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

by Carly Schabowski

  Before the moustached man could speak again, Frieda appeared from behind Werner with a smile on her face that Michel had never seen before. He held his breath.

  ‘Herr Captain,’ Frieda said. ‘Welcome. I’m sorry – I do not know your name?’ She stepped forward and curtsied.

  The German’s wide eyes followed her every move.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, and took her hand in his, gently kissing the soft skin just above her wrist. Michel felt a ball of anger rise in the pit of his stomach; he clenched his fists and saw that both Werner and Serge had done the same.

  ‘You must join us this evening, as our honoured guests.’

  ‘I am no captain,’ the moustached man said, his voice softer now, a slight pink glow on his cheeks. ‘I am merely an oberleutnant. And my name… Yes. You can call me Herr Köhler.’

  ‘And you may call me Frieda.’

  He nodded and did not let go. She gently stepped back so that her hand finally fell away from his grasp.

  Herr Köhler waited until his soldiers had finished their task, but they found only a bottle of Hugo’s génépy as a prize. ‘This is illegal, you know,’ he said, and smiled.

  ‘It is medicinal,’ Frieda said, her voice purring. ‘Just to help with the nerves when I perform. It is scary to perform in front of so many – especially when they are handsome.’

  Herr Köhler’s eyes strayed from Frieda’s face as he examined her from head to foot. ‘You have one evening,’ he finally said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You will bring everyone’s papers to me tomorrow morning before you leave. It will give me the chance to note down our visitors – names, origin. I’m sure you understand.’ He clipped his heels together, alerting the other soldiers that the search, for whatever it was, was over.

  Michel looked over at Frieda, whose smile had disappeared. Werner took her by the elbow and steered her towards their caravan. Serge escorted Oberleutnant Köhler and his soldiers towards the stall selling Hugo’s génépy.

  ‘You OK?’ Michel felt Jean’s large hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I am. You?’

  Jean’s face was pale, Giordano’s even more so. ‘What were they looking for?’

  Jean’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, his voice dry. ‘Nothing. They just like to cause trouble.’ He turned to look at Giordano.

  ‘Jean, tell me,’ Michel whispered urgently. ‘What’s happening? What were they looking for?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jean repeated, looking Michel dead in the eye. ‘They’re just seeing if they can stir things up. That’s what it’s like now – ask Anton, he hears it all.’

  Jean and Giordano returned to their tent and Michel left them. ‘Madame,’ he said to Geneviève, ‘let me help.’

  He bent down to pick up her clothes, the shoes, a book, which had been thrown out into the night. She did not speak, but now and again gave a muffled sob as she dusted off her belongings.

  ‘Thank you, Michel,’ she said finally, carrying the last of her things inside. ‘I would invite you in, but as you can see, I am in a bit of a mess at the moment.’ She gave him a watery smile.

  ‘Madame, no matter.’ He took her hand, kissed it, and gave a little bow. ‘If you need anything?’

  ‘Merci, you are a true gentleman.’

  Michel made his way back to the horses, aware of the clump of soldiers who still stood nearby, laughing with Serge.

  ‘You are quite the charmer still.’ Odélie appeared at his side.

  ‘Madame Geneviève? She was upset.’ Michel frowned.

  ‘No, no! I’m sorry. I did not mean it like that. It was a joke, nothing more.’ She touched his arm. ‘It is emotional, all of this, for all of us.’

  ‘It is.’ He scratched at the stubble on his cheek; when had he shaved last?

  ‘You look tired, Michel.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then go and rest for a while.’

  He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

  ‘Will you help me if I need anything?’ She tilted her head to the side; her eyes narrowed a little and the smile seemed less sincere.

  ‘Of course,’ Michel said. ‘Just as I would do for Serge, or Jean-Jacques, or anyone here.’

  Odélie’s smile dropped. ‘I need Claudette with blue feathers, not crimson.’

  ‘You said crimson before.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Odélie snapped. ‘A woman is entitled to change it whenever and however much she likes! Blue.’

  Michel watched as she stalked away. He sighed.

  He was exhausted but did not rest as such. Instead, he sat outside his tent watching and waiting to see if Frieda would reappear.

  The crackle from Anton’s radio made him look to the left. Anton was in his tent; no light, just the radio. Michel listened hard and heard voices – German, not French – and then Anton’s voice as if he were having a conversation.

  Moments later, Werner hurried past, striding towards Anton’s tent. As he entered, the voices disappeared and Michel caught Werner’s voice – low and threatening but the words were mumbled.

  Michel waited until he saw Werner leave, followed by Anton, his eyes downcast, his limbs slow and heavy.

  He hesitated until they were gone, then quickly ran to Anton’s tent. Inside was not just one radio but three, plus wires, headphones and a microphone.

  He closed the tent flap and walked back to his own. The wind blew, but this time it was cold and made him shiver; Bertrand would have called it the wind of change, and Michel believed it.

  That evening, Michel was at the rear of the Big Top, watching the show from his seat on an upturned bucket. The dancers danced, the clown clowned, the acrobats contorted and flipped and spun. Frieda flew in the heavens above them and Werner rallied the crowd, as the pared-back band comprising Kacper and his accordion, accompanied by a workhand on the trumpet and Serge thumping a drum, tried to fill the tent with mellifluous notes. The audience clapped with delight under the twinkling lights, only seeing what they were meant to – the performers, the colours, the act.

  Michel knew different, though. The troupe’s faces, although made up as usual, were more mask-like than ever. Hugo was paler, his eyes larger and sadder; Werner’s smile was frozen in place; the triplets and Odélie were almost ghost-like in their pallid blues and whites, as though hoping to simply disappear in front of their audience.

  Sitting front and centre were Herr Köhler and his men. Hugo’s génépy had worked a treat, and they laughed and slapped their thighs as Hugo honked horns and pretended to fall over his own foot. By the end they were half asleep, and Herr Köhler had to be carried back to the village.

  Michel waited until the very end, when Frieda tumbled into the safe hands of the net, her long stockinged legs strong and supple, her curves enhanced by the sequinned bodysuit.

  He imagined that instead of the net it was his arms that held her, pulled her to him so she was safe. Then, he imagined her standing in a parlour filled with light and birdsong from the trees outside. In his daydream, he took her in his arms, and they moved together as if they were one and the same.

  He snapped back to reality. If, just if, she ever spoke to him again, what could he do? Woo her? With what – the few francs he had kept from Lucien or won at mouche? And what of Werner? He would not let her go without a fight – one which Michel knew he would lose. He felt his hope slipping away. She was not his – she never would be.

  He stood and took Beau’s reins, then Claudette’s. He waited, counted to ten, then twenty. Finally, she walked past him, the scent of her sweat and lemon perfume sweet yet fresh at the same time. She turned to look at him and smiled: not a smile she gave to Herr Köhler, nor a smile she gave to Serge or Odélie, but a shy smile Michel knew well – one that Estelle in Paris had given him, one which told him he was right to stay, to wait. Patience, Michel. That’s what Estelle had said. Patience.

  As the troupe quietened, lights were switched off and torches doused, Mich
el sat out with the horses, stoking a fire in a steel drum, and wrapping them in his own blankets. They soon settled onto the bed of straw, each using the other for warmth. Michel watched them sleep, their breath steaming in the cold air. He would speak with Werner tomorrow. This could not go on. They needed stables; the weather would soon be worse.

  Beau would not settle completely, and whinnied and kicked for no reason. Michel sat close to him, stroked his nose, and began to tell him a story.

  ‘When I read to you before, it was always the story of Tintin and his adventures. Well, this story, now, is not from the book. It is my story. Once upon a time, I was born in Paris to my mother, Marie. My father had died in the war, so she was alone, with me, in Paris and no money.’

  Beau quietened, but there was a noise, a rustle behind them – something was there that should not be.

  Michel stood.

  ‘Keep going,’ a voice said.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, even though he knew the answer; he just wanted her to speak again.

  ‘Frieda.’ She moved close to the fire, the orange glow lighting up her face under the cloak she wore.

  ‘You should be inside, it’s cold.’

  ‘So should you. Leave them, just for a moment. Come and warm yourself inside. I have some wine that can warm you too.’ That smile again. The one that was just for him.

  ‘What about Werner?’

  ‘He’s gone into town to celebrate with Serge. He won’t be back for some time. Trust me.’

  Michel hesitated, unsure of himself, aware that words had failed him once more.

  ‘Come. Please.’ She held out her hand.

  Michel took it and allowed her to lead him towards her and Werner’s home; feeling as though this were all simply a dream.

  Inside the caravan the ceiling was painted with pink-cheeked cherubs that floated on clouds against the purest of blue skies; bunches of rich purple grapes decorated each corner, so realistic that Michel felt the urge to raise his hand and pluck a plump fruit from the vine.

  A bed covered in a rich red-and-gold blanket dominated the space. Beside it were a chair, some clothes, a small warming stove and a brass stand holding some potted herbs, a few cups and a jug of wine the colour of the painted grapes. A door led to another room, but it was closed.

  ‘Here, sit,’ she commanded, pointing to the chair near the stove.

  Michel sat.

  ‘Take this.’ She handed him a glass filled with the thick, red wine. ‘Drink.’

  He drank.

  ‘It will warm you, keep drinking.’

  The wine was not like anything Michel had tasted before. A spice had been added – perhaps cinnamon; no, cardamom – something that made him relax back into the seat.

  ‘I like the way you talk to the horses. You calm them. Even if it means you catch your death of cold. Tell me, why do you read to them so? It’s odd. Who are you, Michel?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m anyone.’

  She smiled and her eyes narrowed. She sat across from him on a footstool covered in a dark green velvet threaded with gold – as if sunlight were trying to escape through a canopy of leaves.

  She poured herself some of the spiced wine, the slop as it hit the glass like heavy rain on a windowpane. She sipped at it, then, licking her lips, she said, ‘Tell me your secrets. Tell me who you are. And then I will tell you who I am.’

  ‘I have no secrets,’ he answered. He placed the glass onto the brass table and felt his head swim.

  ‘As you wish.’ She placed her hand on his knee. ‘Sit back. It is the warmth; it is making you sleepy.’

  Michel did as he was told and enjoyed the feeling of heat that came from her hand.

  ‘If you will not tell me your secrets, tell me a story instead. I hear no stories; I know so little of who you are.’

  ‘What story would you like?’ Michel looked into her emerald eyes and held her gaze.

  ‘Tell me the story of the man who can talk to horses.’

  ‘And what will I get in return?’

  ‘A story of a girl who is always hiding, but what she wants more than anything is to ride away on a jet-black stallion to a home of her own.’

  ‘You?’

  Frieda took her hand from his lap. ‘First, your story.’

  Michel sat up slightly, and Frieda poured more wine into his glass. ‘There is not much to tell.’

  ‘You were born in Paris, your father had died. Continue…’

  ‘My mother and I lived in an apartment in the 14th arrondissement. She liked to paint and filled it with colour. We had little, but she made everything bigger, more wonderful. Monsieur Bertrand and his wife Amélie were our neighbours. They would watch me when Maman had to work. Monsieur Bertrand taught me to read. He bought me the book you hear me read to the horses. I was not good at school; I had a stutter, and I could not find the words when the teacher asked me questions. They made fun of me, until I grew a head taller than them. Then they stopped. Monsieur Bertrand taught me to read aloud, to master my stutter. Then he found me a job when Maman died and I had no money. I was a stable-boy and I read to the horses, to calm myself, and then to calm them. I learned to train them, to ride them. And now I am here.’

  Whilst he had spoken, she had closed her eyes and Michel wondered if she had fallen asleep.

  ‘You think it is a small story, don’t you?’ She opened her eyes.

  ‘It is what it is.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I like it, but you could make it more like it was, Michel. It could be full of colour, laughter, what your mother said to you, what she smelled like, what Paris was like in the rain!’ Her voice was higher now, her words rushing out. ‘The smell of baked bread from the boulangerie, or how the sun rose above the city’s rooftops, or how the gardens looked in the summer, or how the people sat at cafés and sipped coffee and ate cake!’

  ‘I could. But I am not really a storyteller. I am a horse trainer.’

  ‘Do you miss Paris?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But you will not return?’

  Michel shook his head. ‘I want to. But with the war, I am not sure what is there for me anymore.’

  ‘But there are things for you here?’

  He nodded then drank the rest of his wine.

  ‘Michel, there are those who long for home, who cannot find themselves comfortable anywhere but with that which they already know. But there are those who welcome a change of sound, of sight and of smell. They long for the unknown just as others long for the known.’

  ‘And you are one who welcomes change?’ Michel said.

  ‘No. I am the one who longs for home.’

  Suddenly a knock on the door made Frieda jump up from her seat. Her smile was gone, her face suddenly pale. Before she could answer the door, it was flung open by a red-faced Werner.

  ‘You! Out! Now!’ he yelled at Michel, who stood obediently and climbed down the steps.

  Frieda rushed to the door.

  ‘Close it. Stay inside.’ Werner’s voice was low; Frieda’s bottom lip trembled. He turned to Michel and gazed down at him from the wagon.

  One by one, Werner clomped down the steps after him, the sound echoing in the still air.

  ‘We just talked, nothing more.’

  ‘With her! You talked with her, where we sleep! Who do you think you are, Michel Bonnet? Eh? You already charmed Odélie – yes, I know of this. If you think I don’t know what is going on then you are stupider than I thought.’

  ‘We just talked.’

  ‘You just talked.’ Werner mimicked his voice and Michel felt his jaw clench. The ringmaster shoved him a little, so that he was forced to step backwards.

  ‘There’s no law against talking, is there?’

  ‘My law says there’s no fraternising between worker and performer.’

  ‘I am friends with Jean. Giordano and the others. Why not Frieda?’ Michel said, emboldened by the alcohol.

  ‘Not
this performer.’ Werner stepped down and pushed Michel again. ‘You think you know it all, don’t you, Michel? Making friends. Being part of this. I let you, you know. By my grace I ignored it. But you have stepped too close. Too close. And you stand here and tell me you were just talking?’

  ‘We were.’ Frieda opened the door, the light behind her illuminating them all. ‘We just talked. That’s all. About the horses, about what Beau could be trained to do next.’ She nodded slightly at Michel.

  ‘She’s right. I was saying that maybe I could teach Beau to dance like the Spanish horses. She thought it would be a nice surprise for you.’

  ‘Come. Come inside now.’ Frieda moved between the two men, placing her hands on Werner’s shoulders. ‘Please. I asked him to come and talk to me about Beau. That’s all.’

  Werner’s eyes bulged in the darkness. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He raised his arms, but then dropped them heavily to his sides as if all the fight had been knocked out of him already.

  ‘We leave at dawn – make sure the horses are ready.’

  Michel stood in the pitch darkness, watching his breath curl in the icy air. He watched Werner walk up the steps to Frieda, and only then did he return to the horses.

  The next morning, the troupe left before the cockerel crowed and took a rough track away from the town – away from Herr Köhler and his office, where he would be sitting waiting for their papers, waiting to know who they really were.

  They moved the horses on quickly, stirring up dust in the wake of their caravans. Michel rode Beau, Claudette on a lead rope next to him. Bisou – too small to keep up – was in Jean and Giordano’s caravan, annoying Giordano by knocking things over and leaving smelly deposits on the floor. No one spoke, no one asked where they were going next, and Michel was too tired, too unnerved by the evening before to think about it – all he knew was that Frieda was in danger with Werner and he had to save her from him.

  They rested mid-afternoon outside a settlement of a few houses nestled into the rocky western coastline. Michel had not seen the sea in a long while and he stood on a cliff edge, taking in large lungfuls of fresh salty air whilst the horses rested and ate the lush grass.