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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘Madame, absolutely.’

  ‘Absolument!’ Lucien stood and hugged her. ‘But think, if it is OK, and they stay, then we can see a circus, my love! A real-life circus! Think, a night of food and wine and dancing and tricks! It is what we need. It is what the whole town needs.’

  Michel saw Isabelle smile despite herself, and her eyes widened like they had months before when Michel had told her of the sights of Paris.

  ‘Merci, Lucien, Isabelle.’ Michel kissed her on both cheeks and went out to tell the others they had a home for the night, at least.

  Late that afternoon, as tents were pitched, fires lit, food sought, Michel left the troupe and walked towards the river he had left months before. In his pocket he took with him Bertrand’s replies to his letters. He wanted peace and quiet to read them.

  He found a dry enough log under a canopy of leaves and watched the swollen river, now a dirty brown from the mud that had been churned up by the recent rains.

  He pulled the cream envelopes from his pocket and smiled to himself at Bertrand’s familiar scrawl. He held one to his nose and believed he could smell home.

  He opened the letter dated July, and read:

  Michel, my friend,

  I received your letter today, and I was so heartened by it – to hear that you are well, alive, and in a circus no less?

  I am glad, in a way, that you found a home for yourself amongst the players and the artists; when Amélie was alive, she loved the circus – the music, the costumes, the acts. She always told me I would have made a fine clown. I think she was probably right.

  You talked of cherishing a young lady. My dear Michel, how wonderful for you to have found that feeling, but alas as you say, it is complicated. Love is complicated, even when it seems not to be. All I can advise you is to be her friend. You say you cannot have her, cannot be with her. Why is this? Is she married?

  The best you can be, to anyone, is a friend. And I can say from my personal experience that you are one of the best friends a person could have. In this way, you can still cherish her.

  You see, I have surprised you with my response, have I not? I have not told you to ignore your feelings. But then, I am an old romantic at heart and believe love can and will conquer all.

  I have a confession to make. I now regret not leaving with you. Things have changed so quickly. Monsieur Freidman had his shoe shop taken from him. He is still here, living in his apartment above me as always, yet he is now under surveillance because his son – you remember him – is, or rather was, a lawyer, and he has been fired, along with all Jews in official roles.

  Monsieur Lippmann, the journalist, was arrested. No one knows quite what he did. Although it does not really matter now, does it?

  The rationing has begun in earnest and crowds flock out of doors. I am glad I kept so much cognac – I hope it will see me through to the end of the war, or my death, whichever comes first.

  You must forgive me for being so maudlin. It is just that life – the colour, the hope – is gone now, and I fear it will become worse.

  We have curfews now – lights out, drawn curtains, no going out after 9 p.m.

  Madame Odette is faring well – she is a wily old bag, always was. She has made the acquaintance of a lieutenant who enjoys her company, the café and a drink, so she seems to be doing quite a bit of trade these evenings. I, of course, do not and cannot go there at night. But I do go and see her in the day, for a coffee, a chat with whoever is left.

  I think I must stop now, Michel. I feel myself spiralling further down into a pit of despair.

  I pray you are well; I pray you still see some colour in your life.

  Your friend,

  Bertrand

  Michel folded the letter and placed it back into its envelope. He felt a tightening in his throat at the thought of Bertrand alone; at the fear that was clear in his letter.

  He lit a cigarette and waited until it had burned itself out before he opened the next letter, his hands cold, the lump in his throat still there.

  My Dear Michel,

  Another letter has arrived! You cannot know the absolute joy I felt when I received it. I did not open it straight away, but saved it all day in my pocket, ready to savour this evening when the curtains are drawn, and I am a prisoner in my own home.

  You are indeed correct that I write this now from my desk. My latest reply to you.

  There is not much to tell you about this life; the only thing I can say is that because the Boche enjoy our fair city so much, they have not destroyed it. The only bombs we had were in June, and since then it has been relatively quiet. I say quiet, but what I mean is I have not heard that dreaded thud and smash as the bombs fall. We have those damned sirens that whine almost every night, and some of us have stopped bothering to go to the air raid shelter. There seems little point to me – let them bomb me in my sleep!

  Food is the biggest problem we face now – the shortages are fraying everyone’s nerves. I manage with what I can get my hands on and Odette seems to get her hands on much – and will sell it to us for a price! I think I may have to pawn my father’s pocket watch – it will give me a few more francs to manage on. I was sad when I first thought of it, but then, if he was here, he would tell me to stop being so stupid and sell it to buy food.

  I am sorry to hear of your friend Felix. It seems as though anyone can disappear these days. Odette’s cousin’s husband was arrested for fighting with a solider in the street. When she went to the prison to visit him, they said he was not there. I do not think we will hear of him again.

  Now, enough of my miserable life here. Let me talk of important matters – those of the heart.

  First, your lady friend, Odélie – or rather your previous lady friend. I am sure that her heart has healed and that you did not treat her as badly as you thought. If it still weighs on you, Michel, then perhaps apologise to her, explain to her that your feelings are not strong enough for her and she deserves to be loved in the best way possible. That, I am sure, will bring you peace of mind and it will mean much to her.

  Your love for Frieda sounds wonderful, and I congratulate you on feeling this way! Those moments you describe remind me of my early days courting my dear Amélie – treasure these days, these moments, as much as you feel frustrated. Women are strange creatures, Michel, and it sounds as though she may feel something for you too – but you say she cannot be yours, for a reason you have not expanded upon. I do wonder whether that is because you still have hope that maybe you are wrong?

  I must close soon; I am due at Odette’s who has procured me a pound of butter and some fresh meat with her wily ways! But before I depart, I am going to sit here and look out at the street, letting my mind wander as I think of the colours and sounds of the circus show, of where you may be now, and what you may be doing. This daydream I am sure will keep me going for some time, until I receive your next letter – which, Michel, I dearly pray that I do.

  Take the best care, Michel.

  Bertrand

  Michel folded the letter and placed it on top of the other. He thought of Bertrand’s words. In his last letter he had explained the situation with Frieda and Werner – did that mean he had given up hope? To write it on paper made it too real – a defeat – yet Michel realised that he was not yet ready to be defeated.

  He stood and put the letters in his pocket, leaving the river behind and heading into town, wanting to be alone for a little while longer.

  Very little had changed in Vodable. The Madame’s café was still open, though now it served a few uniformed soldiers who sat and laughed with the locals. Michel spied a man, his legs long and thin, his arms the same, but with an enormous potbelly as if he were pregnant, perched on a bar stool close to the door, his feet dangling, his face round, flushed and joyful. He wore a uniform too, but his was unbuttoned and messy, as if he wore it only because he had to. Oberfeldwebel Gehring.

  Michel did not go in, but turned instead to the patisserie and bought himself a slice o
f rich chocolate cake layered with cream. He found a bench by the side of the church overlooking the cemetery and ate his cake slowly, luxuriating in the sweetness. It had cost him more than he could afford, but it was worth it, just this once.

  He waited in the quiet until the sun began its descent, and then stood to walk back to the farm before dark set in.

  Then, he saw her. Frieda.

  She sat down on the bench and he did the same.

  ‘I wondered where you were. Jean was sent to get some extra bread before the baker closed and I said I would go with him. Have you been here this whole time?’

  ‘A little while. I just wanted to walk and clear my head.’

  ‘Is there much on your mind?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ he said.

  ‘Werner is thankful you have found us a nice spot to stay for the evening. Lucien has been keeping him company – talking of wine and women and animals. They are making their way through their second bottle.’

  ‘Lucien is a wine connoisseur. He is good company.’

  ‘As are you, Michel.’ She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Frieda, you shouldn’t be here. I’m not allowed to speak to you – remember?’

  Frieda lifted her head from his shoulder. ‘I know, but I miss your voice.’

  Michel turned to look at her, their eyes locked.

  ‘There you are!’

  ‘Jean!’ Michel stood quickly.

  ‘Bread – here, take a loaf. I could only get two. Hopefully it will be enough.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be plenty. It’s time to go home.’

  The trio walked back, Jean out in front, whistling a tune. Michel felt his hand brush against Frieda’s, and in a moment of spontaneity he took her hand in his. She did not pull away and her thumb stroked his, just once. It made him feel breathless with the want of her.

  He knew in that moment that he would fight to be with her. She was Werner’s, but she had shown him that perhaps she would someday be his.

  They walked silently back to the farm, Michel enjoying her warmth, her scent, even her silence.

  Just before the turn in the bend that would lead them down the track, she pulled her hand away.

  The following morning broke with a frost on the ground, blue skies and a light breeze that stirred up the crunchy golden and bronze fallen leaves. Michel woke in an uncomfortable position, balled up on Lucien’s couch as Kacper had taken the spare room. He stretched and realised he would have to erect his tent, as cold as it was – he couldn’t sleep on this again.

  Michel breakfasted late with Lucien and Isabelle after they had finished feeding the troupe.

  ‘I gave them the shed,’ Lucien told Isabelle.

  ‘Good. And some blankets?’

  ‘Blankets too. They asked for a candle. I gave them one.’

  ‘What for?’ Michel asked.

  ‘That lion is dying. Werner was up all night with him. We moved him to the shed at daybreak.’

  ‘Why did no one wake me?’ Michel stood.

  ‘Sit down. Werner says he wants just him and Frieda.’

  ‘I should at least take a look, see if there is any way I can help?’

  ‘Fine, a quick look, but there’s nothing you can do, I’m afraid. It’s the end.’

  Michel went to the rear of the barn, where Lucien’s shed had been emptied of its tools and detritus to give room to the elderly lion.

  Michel had seen Aramis only once, at a performance. His gait had been slow, his eyes glazed as if blind. He knocked lightly on the wooden door and waited.

  ‘Michel.’ Frieda opened the door, her eyes filled with tears.

  Without thinking he took her hands in his. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She moved aside so he could see past her. There lay Aramis, his breathing slow and raspy, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. Werner lay on the floor next to him, his little hand stroking his mane and whispering gentle words as the lion pulled each breath in.

  ‘He won’t leave his side,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I should go in.’

  ‘Michel?’ Werner turned towards the door. His eyes were red, the skin underneath puffy.

  ‘Werner, I’m so sorry.’

  Werner stood and coughed, wiping tears from his face. ‘We can’t leave today,’ he gestured at Aramis, ‘but Lucien’s wife is worried about our presence here. I told Lucien one of us would go with him to see this Gehring, to try and get approval to stay awhile.’

  ‘I can go,’ Michel said.

  ‘No. I was thinking Serge – can you summon him?’

  ‘I think Michel would be better,’ Frieda said. ‘You know how Serge can be, and his very bulk may cause offence.’

  Werner looked Michel up and down. ‘I suppose Michel looks harmless enough – and he has the face of a simpleton. It may beg some sympathy.’

  Despite the slur, Michel smiled a little – it was almost good to see that Werner had not yet lost all of his gruffness.

  ‘I’ll go right away.’ Michel nodded at him. ‘And I’m sorry again.’

  Werner turned from him, then lay down on the floor once more, to talk to his friend for one last time.

  Isabelle had two bottles of wine ready for Michel to take, as well as fresh bread, bacon, and some money Lucien had loaned the troupe.

  ‘I’ll get it back from Werner when he’s better,’ Lucien said.

  ‘You’re ready to go?’ Michel pulled on his coat.

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t – you’ll have to go it alone.’

  ‘He’s got work to do,’ Isabelle explained, her voice flat, as if there had been an argument before Michel had entered.

  ‘You think he will listen to me?’ Michel asked.

  ‘He’ll listen to anyone as long as they’ve something in their hand,’ Lucien said. ‘Don’t worry.’

  As Michel followed the track to the town square, he heard the tip-tap of light feet behind him, followed by an even lighter footstep. He turned to look, and saw Frieda running towards him, Coquette – her tongue hanging out – at her heel.

  ‘You did not hear me shout at you?’ she said breathlessly as she reached Michel.

  ‘Did Coquette follow you or did you follow her?’

  ‘She followed me. Lucien said to let her come, as she pines when animals die. She’s sensitive.’

  ‘Werner allowed you?’

  ‘He wanted to be alone with Aramis…’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here. What if he finds out?’

  ‘I can help you. I have learned how Werner charms people to get what he wants. Besides, a woman’s charms will surely be useful now.’

  ‘If you’re sure…?’

  ‘I can’t stay there – I can’t watch Aramis die, and I can’t sit in a caravan or listen to the others talk of all those animals they have loved and are now dead. That’s all they are doing – Giordano is lamenting his dead cat from his childhood. I can’t bear it. Please. I promise if Werner says anything, I will tell him I insisted.’

  Michel started to walk again, and every few steps bent down to ruffle Coquette’s ears.

  ‘You love them, don’t you?’ Frieda whispered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Animals. All of them.’

  ‘Sometimes they are easier than humans. Kinder. More patient. More loving.’

  ‘You didn’t even know Aramis, yet you feel pain for him passing.’

  ‘I do,’ Michel said, then patted Coquette again.

  Frieda threaded her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. With the touch of her, he felt his stomach do a somersault and told himself to remember this moment.

  They continued quietly to the town square, where a group of four girls had drawn a hopscotch grid in chalk and were singing as they jumped.

  Oberfeldwebel Gehring, followed by two of his soldiers, walked towards the café. The girls did not stop their hoppi
ng, but they became quieter; an old woman who was making her way down the church steps now turned and walked back inside.

  ‘Stay here,’ Michel told Frieda. ‘It’s probably better if I try on my own first – just in case it does not go well.’

  ‘You must be joking.’ She walked towards the café that Gehring had just entered, and Michel quickened his step to catch up with her.

  Inside, Gehring stood holding court at the bar – about how things could be, and how things were with him.

  ‘I am a humble man. A servant to the Reich. But I am aware of where I am. Here, I am in a town – a village, no less – where there is little. Some farms. Some wine. This does not interest the Führer. You have nothing here he could want. So, we live in peace, you and me. I want no trouble. Just peace.’

  Michel paused at the bar to order a coffee, then took a seat nearby, Frieda next to him and Coquette under the table, her eyes watching the feet of those at the bar.

  ‘As you know, I am a man of peace. You have seen this. I just ask that you remember that. Understand how none of us, least of all me, want a life disturbed by friction.’

  Michel saw Gehring briefly glance in his direction, then settle onto a bar stool and call for his morning coffee, sending the soldiers to the bakery for warm croissants.

  ‘Are you going to talk to him?’ Frieda asked.

  ‘Not yet. Patience.’ Michel sipped at his coffee.

  Minutes ticked by on the clock that hung above the bar, smoke from cigarettes curled like grey cats’ tails to the ceiling, and the radio crackled with German voices scuttering across the air towards French ears from an approved station.

  Finally, Gehring could bear it no longer and turned to them. ‘You are new.’

  ‘We are,’ Michel said.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you,’ Gehring said, and lit a cigarette, squinting as the first plume of smoke left his mouth and stung his eyes.

  ‘We are staying at the farm of Lucien Demotte,’ Frieda added with a smile.