and held his arm out for Odélie to take. ‘I’ll check with Werner. Maybe he won’t like you swimming with the horses.’

  As they walked away, Jean asked what it had all meant and Giordano began to sing a lover’s song to the Madame, whose husband had decided there was no menace to be had with his guests and had once more retreated behind his newspaper.

  ‘I don’t know – who knows what anything means,’ Michel said, and looked at his shoes, where one of Serge’s coins had come to rest after falling from the table. He did not pick it up. Instead he placed his foot over it, drank half of the warm beer, and allowed his mind to wander.

  On the route home, Jean and Giordano began to sing a song Michel did not know the words to. As they walked and sang, Michel felt a warmth, not only from the summer evening air and the alcohol, but the warmth of friendship when Jean placed his arm around his shoulder and drew him near as they blasted out the chorus to their tune.

  ‘You are scaring the wildlife!’ Michel laughed as an owl overhead gave an irritable twit-twoo.

  ‘Twit!’ Jean cried.

  ‘Twoooo!’ Giordano finished.

  The three of them began to laugh and sing again, almost forgetting their way home, and turned and retraced their steps three or four times before they decided upon the correct track across the field, towards their tents and their beds.

  Michel awoke the following morning, his head full of cotton wool. He sat for some time on the edge of his bed, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the light and he remembered where he was.

  He tested his legs and, although they felt heavy, he was able to move them. He stumbled outside, shielding his eyes from the glare of the morning light.

  Things were already happening. People moved in and out of the field; the cart horses pulled in a large gypsy caravan, followed by three smaller versions. Newer carts were drawn in with the rest of the supplies from the train, and amongst it all stood Werner, smoking a pipe, directing people left and right.

  Jean walked up to Michel, waving lazily, his gait much slower than normal. ‘It’s gone,’ he said, then sat on the dirt, his head in his hands.

  ‘What is?’ Michel sat next to him.

  ‘The train. Werner sold it last night. Used the money to some caravans. We have to go on foot.’

  ‘He works quickly.’

  ‘You don’t say. He, Felix and a few others sorted it. Felix says he hasn’t slept and doesn’t expect to ever again.’

  ‘At least we can all stay together.’ Michel patted Jean on the arm.

  ‘Oh, no! I am not upset by that.’ Jean raised his head. ‘My head! The light! The wine and the beer! I can’t cope.’

  ‘Where is Giordano?’

  ‘Making coffee with Vassily. Apparently, the magician has a cure. I told Giordano not to find us unless it works – he must try it on himself first.’

  ‘I heard Anton’s radio this morning, I think – but then it could have been a dream.’

  ‘No, you heard it. He told everyone this morning that the government are seeking an armistice with the Germans and the Italians.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That we will surrender. It is just a matter of time.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then they will come. In droves. They’ll seek us out more quickly than we can imagine.’

  ‘What does Werner say?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Ah, now you trust him.’

  ‘Not quite. But he seems like he may know what to do.’

  ‘My head hurts, Michel. I cannot answer this now. We keep moving, never stopping, that’s all I know.’

  Michel lit a cigarette whilst they waited for Giordano’s miracle coffee. He looked for Serge, for Odélie, but they were nowhere to be seen. Then he looked for Werner and wondered what they had told him about his day in the river with Frieda. Whilst he waited and his eyes scanned the crowd of workers, the person he longed most to see walked across the grass towards Werner, as he revealed himself from a large gypsy caravan painted with red flowers, edged with gold trim and mounted on lacquered black wheels. He greeted her fondly, kissing her cheeks and escorting her inside. Michel shielded his eyes and squinted, trying to see her more closely as she walked up the few steps, then just as she turned to look in his direction, his view was obscured by the shadow of Giordano, who stood before him, a cup in each hand, grinning as if today were the perfect day.

  ‘It works!’

  The day was spent moving into the caravans: one for Jean and Giordano, one for Frieda and Werner, another for Madame Geneviève and Madame Rosie to share – the fortune teller had threatened to leave if she did not have one – and one more to be shared by Odélie and the triplets. The rest would camp – even Serge.

  Michel helped fix tents, erect posts, and carry boxes of food to a small cooking tent manned by a tired Felix; always keeping an eye out for Frieda, but only seeing Odélie, who ignored him and flirted with Serge.

  Before dark the following day, Michel was summoned to see Madame Rosie.

  He pulled the purple curtain of her tent aside, revealing the fortune teller lit from above by soft light. She sat at a small round table, a glass ball in front of her.

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Ah Michel, finally you have come to me,’ Madame Rosie said. Her accent was strange, but beautiful. Her w’s and v’s were switched around, her voice throaty and rich. Michel found it slightly hypnotic.

  He sat down across from her, unsure of what to expect.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to visit.’

  ‘Jean said you needed me for something?’

  ‘Give me your hand,’ she said.

  ‘He said you needed help with the tent?’

  ‘Give me your hand,’ she repeated, her green eyes, almost yellow in this light, boring into his.

  Michel placed his hand into hers; they were soft like a baby’s.

  ‘You will live a long life, Michel.’

  ‘I am sure you say that to everyone.’

  The Madame smiled at him, revealing a gold-capped incisor. ‘Perhaps. For those who pay.’ />
  ‘I have little money.’

  ‘I have not asked you to pay.’

  ‘I don’t have anything I want to know.’

  ‘I think you do – that’s why I asked Jean to send you to me.’

  ‘I’m just here to work, Madame.’ Michel stood and pulled his hand away.

  ‘But what of the woman you wish to cherish?’

  Michel stopped. ‘Cherish?’

  ‘That is what you feel, is it not?’

  Michel sat down heavily in the chair. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know many things, Michel. Some of it I see, plain as day, when no one is looking.’

  ‘You saw us?’

  ‘I have seen the way you look at her.’

  ‘I just think she is pretty,’ he said stupidly.

  ‘Just pretty? No. Michel. There is more. What do you want to know?’

  Michel gave her his hand again; she grabbed it strongly between her fingers.

  ‘Is Bertrand, my friend, all right? Is he well?’

  ‘Your friend is well.’ She studied his palm. ‘But that is not the question you wish to ask.’

  ‘Will the war end?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will I be safe?’

  ‘Yes. But again, Michel, you are not asking the right question.’

  He took a deep breath in. ‘Will I be alone in my life?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes. But you will think it is the end when it is not. Remember this. Do not be disheartened.’

  ‘Can I ask you something else?’

  ‘Yes. Anything.’

  ‘And you will tell me the truth?’

  ‘If I can see it, then I shall tell you the truth.’

  ‘Will Frieda leave Werner? Will her heart be mine?’

  Madame Rosie dropped Michel’s hand. She leaned back in her chair for a moment, then from a pocket in her scarlet dress she took out a stick of incense. She lit it, and from it a strange scent and smoke filled the tent.

  ‘She loves many,’ her voice said through the cloud.

  As the smoke dissipated, Michel saw Madame Rosie through the gloom, her eyes too bright, her gold tooth shining. He felt his head swim and dip.

  ‘Frieda is a mystery to me. She does not want to reveal her truth.’