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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘Demotte? Good wine. Good man. And why are you there?’

  Michel coughed and stood. ‘May I?’ he asked, indicating the bar stool next to Gehring.

  ‘If your lady friend will join us too.’ Gehring grinned at Frieda with his cigarette between his teeth.

  They both sat, having dragged the stools across the floor. The Madame raised her eyebrow in annoyance at the sound as she polished glasses with a crisp white cloth.

  ‘May I buy you another coffee?’ Michel asked.

  ‘You may.’

  Whilst the Madame poured fresh coffee into their cups, Gehring’s officers reappeared, brown bags in their hands, the buttery grease from the warm croissants already staining the paper a darker brown.

  ‘Leave them here,’ Gehring told them, slapping his hand on the bar. Then, in German, he spoke quickly, and so ferociously Michel shivered and goosebumps appeared on his arm. The soldiers left and Gehring opened a bag, tearing into one of the croissants as if it were a turkey leg.

  ‘You enjoy our pastries,’ Frieda noted, then nudged Michel in the ribs and gave a slight nod towards the bag of food and drink that Lucien and Isabelle had given him.

  ‘I do. I do,’ Gehring said, spraying crumbs.

  ‘Perhaps you would like some fresh bacon and bread to take home with you for this evening?’ Michel picked up the bag.

  Gehring stopped eating and looked at it, then at Michel, flakes of pastry stuck to his lips. His tongue nipped out of his mouth and cleared the crumbs away. He placed the remaining pastry on the countertop, picked his smouldering cigarette out of the ashtray, and flicked off the large greying tip of ash.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I am Michel. From Paris. I am working for Werner Neumann, the ringmaster of Neumann’s circus. Perhaps you know of him?’

  Gehring shook his head.

  ‘We are just passing through, a few of us. We thought perhaps to stay a few days, perform a few tricks?’

  Gehring smoked, then gulped his coffee down and nodded at the Madame to refill it.

  Michel could feel himself grow hot, and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He had made a mistake. Lucien was wrong. Gehring was not going to agree.

  ‘Neumann…’ he finally said.

  ‘He came from Austria originally – just like the Führer,’ Frieda said. ‘Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer.’

  Gehring smiled. ‘It is better when it is said loudly. At the rallies, where there are thousands shouting this. Ihr Deutsch ist gut.’

  Michel looked confusedly at Frieda – her German sounded perfect, strong, confident. He saw her smile and blush at the compliment.

  ‘A few days… OK. You have something in the bag, you say? A gift for me?’

  Michel passed him the bag and the bottles of wine. He placed the money flat on the bar, and Gehring’s hand snatched it away so fast that it was as though it had never been there.

  ‘We should be going.’ Michel scattered a few coins on the bar for his coffee.

  ‘Tomorrow night,’ Gehring said, his mouth full of pastry once more.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. In the square. Entertainment. I like magic shows especially.’

  ‘Of course.’ Michel nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’

  As they left, the gummy man, Armand, from Michel’s first visit to the town was pulling out a chair and settling himself down.

  ‘Back again? And you brought another?’ Armand said.

  ‘Monsieur.’ Michel smiled.

  ‘Don’t you Monsieur me! Tell Lucien I know what he is up to! Gehring! Gehring! What do you make of this nonsense, then? All these performers…?’ He spat the words onto the floor.

  Gehring shouted from inside, ‘Monsieur Armand, I have it all in hand. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Ha! See! He will sort you out!’

  ‘I am sure he will, Monsieur Armand.’

  ‘Tell Lucien I am here, and I am waiting. I do not like him, not one bit. But he plays backgammon well. Tell him! Can you do that?’

  ‘We will,’ Frieda sang, and took Michel’s arm as they walked through the square, Coquette once more trailing behind them.

  ‘You seem angry at me,’ Frieda said after a while.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Don’t lie.’

  Michel glanced at her, then turned to look at his feet as they walked. ‘Why do you stay with Werner?’ He kicked at a stone.

  ‘I have no choice.’

  He stopped and, sensing his chance, he took it. ‘You do. We could leave together.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you want from me, Frieda!’ he suddenly said, his voice edged with desperation. ‘You are with him, but I know you want something more with me. You held my hand; you rest your head on my shoulder like you want to be with me—’

  ‘Hush,’ Frieda soothed. ‘Yes. You know how I feel. I know how you feel. Can’t that be enough for now? Please, Michel, walk with me, enjoy this moment. Who knows what will happen or what can happen? Things are changing so much around us – soon it could change for us too. Please. Trust me.’

  She looked into her eyes and knew he would do anything she asked of him. He stepped up to her and kissed her, his arms pulling her to him, her body relaxing for a moment into his.

  Gently, she pulled away and took his arm once more, ready to resume their walk. ‘I like Monsieur Armand,’ she said.

  ‘The toothless man?’

  ‘Yes. He’s funny.’

  ‘He’s angry and bitter.’

  ‘It can be overcome. I just like the way he talks – Don’t you Monsieur me!’ she imitated Armand.

  Michel laughed. ‘Very good! Who else can you imitate?’

  ‘But Giordano, please, please give me my necklace back.’ Her voice was high-pitched and whiny.

  ‘Madame Geneviève!’ Michel guessed.

  ‘I have de most beautiful hair in all the world!’ Her Italian accent was flawless but exaggerated, and she ran ahead of Michel and twirled around. ‘Can you not see how my hair, it glows, my feet, they dance? Why, I am so clever, so talented!’

  ‘Giordano!’ Michel laughed.

  ‘Do not tell him I did this! I love him, really. I do.’ She took his arm once more. ‘They are my family. All of them.’

  ‘And what am I?’

  Frieda stopped walking and Michel faced her. As she opened her mouth to answer, Coquette barked and ran off towards Lucien’s farm.

  ‘Where have you been? Werner is beside himself!’ Jean-Jacques was running towards them across the field. ‘Aramis has died. Werner is drinking with Lucien and crying. He thought the German lieutenant had taken you both away! Come. Come quickly.’

  Michel and Frieda hurried with Jean back to the farm.

  ‘Come, show him you are both fine. I have never seen him like this before. Never. Tears streaming down his face, talking of wanting to go home, of his mother! I did not know he even had a mother!’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Everyone has a mother,’ Michel said.

  ‘I thought Werner just, you know – appeared. Who knew?’ Jean raised his arms in the air as if waiting to see what else would fall from the heavens.

  As promised, Werner was distraught, hunched inside his caravan, Lucien topping up his glass with a rich red every time Werner emptied it.

  ‘You’re alive!’ Werner shouted upon seeing Frieda. He grasped her in a wobbly embrace.

  ‘Shhh, don’t worry.’ She turned to Lucien and Michel. ‘You can go now. I’ll take care of him.’

  ‘No! No one leave! We are burying Aramis, is that not so, Lucien?’ Werner asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. There’s a spot under an oak at the bottom of the field. Bluebells grow underneath in spring, and in summer the field is full of wildflowers.’

  ‘Get Serge. Get him to dig a hole, and when it’s ready we’ll all go and say goodbye…’ Werner’s words trailed off, his lip wobbling.

  Mic
hel stepped out of the caravan, found Serge, and together with Jean they dug a hole at the base of the old oak.

  No one spoke but Giordano, who sat on a blanket and barked orders. ‘Needs to be deeper! He’ll come up otherwise, when it rains.’

  ‘If it matters that much to you, you could help.’ Jean wiped the sweat off his brow.

  ‘Only one boss needed – me. Too many cooks otherwise. Come on now, Michel, dig quicker. It’ll be dark if you carry on like this!’

  By late afternoon, the grave was dug, and Aramis’s body had been brought to its resting place by the strong arms of Serge, Michel, Jean and Vassily.

  The troupe walked in pairs across the field, Werner at the helm, Frieda by his side. He held a crimson blanket, and when he reached the grave, he laid it on Aramis. ‘Goodnight, my friend. Goodnight.’

  Michel stood next to the hole, a spade still in his hand, ready to fill it in. He felt the sadness they all felt, even though he had barely known Aramis. But it was a sadness beyond the death of the lion. It was everything – the death of the entire circus, of what it once was, of what it could never be again.

  Kacper played a soft, mournful tune on his accordion whilst each member of the troupe threw a handful of soil into the grave.

  Madame Geneviève and Rosie held on to each other and wept at the sight of Aramis. Vassily threw in a flower and Hugo poured a little of his génépy onto the lion’s body. ‘See you on your way, my lad,’ he said.

  ‘Fill it now,’ Werner said. ‘Fill it and then tonight we drink to Aramis, our loyal friend, our beautiful…’ He trailed off and began to sob. Frieda placed her arm around his shoulders and led him back to the farmhouse.

  No one offered to help Michel, and he did not ask for any. He shovelled the dirt onto Aramis and thought of his mother and the day of her funeral. He sent a prayer to her and wiped away a tear, realising he had been crying as he covered the grave.

  ‘I didn’t realise that you were so fond of him, Michel.’

  He looked up to see Odélie standing in front of him, wrapped in a shawl against the chill in the air.

  ‘It’s sad,’ he said simply.

  ‘It is. You know, I loved Aramis – I did. I fed him at night, and I think he liked me the best. When his teeth fell out and he couldn’t chew the meat, I chopped it up small for him, just so he would still eat. I think he knew that I loved him – do you think animals know that?’

  He looked at her, her eyes spilling over with tears. He dropped the spade and took her in an embrace. ‘I’m sure they do, Odélie.’

  She moved her face from where it was buried in his shoulder and tried to kiss him. He pushed her away gently. ‘I can’t – I’m sorry, Odélie, I can’t.’

  ‘What is it with you, Michel?’ she spat. ‘One minute you want me, then suddenly you ignore me as if I did something wrong.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry. My behaviour towards you was not right, Odélie. But it was because I knew you deserved better than me… someone who could give you everything you want—’

  ‘Spare me the apology, Michel. I know I deserve better than you. You were just something to pass the time with, a toy.’

  She turned and stalked away, but despite her harsh words, Michel was pleased to see a small smile on her lips. Her place was righted – No one rejects Odélie; she rejects them.

  As afternoon made its way into evening, the troupe sat with Lucien and Isabelle around a makeshift campfire and drank some of Lucien’s most precious bottles of red.

  ‘I can’t believe you gave up your finest,’ Michel said.

  ‘It’s just wine, Michel. Just wine.’ Lucien raised a glass.

  ‘He’s drunk – he must be, because he wouldn’t say that unless he was!’ Isabelle grinned. ‘Come on, you old fool, inside with you.’

  Kacper stood and followed the pair inside the house, as did Vassily, who would share the spare bedroom with Kacper.

  ‘You can sleep on the couch again, Michel.’ Isabelle turned to him. ‘Or there’s the barn?’

  ‘I might take the barn tonight.’ Michel smiled. ‘The sofa was a little short for my legs.’

  ‘If you won’t take the sofa then I will,’ Serge said, hurrying after them. ‘I don’t care if my legs fall on the floor, I’m sick of that tent.’

  Madame Rosie helped Geneviève to their caravan and Odélie herded the triplets to their beds – the three of them paler and skinnier than ever.

  ‘They’re not doing so well since we lost the train,’ Jean said. ‘Odélie says they hardly ever leave the caravan and won’t even talk to her anymore – just when she thought they were coming out of their shell.’

  ‘They’ve been through much,’ Werner said, his voice thick with drink, his eyes set on the flames as they danced.

  ‘Come now, we should go to bed.’ Frieda took hold of his arm.

  ‘You go. You go. I want to sit. Jean, Giordano, you’ll stay with me, won’t you? And you, Michel? Thank you for digging the grave. I don’t say it often, so you need to take the thanks now.’

  ‘That’s all right, Werner.’

  ‘We’ll stay with him. You go and get some rest,’ Jean assured her.

  Frieda smiled then yawned. ‘It’s been a lot, today and last night with Aramis. Goodnight, all.’

  ‘Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well. I shall be there soon enough.’ Werner waved in her general direction. ‘Do you know, Michel, I loved that lion, I really did. I tried my best to keep him safe. I rescued him, did you know that? He was being treated badly, so badly – beaten, starved. I took him, cared for him. I never made him perform much – not much at all – and the way I got him to perform was to have meat in my pocket, just like a dog… he could be trained with kindness.’

  ‘You did all you could for him,’ Jean said.

  ‘I felt terrible when he was stuck in that crate, when we could find nowhere to stay. But we did find somewhere, a resting place for him.’ Werner began to cry once more.

  ‘I should head to bed myself.’ Michel stood.

  ‘And you, Michel, you found us somewhere to stay, didn’t you?’ Werner was slurring now, his eyes tight. ‘The wonderful Michel.’ He stood and twirled, his drink spilling on the ground, drops hitting the fire and making it hiss and spit. ‘The wonderful, marvellous Michel!’

  ‘Come now, Werner.’ Jean stood too. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘I’m the boss!’ Werner looked at Jean and pointed at his own chest. ‘Me. I’m the boss. Sit down. You too, Michel. Sit.’

  Michel, seeing how drunk Werner was, and how he too had a muggy head, knew no good would come of staying. ‘I’ll just go to bed…’ he said again.

  ‘Sit down!’ Werner boomed. ‘I’m the boss, you idiot, orphaned pretty-boy. Telling me what I should do – I tell you what to do.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you what to do,’ Michel said.

  Werner marched towards him and pushed against his chest, sending Michel back a few paces. ‘Smart little mouth you’ve got!’

  Michel, whether from tiredness, the wine, or the distaste he had for Werner, pushed back against him, knocking his body to the floor. He stepped forward and Jean moved between him and Werner. ‘Don’t do anything you’ll regret,’ Jean warned.

  ‘Let him! Let him hit me and then he can go!’ Werner shouted from the dusty ground.

  ‘Michel, don’t.’ Jean held him back.

  ‘Go!’ Werner was now crying, fat heavy sobs. ‘Go. You know nothing about us!’

  Michel relaxed his arms, and Jean turned to help Werner sit up by the fire, filling his now empty glass. ‘Drink this, calm yourself and then to bed,’ he soothed.

  ‘And then to bed,’ Giordano repeated, his eyes wide.

  Werner calmed, his sobs slowing. He wiped his eyes then blew his nose. He looked at Michel. ‘Don’t go,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve had a little too much to drink. And with Aramis…’

  Michel dragged a palm over his face and rubbed at his eyes. ‘I’m going to bed.’

 
‘No, wait. Please, Michel. Sit. Please,’ Werner asked.

  Jean nodded at Michel. ‘Please, Michel?’

  Michel sat, his knees drawn up to his chest, all four silent and watching the flames.

  ‘We’ve been here before, haven’t we?’ Werner suddenly said.

  ‘I don’t think you tried to punch me though.’ Jean laughed.

  ‘Me neither,’ Giordano chimed in, now the tension had gone. ‘You just sat us down quietly after you had shouted at us in a rehearsal, told us we were useful. We thought we were going to be fired!’

  ‘You had only been with us a few days then,’ Werner said. ‘But you could see who we were.’

  ‘Because we were like you too,’ Jean offered.

  ‘Quite right. You are.’ Werner turned to Michel. ‘You’re wondering what we are talking about, aren’t you?’

  Michel nodded.

  ‘Lucien said you sorted things in town today. And then you dug the grave for Aramis. Filled it in yourself. I have to admit, I was too hard on you, Michel. But I had to be. We have so much to lose.’

  ‘I won’t leave,’ Michel said.

  ‘That’s not why I am saying this – leave or stay, that’s not the point! I’m saying it because…’ Werner looked around wildly. ‘Because I trust you. Because I’m drunk. Because it’s all changing.’

  Michel instantly felt his face flame and his stomach turn. Werner trusted him. Trust. Frieda.

  ‘Some more wine for Michel, Jean, pour him some more wine.’

  Jean did as he was instructed and Michel raised a toast to Werner, all the while feeling the guilt creep across his chest.

  ‘Now, Michel. If you’ll permit me, I’ll tell you a story. It will help you to understand why I was so hard on you. The others know – I told them at a given time, when I knew they were one of us. Now, it’s time for you to know.’

  Despite the wine, the tiredness, the guilt, Michel sat forward, intrigued to find out the secrets of the circus.

  ‘I met her on the longest day of the year. The summer solstice. I was in Hungary with my troupe – a different one to this bunch, and I wasn’t ringmaster yet. Just a wide-eyed novice – like you, Michel. I worked with the horses, I sewed costumes, I helped choreograph the evening. I did everything and anything to learn it all. I was obsessed, you see. Obsessed with becoming a ringmaster.