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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘No show tonight.’ Werner appeared. ‘The Boche will be here soon enough. Tonight we rest, and move tomorrow. There is a field, a mile or so down the track, for us to camp on. Make your way there. Serge will lead you.’

  The troupe sluggishly climbed back aboard the wagons, following Serge and Odélie, who led the procession.

  Michel waited for Claudette and Beau to finish grazing, reluctant to leave the view of the sea. When he turned back, he realised Werner had not returned to his caravan and sat on the grass, smoking a cigar.

  ‘This is my last one,’ he said.

  Michel nodded.

  ‘You are angry at me for last night? The way I treated you?’

  Michel did not answer and patted Claudette’s neck.

  ‘She explained that it was a surprise. A gift.’

  ‘Beau needs to be re-shod,’ Michel said.

  Werner looked out into the ocean as if he could find words in the salty surf.

  ‘Tell me, Michel, why do you stay? What have we got here now that entices you so?’

  ‘It is a job.’

  ‘One I have never paid you for.’

  ‘I couldn’t stay in Paris. I have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Don’t speak to her again,’ Werner said, but there was little threat in his voice, only fear.

  Michel took the reins in his hands and walked the horses on to the camp. He looked back once at Werner, who still sat gazing out to sea, looking as lost as Michel felt.

  The troupe had made camp quickly and returned to their caravans and tents, so Michel was alone in putting the horses away for the night.

  Jean, perhaps, had erected his tent, and Michel sat inside, his stomach empty, his nerves frayed, and wrote his thoughts to the only person he really trusted.

  Dearest Bertrand,

  It is night. The owls are quiet, and the wind is blowing through the trees with the promise of a gale.

  I am in my tent, alone as always. Yet I feel a little joy at the fact that I visited her yesterday. We talked. And it was enough for me – just to hear her voice again. I cherished her, every moment. It was enough.

  I do not think I will be here much longer; my desire for her was seen by the wrong man – by the boss. She is not mine, and despite the fact that I know she cannot be, I hold out hope – fruitless foolish hope.

  What should I do, Bertrand? Tell me.

  I try to hear your voice, to hear your counsel, yet there is nothing tonight. The wind has picked up even more. Rain is not far away.

  The horses are cold. I have used my own blankets to warm them, but they look at me with sad eyes – they are tired of moving, of running. I think I am too.

  Bertrand, I wish you could tell me a story – those stories you told me when I was a child and, when I think of it, even as an adult, they made the world seem a magical place, full of adventure. The reality of this adventure is too much for me. The war is raging around us and it will not be long until it finds me and drags me to it. I wonder if I should have stayed in Paris – looking back, there seems little reason for me to have left. There is nowhere safe to run to.

  I worry for you, Bertrand. I heard from Anton that bombs were dropped near Paris, that the city is infested with Germans, their language, their rules. Are you well? I hope that you are. I pray that you are.

  I must go now, my friend. Let this letter find you in good spirits.

  Your friend,

  Michel

  The wind that evening continued to grow, bringing with it a spattering of rain. Michel wrapped his coat around him to scare away the cold. One by one, the troupe blew out their candles until it became completely dark. He listened to the wind groan as it bent the tents easily to its will. He wondered whether it would grow strong enough to lift the tents clear off the ground, sending them sailing over the ocean like balloons a child had let go. He turned onto his side and pulled his coat up further, shivering and worried for the horses who must now be damp with only his blankets for cover.

  At first, he thought the wind had destroyed a tent. The shouts from outside were frantic; then lights came, first torches, then other lights that shone into Michel’s tent and almost blinded him.

  ‘Where is he?’ the voice behind the light said.

  ‘Who?’ Michel sat up, shielding his eyes.

  ‘Darbonne.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’

  A shout made the man leave Michel, who ran quickly out of the tent to find Anton face-down on the ground, a soldier cuffing him as a black car waited, its flag of red with the black insignia flapping in the wind.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Michel asked Jean, who stood watching from his caravan steps.

  ‘They’ve come for Anton.’

  Michel saw Frieda watching, her hand covering her mouth, as if stopping herself from screaming out to her trapeze partner – the man who had caught her mid-flight and never once let her fall. Michel wanted to go to her, to wrap his arms around her, but he could not move. He was rooted to the spot as the wind blew and the rain pelted down, and Anton was heaved upwards.

  For a moment, Michel met Anton’s gaze – the man’s eyes were wide, his mouth agape. It reminded Michel of when he had fallen as a child – that look of shock and panic.

  ‘What has he done?’ Michel croaked, his throat tight.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jean said.

  ‘Can’t we—’ Michel made to move towards Anton, but Jean pulled him back.

  ‘Come inside, there’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘But… what has he done?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know,’ Jean said, and turned away from Michel who followed him inside.

  ‘Don’t lie, Jean! What is going on?’

  Jean sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘They say… they say he was distributing anti-German leaflets in town. They say he is with the resistance – they are arresting him for being a spy.’

  Michel thought of the radio that never left his side, the wires in his tent and Werner threatening him.

  ‘It’s happened before,’ Michel said.

  ‘Once, just before you joined. He was with some sort of resistance group – sending messages over the radio. He said it was the only way he could help.’

  ‘And Werner stopped him.’

  ‘He thought he had. But then, obviously Anton didn’t.’

  Michel stood at the door and watched as Anton was pushed into the back of the car. A soldier approached Werner and Michel saw the ringmaster pass the solider some money. It was a quiet, fleeting exchange. Then Werner went inside his caravan and did not look back as Anton was driven away, the car’s rear lights red in the gloom of the night.

  Nine

  Ringmaster Werner

  That morning, before the sun had a chance to rise, the troupe quickly packed up. Michel rode Beau over to Jean who was steering his caravan, Louis straining against the reins.

  ‘He’s tired,’ Jean said, and rubbed at his own eyes with one hand.

  ‘We all are.’

  ‘I saw something last night, just before they left with Anton. Werner gave some money to one of the soldiers.’

  Jean did not take his gaze away from the road ahead.

  ‘I saw it with my own eyes,’ Michel told him.

  ‘So, what are you trying to say?’

  ‘That Werner tipped them off about Anton. He saw the wires and things in Anton’s tent and got mad.’

  ‘Must have been a trick of the light. Werner would never have tipped them off about Anton.’

  ‘Why do you keep trusting him, Jean? Why? He doesn’t pay any of us. He treats Frieda as though she is his property, and he clearly paid the Germans to take Anton away.’

  Jean did not answer. He flicked at the reins and stared ahead.

  ‘Jean. Answer me, please. I thought we were friends?’

  ‘We are, Michel. We are friends. But I don’t know the answer. I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Then who does?’

  ‘Werner. You
want to ask him?’

  ‘If I do, what will happen?’

  ‘You already know the answer to that.’

  ‘So, I do nothing?’

  ‘For now, at least.’

  They rode until midday and rested for a few hours, until Serge told them to continue on.

  ‘The horses are tired, Serge,’ Michel told him. ‘They need to rest, to eat.’

  ‘So do I, so I suggest you shut up and we carry on until we can find somewhere decent for the night.’

  Michel swapped the horses round, so that Jacques and Abigail could rest from pulling Werner’s large caravan and take on the smaller ones. Michel rode Claudette, who restlessly flicked her head, now and then stopping to stare at the ground.

  He talked softly to her all throughout the afternoon, until they reached a hamlet of five or so houses clumped together in a small valley, the smoke from their chimneys hanging heavy in the damp air.

  Werner took control and spoke to the occupant of the first house, who directed him to the largest property, one with stables and a barn. Werner returned within minutes, a smug smile on his face. ‘Lodgings have been procured. The horses need rest, stables, feed. And Michel sleeps in the barn.’

  ‘As if I wasn’t aware they’re tired,’ Michel muttered to Jean.

  ‘At least you’ll be warm and dry in the barn?’

  ‘Serge, Vassily, Hugo – you’re in the barn with Michel too,’ Werner shouted before he led them on.

  That night, the troupe was quiet. For a few francs, the lady of the house had prepared soup and potatoes, yet they ate without gusto – each thinking of Anton, yet not one mentioning his name.

  Michel retired early to the barn and soon, Hugo, Vassily and Serge joined him, carrying their bags and a gas lantern.

  ‘Here, I still have a few bottles.’ Hugo pulled his famous liqueur from his bag. ‘We can toast Anton.’

  Michel looked to Serge, waiting for him to decline. Instead, he took the bottle from Hugo and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He passed the bottle to Michel, who also drank, enjoying the warmth.

  ‘If I could have, I would have spirited Anton away… but alas, I am only a master of parlour tricks,’ Vassily said, his thin fingers rolling a cigarette.

  ‘So, you’re not really magic then?’ Hugo laughed, his face already growing red from the alcohol.

  ‘Where’s Kacper sleeping?’ Michel suddenly realised he had not seen him all day.

  ‘He’s got a cold so he’s sleeping in with Jean and Giordano. The monkey is driving Giordano crazy!’ Hugo said.

  ‘I wish I could have had my own caravan.’ Vassily lit his cigarette. ‘I would have liked that very much.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get one?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Giordano had some money ferreted away. Gave it to Werner. It was only supposed to be the women and Werner who got a house on wheels. Giordano is a precious soul – cannot and will not camp lest he ruin his clothes!’

  Serge laughed. ‘I do like his clothes though. He annoys me, but the clothes – I always wanted to have nice clothes like that.’

  Michel watched Serge as he spoke of clothes, shoes, a house with nice furniture. The alcohol had relaxed his features, so his jaw did not seem tense and the permanent crease between his eyebrows had disappeared.

  ‘I think one day, I will have all those things,’ Serge finished, and drank back some more génépy.

  ‘I had those things once.’ Hugo swayed a little. ‘But then I became poor – lost my job, my home, my wife…’ He burped.

  ‘But now you have us.’ Vassily patted his arm. ‘And all this!’ He opened his arms as if he had just conjured the barn from thin air.

  ‘Then I am a lucky man!’

  ‘Come now. Bed, no more of this talk.’ Serge stood, and Michel saw that the crease between his eyes was back, his jaw set once more.

  ‘Always the first to leave the party. Always the one to ruin the fun.’ Nonetheless, Hugo allowed Serge to help him up and lay him down on a blanket. He covered him like a baby then lay down, turning off the lamp so that Michel had to find a place to sleep in the gloom.

  The troupe travelled inland for two more rain-filled days with no indication from Werner as to where they were heading.

  ‘I saw a sign not long ago that said Paris was three hundred miles away,’ Jean told Michel, as he rode next to the caravan.

  ‘You don’t think we are heading to Paris?’

  ‘Who knows? Can’t carry on like this much longer. I think Giordano will kill Gino if he has to sleep with him in there another night.’

  ‘How is Kacper?’

  ‘Better. He gets a cough easily – especially with this weather. Bisou is driving Giordano crazy too. We have him settled at the rear, but he thinks he is a dog and wants to sit on the bed.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be able to manage the distance if we walked him.’ Michel thought of Bisou’s stumpy legs.

  ‘I know. I don’t mind him. It’s just Giordano. Says his clothes are full of horse and monkey hair.’

  Michel chuckled.

  ‘It’s not funny. It was at first, but now it’s tiresome. Giordano’s right – it’s like living in a zoo.’

  ‘I feel for Aramis.’ Michel looked to the small crate being pulled behind Werner’s caravan. ‘He’s not been let out of that thing for days.’

  ‘He’s sick, Michel. I doubt he would go out even if we let him.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘Has been for a while. Werner has tried his best – got him medicine when he could afford it. But he’s old and tired. It won’t be long now. The last of the wild animals gone.’

  ‘Apart from Gino.’

  ‘That’s if he survives Giordano.’ Jean smiled weakly.

  Michel was surprised to see that he remembered the road on which they now travelled. The row of trees, the dip in the land from the rocky outcrop that jutted out over the small village like a welcoming sign. They were back in Vodable. And Michel’s heart soared as he thought of Lucien, of the dog Coquette. He almost felt as though he had come home.

  Michel rode Beau ahead and slowed alongside Werner’s caravan, the ringmaster at the reins for a change and Serge nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I know where we can stay,’ he told Werner.

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘A friend, he has a farm. I will show you.’

  Before Werner could disagree, Michel rode out in front, leading them towards Lucien and Isabelle.

  Lucien did not seem surprised to see Michel, and as he rode up the drive to the farm, Lucien simply turned from digging in the garden and waved his arm in the air.

  ‘You came back!’ The old man took Michel into an embrace as he dismounted. ‘I got your letter. Your friend sent some too – come, I’ll show you.’

  ‘I’ve got a favour to ask, Lucien. You remember the circus I told you about in my letter – the troupe from the train? Well, there’s no train anymore, just a bunch of us in caravans and tents, and we need somewhere to stay. Can you help?’

  ‘Of course, of course. You can camp where you like! It’s so good to see you, Michel, so good! We needed something to cheer us. The Germans came, you know, just after you left.’

  ‘They are everywhere.’

  Lucien nodded. ‘Like rats. Thankfully, our resident rat is a fat, slovenly man – Oberfeldwebel Gehring. They took over a few buildings to use as lodgings for soldiers on leave, but we have found that as long as Gehring is well fed and his pockets are full, he leaves us be.’

  ‘You think he would leave us be?’ Michel indicated the caravans and wagons that rattled down the track.

  Lucien shrugged. ‘We can only try.’

  Isabelle was not convinced that allowing a circus troupe to camp on their land would be as acceptable as Lucien believed. ‘You are a madman!’ she yelled at him as Michel, pretending to be invisible, bent down to pat Coquette in their warm kitchen. ‘You think that everything will be all right – you have no brain in your head, Luc
ien! Your mother always told me you had no brain – well, I wish she were alive now to see this!’

  ‘What’s so wrong with a few friends to stay for a while?’ Lucien placated. ‘It is our land – we can still do as we please with it.’

  ‘And what will happen when the Boche see who our visitors are? They’ll come asking for papers.’

  ‘I’m sure they have them – all good French folk.’ Lucien nodded at Michel, who smiled at Isabelle.

  She slammed a milk jug onto the wooden table, the cream slopping over the edge and dripping down the sides. Suddenly the twin cats appeared, and with a quick glance at Michel and the dog, began to lap up the drops before Isabelle swatted them away with the back of her hand.

  ‘It’ll just be for one night.’ Lucien took her hands in his and kissed them. ‘One night. And if Gehring is amenable, maybe one more night.’

  ‘I just don’t know, Lucien. I just don’t know. Maybe they will think they are gypsies? I heard from Madame Foucault that they took that Roma family away from Saint-Vincent. They were told they could not travel anymore – forbidden, she says. They were sent to a camp to stay. What if they do the same to Michel – to his friends?’

  ‘They’re a circus!’ Lucien cried. ‘Not Roma.’

  Isabelle looked out of the window at the caravans – Jean and Giordano were trying to coax Bisou outside. ‘Doesn’t look like much of a circus to me – looks like gypsies. And I dare say Gehring will see the same thing.’

  ‘He sees what we make him see. You know that. Why else do we still have our food, our farm? We will make it OK with him, I promise you. Hand on heart, see?’ Lucien pressed his right hand against his heart.

  ‘And how will you make him amenable, Lucien? You are already plying him with some of our best wine, duck and pork. What next? Me?’

  ‘My dear, I could never, would never, turn you over to him!’ Lucien kneeled down on the flagstone floor as if seeking penance.

  ‘Get up, you old fool.’ Isabelle looked at Michel, who fidgeted with his hands in his pockets like a small child. ‘Fine, one night. If there are any problems, you, my friend, are gone, and you say we had nothing to do with it. Understood?’ She raised her eyebrows.