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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘I had been to a show as a child and wanted to be that man who commanded an entire circus. Like a conductor with his baton, he was in charge of his musicians and the music they would make. So that was my dream – a simple one, as I had no schooling, no parents; only a grandmother, who I am sure was glad to see me leave and join the circus that came through town when I was fourteen.

  ‘Anyway, where was I? Yes, right. The summer solstice. We were in Budapest, in a park next to the Széchenyi Baths – the hot springs – and you could see the steam from them rising in the violet sky. It was a strange night. The sun was behind a cloud and yet glowed brighter, as if trying to make itself known. The orange glow, the purple of a midsummer sky, and those ancient waters and their steam… it felt as though we were on a different planet and something magical was about to happen – something that would change me forever. I sound romantic and foolish, don’t I? I thought this of myself too, as soon as the thoughts had appeared in my mind, so I turned away from the steam and the sky, and went about my business – for there was a lot to do.

  ‘We were the guests of a count and his elderly, sick wife who had a love for tricks and magic. We had brought in more acts: travellers who could tell fortunes; exotics that could bend their bodies, breathe fire and dance like otherworldly creatures.

  ‘I walked towards the main tent, ready to greet the important guests before the show, when I saw her.

  ‘She walked in front of me, a long mane of blue-black hair tumbling down her back. She wore a costume of silver sequins with a matching headband, and her long legs flashed out from the hem of the little skirt as she strode towards the tent, and the trapeze.

  ‘I was shorter than her by some inches and my legs had to work twice as hard to catch up. But I did. And when I did, I tapped her on the shoulder so she had to turn to look at me, and then, just like that, I could not speak. She was beautiful. Her green eyes were ablaze with light from the torches, her cheeks flushed, and her lips painted a deep red.

  ‘“Yes?” she said.

  ‘I said nothing.

  ‘“Yes?” Her accent was thick.

  ‘“I am French,” I said stupidly.

  ‘She cocked her head to the side like an inquisitive bird. “So you are,” she replied, now in French, perfectly accented, as if she were magic and could speak any language she wished.

  ‘“I am Werner.”

  ‘“Werner the Frenchman. Your name is not so French.”

  ‘“My father was German. My mother, French. I am French.”

  ‘“All right, French Werner. I’m just here for the night but I thought I’d talk to the others – gets a bit lonely when you are on your own—”’

  ‘I know that feeling!’ Jean interjected. ‘My first circus, I was alone.’

  ‘Then you met me.’ Giordano smiled.

  ‘I did. But now Michel is alone. We must find him a Giordano!’ Jean raised his glass, as did Werner.

  Michel smiled weakly. He wasn’t alone. He had thought he had Frieda. But now, hearing how Werner had met her, how he had cherished her from first sight, he felt sick with the knowledge that he had already lost the fight – he had never really been in with a chance.

  ‘Drink, Michel!’ Werner said. ‘Drink.’

  Michel drank, wishing that the story would end quickly so he could go away, be alone and decide what he was going to do.

  ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes, she said she was there for one night – just one. So I said to her, my voice all stupid and high, “I am here all the time.”

  ‘She laughed loudly. I couldn’t blame her; I sounded simple. I wanted so badly to impress her, but I knew that I could not – she was the otherworldly creature that fell from the heavens. She would not be interested in me.

  ‘As I opened my mouth to apologise to her, she turned and walked away. Again, I did not blame her.

  ‘I did not watch her perform that evening; I could not bear it. The embarrassment of my failings haunted the show and I did not enjoy it or relax for the entire night. In a way, I was glad she was only there to make up the numbers and would be gone by dawn; I could then return to my life and concentrate on my career as ringmaster.

  ‘The following morning, I had little time to think of her as we busied ourselves packing and sorting. We had no train – that was something I wished for dearly and would make true in a year’s time – but back then we travelled as we do now, on foot, our horses pulling the weight of our lives and our costumes.

  ‘I climbed aboard the front of a caravan I had been gifted by the ringmaster – an elderly man who was looking for someone to take over, someone he believed could be me. My caravan was painted red, the name of the circus in gold swirling letters on the side. Inside I had little – a bed, a stove, a few belongings – but I was mightily proud of it. It was mine and mine alone.

  ‘As we began our journey, I talked gently to my mare Sophia, named after my grandmother, and told her of where we were headed next.

  ‘Suddenly, a loud bang came from inside my caravan. At first, I thought perhaps I had not secured a book or some such – but I realised it was far too loud a noise for any possession I owned to make.

  ‘The small hatch flung open and a face appeared.

  ‘“Coffee?” she asked.

  ‘I stared at her face for too long and she shouted at me, “Look where you are going!”

  ‘I spun around and concentrated on the road once more, pulling my mare Sophia away from oncoming traffic.

  ‘“So,” she said. “Coffee for the French-not-German Werner?”

  ‘“Coffee? Yes. I’d like that.”

  ‘I heard her whistle a tune as she made me coffee, and I thought I was in a dream.

  ‘I loved her – loved her so much I asked her to marry me. She said she would, and while we saved to buy the train we plotted our lives together. We would travel the world, see it all… and then things changed.’

  Werner stopped and tears appeared in his eyes again. Jean passed him a handkerchief and let him take a moment to blow his nose.

  ‘If it is too hard, you do not need to say any more,’ Giordano said.

  ‘I have to. It is right. It is right to talk of her. To talk of the daughter she lost.’

  Michel looked to him. A daughter? Frieda had a baby? It all made more sense now – her reluctance to leave, the way she had been kept almost wrapped in cotton wool, forbidden from doing anything that could harm her. Michel saw Werner with new eyes. He was simply a man trying to protect his love – protect her from the world because she had already lost so much.

  ‘She fell pregnant before we could marry,’ Werner said sadly. ‘I told her we would marry as soon as we could afford it, but she said she did not care. She felt loved and was so happy to be having our child.

  ‘We were back in Hungary when she delivered the baby. The troupe had travelled to her home country – I did it to make her happy.

  ‘When I held our daughter in my arms, I was so happy and full of love – it welled up in me so much that I was sure I could not contain it. My little girl wrapped her pink fist around my finger – there she was, the ringmaster’s daughter. All of this was now hers.

  ‘I gave the baby back to her mother and told her we would remain in Hungary, that her parents were due to arrive. She held our new daughter in her arms and screamed at me for being so stupid.

  ‘I didn’t understand. I thought she would have wanted to see her parents, her sisters. I’d telegrammed them, and they knew where we were.

  ‘“We need to leave, now.” She leapt out of bed and almost fell. I took our daughter from her.

  ‘“But you must rest. See a doctor.”

  ‘“I don’t want a doctor. I don’t want my family either. Please, Werner, please, let us go.”

  ‘I agreed, of course I did – I could not deny her anything. But before I could tell the troupe, there was a knock on our carriage door – a policeman, and with him, her parents.

  ‘They did not speak to me. The father push
ed past me to her and grabbed his daughter’s arm, shouting in Hungarian – harsh, quick words. I was still holding the baby, but then the mother snatched her from me. I stepped in front of the brute of a man… but as you can see, I am short and I could not push him away.

  ‘“What’s happening? What’s going on?” I cried.

  ‘She screamed for our baby, who was now wailing. Her mother turned to leave.

  ‘“The baby!” she cried. “Get my baby!”

  ‘I did not know how I was going to achieve it. I ran to the woman, but her husband was quicker. He punched me three, four or maybe five times. He knocked me unconscious.

  ‘When I woke, the carriage was quiet.’

  ‘The baby was gone, and Frieda?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Yes… the baby was.’ Werner looked at him, confused. ‘But my darling girl sat on the bed in tears, rocking and crying for her child. I held her to me, kissed her, promised her we would call the police, get our child back.

  ‘“But he is the police,” she explained. “He is. I ran away, Werner, because they wanted me to marry someone I hated. So I ran and ran, and I found you – we found each other.”

  ‘Her mother was devoutly Jewish, her father goodness-knows-what, other than a hard, mean man who had viciously beaten her and her mother.

  ‘“We’ve lost her,” she cried. “She’s lost to me.”

  ‘She lay back on the bed and stayed that way for weeks. We were forced to move to another town as the police had been sent out to us – her father’s handiwork—’

  ‘Did you get her back?’ Michel interrupted.

  ‘Frieda – well, yes, yes I did.’ Werner raised his eyebrows at Jean and Giordano.

  ‘No, I mean the baby?’

  ‘Yes, the baby came back,’ Jean said. ‘Are you feeling all right, Michel?’

  ‘Wait, so the baby came back?’

  ‘Yes.’ Werner nodded.

  ‘OK, so what happened to Frieda?’ Michel said slowly.

  ‘She. Came. Back,’ Werner said slowly.

  ‘From where?’ Michel asked.

  ‘From her grandparents.’

  ‘So, after the mother took the baby, Frieda went to them?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Oh my goodness! What are you not understanding, Michel? The baby was Frieda!’ Giordano stood, waving his little arms in the air.

  ‘Wait… you thought… Frieda and I? That Frieda gave birth?’ Werner was laughing now. ‘You fool! You fool!’ He held his belly as Jean and Giordano joined in.

  Michel could not speak. His face was slack, eyes wide.

  ‘But, but…’ was all he could manage.

  Werner’s laugh slowed. ‘All this time you thought Frieda was my wife?’

  ‘You said I couldn’t go near her. Everyone protected her, said she was yours. Even Jean warned me away.’

  ‘Of course I did! Go after the boss’s daughter? Not a great idea!’ Jean exclaimed.

  ‘I needed to protect her, Michel. That’s what a father does. It took me years to get her back – years. And when I did, I swore not to let her go again.’

  ‘And her mother?’ Michel asked quietly.

  ‘Éva? She left me. She had a choice to make and she chose Frieda – better to have one parent than none at all.’

  ‘Could she not have come back to you with the baby?’

  ‘I told her not to even try. I wanted them to be safe, so she arranged with her parents that she would go to live with her sister, who would take care of them, and she would be away from the hands of her father.’

  ‘He never saw her grow – never saw his daughter’s first steps,’ Giordano lamented.

  ‘My friend, you are drunk. You always cry when you get this drunk.’ Jean wrapped his arm around Giordano’s shoulders.

  ‘I am not! I am not! I am sad.’

  ‘Hush, Giordano. I got her back, didn’t I?’ Werner said.

  ‘How?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Well now, that’s the next part of my story. You know, Michel, I may seem mean to you, but I am not – not deep down anyway. I work hard, and I work hard to protect others too. Frieda came to me when she was just ten years old. A vision of her mother. I knew what she would say before she said it.

  ‘I was in Paris back then, a place I have always called home. It was raining and cold, and the water clogged up the gutters, and the drains gurgled with the vast quantities of water trying to push through them. I sat in my apartment – my mother’s childhood home – and listened to the rain on the window, the sound of quick footsteps on the pavement as people hurried home.

  ‘There was a knock at the door. I thought it was Serge. He was due to come around and give word on the train, how much it was going to cost to fix it and get us back on track by spring. I opened it and there she was. “Papa,” she said. Just like that. “Papa.”

  ‘I hugged her to me, and she cried into my chest. She cried because her mother was dead from a disease that had wracked her in the past few years. She cried because her mother’s family had not helped her. She cried for me, for me and her mother and the love we had.

  ‘When she had calmed down, I sat her in a chair and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.

  ‘“It is dangerous for us in Hungary,” she said. “I had to come to you – she told me to come to you. She told me to get a train and give a note to the conductor which asked for him to help me. He did. He helped me all the way to Paris and then put me in a taxi and it brought me here.”

  ‘I was astounded at her – so brave for one so young. I had written often to Éva, but I had never received a reply. I assumed that the letters had been put straight into the fire. Only a month before, I had written to tell her of the train breaking down, of having to stay in Paris for a few months.

  ‘“You found me,” I said.

  ‘“Mother said you liked to come here for the winter. She knew you would be here – she showed me your letters.”

  ‘“But she never wrote back,” I said.

  ‘“She wrote you this.” Frieda handed me a letter.

  ‘I could not wait; I opened it right there and then. I cannot tell you word for word, nor do I wish to tell you everything she wrote to me. But she told me of her illness, that she had little time left. My letter had come at an opportune moment: she acted fast and sent Frieda to me when she knew exactly where I would be. She told me she loved me. She told me to take care of our daughter.

  ‘When I had finished reading, I took my daughter’s hand in mine. “You are here. You are mine. You are safe.”

  ‘I gave her my surname and Serge found a man to make her some papers. She did not want to hide – she was proud to be Jewish, proud of her heritage, her mother. But I explained to her that things would be easier this way. All she had to do was go along with pretending to be someone else for a while, and she would stay safe.

  ‘She listened to me. How could she not? She had nowhere to go. The war, although still ten years away, was already beginning back then, Michel. I had seen on my travels the way Jews were being targeted; I had heard of Hitler, of his plans, and seen how many listened to him. She had to be Frieda Neumann, as much as I now despise the origin of that name. I taught her German history, not that I knew much of it myself. I taught her to disguise her accent and speak French fluently. Then we started on German. She was a good student and taught herself in half a year.

  ‘Serge, an outcast from his own family, was the one who suggested she learn the trapeze. Her mother had been a natural – perhaps she would be too? I did not want her to be part of our act. I wanted to keep her safe, but she was bored and determined, and once she saw photographs of her mother performing, there was little I could do to stop her.’

  Werner stopped talking and rubbed at the tiredness in his eyes.

  ‘More?’ Giordano held the bottle of wine over Werner’s glass.

  Werner nodded, then took three deep gulps.

  ‘You can stop,’ Michel said, not meaning it, but he could see the effect it had had on Werner.
This story had reduced him to a smaller man still; his chest was deflated, his eyes sunken.

  ‘I have started so I will finish,’ he said.

  ‘Frieda was a force. As things progressed, she picked up waifs and strays wherever we went. Mostly those on the fringes of society – those of different faiths, the disabled, the different. She saw talent in everyone she met. As I said, this was before war broke out, but there are many who have always been persecuted – gypsies, orphans, thrown in homes and hospitals, locked away as if they are mad.’ Werner looked to Jean and Giordano, who nodded in agreement. ‘Anyone who did not fit. Anyone who needed sanctuary. I was thinking of her when I hired Jean and Giordano, knowing what they were facing in Paris – no work, the looks they got… I thought I could offer them more.

  ‘As time wore on, the face of our troupe changed, and soon the only original members were Serge and Odélie. Serge realised sooner than I did that we now had a large group of people who were not only performers, but who relied on us to keep them alive. I made myself more German when war was talked of. I spoke German, I shook Nazi hands, I bribed. I got myself so deep in lies that by the time war did break out we had to see this through. And then, one day, a stranger climbed aboard our train, and we gave him a job. A stranger who could be anyone. A stranger who could find out the truth and give us all away.’

  ‘I would never—’ Michel began. Werner held up his palm to silence him.

  ‘You cannot trust everyone, Michel. I just hope that I have not made a mistake in trusting you with this.’

  Michel sat for a moment, digesting everything. Frieda is not Werner’s wife or girlfriend. Werner is not the man I thought he was. The troupe is in more danger than I realised.

  ‘It is a lot,’ Jean said. ‘I’d understand if you ran away, to be honest. We are in a very shaky predicament now, Michel. Most of us are Jewish, and if not Jewish, we have our own secrets that would land us in prison, or worse.’

  ‘I have one question,’ Michel said.

  Werner smiled. ‘I suppose you have the right to ask questions now, after I forbade you for so long.’