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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘Anton. I saw you pay off that German soldier. I saw it with my own eyes, so don’t deny it.’

  ‘I won’t. I did pay him.’

  ‘Why? Why would you want to get rid of Anton?’

  ‘I didn’t pay them to take him away. I paid them so they would let us leave. Anton was once a politician, you know. He left politics and joined a group – now we call them the resistance, but back then it was just a bunch of politicians and academics who understood what was happening and wanted to stop it from getting this far. He wrote articles in newspapers, pamphlets – all sorts of things. I met him when he lived in Marseille. He was in trouble then, even before my German cousins arrived. He had written something for a newspaper, an investigative piece of sorts, highlighting the corruption and fascism of a few politicians, judges and high-ranking officers. Let us say that they did not take kindly to his accusations and he needed to disappear, quickly.

  ‘I met him at a friend’s house, just after this friend had married for the third time. My friend was helping him then – another one of us who could not stop talking, fighting and wanting to help. He asked me to take Anton with me. I did. What else could I do? He proved adept at the trapeze – strong, supple. He promised he would not cause trouble… but this war, Michel, it has sent people mad. He could not resist getting involved, and started up again with his damned radio and his leaflets. Remember when we were in Toulouse, the three-day event we held? He spent a lot of his time helping send messages over the wireless radio in one of his contacts’ houses. I didn’t know then, but after the raid, after Herr Köhler asked for our papers and began a search, I knew something was wrong – that they suspected us. Anton came clean. He offered to give himself up. I told him not to, that we would leave at dawn and get out before they asked any more questions. It turns out that we were just not quick enough. It’s hard to hide a circus when you look like us. I couldn’t get him to safety, and for the rest of my days I will regret not being able to save him.’

  Werner stood and sighed. ‘I think it is time for me to go to bed now.’

  Jean and Giordano stood too, the trio wobbling towards their caravans. As they did, Michel noticed a shadow melt back into the night. Then he shook his head. It was a trick of the light, nothing more. The evening had been so full of ghost stories he could not help feeling haunted.

  He retreated to the barn and lay down on the straw, his coat covering him, and listened to the creak of the wood as it settled to sleep, the rest of the troupe already in their beds, only one light still burning from inside Werner’s caravan, his memories keeping him company until dawn.

  Ten

  Henri Le Comte

  Michel awoke to the crow of a cockerel and the snuffle of Coquette’s wet nose on his cheek. He turned over and ruffled her head; she gave him a lick in reply.

  He heard the morning break around him – Jean and Giordano arguing over the first batch of coffee by the fire, Madame Geneviève warming up her voice along with the song of the waking birds, Serge grunting and coughing up thick black spit from the pipes he smoked in the evening, and then a voice he had not heard for a while: Frieda talking to Isabelle, her laugh floating over to him.

  He did not move, wanting to take a moment to register everything he had been told the night before. Part of him felt afraid – afraid that the secrets of the troupe were too much for him to carry – what if they were found? Would he be taken with them?

  Claudette whinnied next to him, and he stood and patted her nose. ‘I’m a little worse for wear today,’ he told her.

  She nuzzled into him and he heard Frieda laugh once more. As soon as he did, his fear was tucked away, replaced with happiness, with hope.

  The troupe spent the day deciding on who would perform that evening, and what they would wear. Michel was desperate to see Frieda, but she flitted about, her spirits high, her laughter infecting everyone, and he contented himself by listening to her, watching her and preparing the horses for their upcoming performance.

  ‘We all ready?’ Werner’s voice boomed.

  The troupe lined up in pairs, ready to walk their colourful selves into town. Michel held back and saw Werner assist Frieda down the caravan steps. She was wearing her short gold sequinned dress, her long legs stockinged. She allowed Werner to take her arm and lead her towards Claudette.

  ‘May I?’ she asked Michel.

  He did not answer but helped her sit side-saddle on Claudette, ready to walk into town. Odélie appeared around the side of her wagon and stared at Frieda, then at Michel. Her costume complemented the dancing red sequins of Claudette’s bridle and saddle.

  ‘She doesn’t even match her.’ Odélie pouted.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Werner retorted. He mounted Beau and trotted out in front, soon followed by Frieda, then Giordano on Bisou.

  The others followed on foot; Kacper playing his accordion, Hugo on the horn and Jean banging on a drum.

  Michel took up the rear and found Odélie at his side. ‘You gave her my horse,’ she said, her expression wounded, then ran lightly away to join the triplets. She did not look back at him.

  ‘Isn’t this fun?’ Lucien appeared with Isabelle. ‘She could not be happier, could you, ma chérie?’ Before she could answer, Lucien continued: ‘The colours, the music! You are lucky, Michel. So lucky.’

  Michel looked at the old man, whose cheeks were rosy as a child’s and his eyes just as wide.

  By the time they reached the square, Werner was already chatting to the thirty or so villagers who had gathered outside the café to watch. Gehring sat in prime position, a glass of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other, his expression already entranced by the colourful spectacle. He was the only one, though. The other spectators had their hands jammed into their pockets, their faces blank, their eyes watching the strangers’ movements. Michel felt more nervous about the unfriendly crowd than he did about the five or so German soldiers who lounged behind Gehring at the café.

  Children sat on the ground by their parents’ feet, chins in their cupped hands, waiting, ready for the show to begin. They too seemed bored and restless, as if they had been forced to come and see this menagerie of outsiders against their will.

  Hugo, his face painted as an Auguste – his nose red, his wig a mass of ginger curls, with blue-and-white striped trousers – climbed onto stilts and waved to the children who littered the ground. Suddenly, they became more animated. To them, the troupe had become something else – magical creatures, not the downtrodden outsiders of before.

  Their squeals of delight echoed around the square, and in an instant it seemed to Michel that the town relaxed. Mothers took their hands out of their aprons and began to talk gregariously to their neighbours; men lit cigarettes and went into the café, retuning with mugs of beer and short glasses of wine.

  As the sky darkened, lights came on around the square, casting shadows on the performers’ costumes that made them appear brighter and more exotic.

  Kacper played tunes on his accordion as the troupe performed all at once, so that the spectators were captivated wherever they chose to look.

  Near the church, Gino the monkey danced and accepted coins from children in his small blue cravat. Outside the café, the triplets backflipped and somersaulted, whilst Odélie became Serge’s assistant, handing him knives to swallow, each one longer, sharper and shinier than the last. In the centre of the square, Frieda rode Claudette, standing up on tiptoes as the mare trotted, then jumping to the ground before springing back into the saddle with one deft leap. Jean and Giordano acted out their story of the boy and his shadow, the mothers dabbing at their eyes when Giordano sang of his lament at having no friends. Vassily went from child to child, magically pulling coins, scarfs and bon-bons from their ears, whilst Madame Rosie told fortunes and sold charms at the café.

  Michel realised that Lucien and Isabelle had left him alone, and so he perched himself on a low brick wall, just far away enough to see the whole spectacle as it unfolded. He lit a cigaret
te and watched Frieda, who never tired, never lost her footing or her smile.

  Soon a fiddler appeared, one of the townsfolk, then a villager with a French horn and one with a hand-drum. Each set up next to Kacper, and somehow they found common tunes they knew, and the air became filled with notes, high then low, fast then slow, which encouraged feet to tap against the cobbles, heads to bob in time with the music, until Gehring himself could not sit still any longer and grabbed the hand of the Madame from the café, and began to dance. More people joined in, and whilst the children watched Vassily, Giordano and Jean, the adults danced and laughed.

  Michel saw Frieda tie Claudette’s reins to a railing and she too began to dance, her hair flowing behind her. Now and again her whole head tilted back, free and enraptured by the music.

  Michel wanted to join her, but he did not want to disturb the vision of her wild, liberated and happy, laughing at her father Werner as he performed a complex tap dance, his little legs moving quickly. The triplets had for the first time separated from each other, and held the children’s hands to sway from side to side with them. Even Serge was taken by the merriment, and smiled when a young woman in a red coat asked him to dance with her.

  Madame Geneviève had not wanted to take part in the performance, but Michel saw her rise from her chair at the café and proffer her hand to Monsieur Armand. At first he shook his head and waved his hands. But then, strangely, something came over him as the jolly tune slowed to an old folk waltz and each person paired off.

  With his knobbly hand, he allowed Geneviève to gently pull him to his feet, and he danced slowly, rocking left to right, his head on her shoulder and tears in his eyes.

  ‘Will you dance with me?’ Odélie appeared at Michel’s side, a gentle curve on her lips.

  He took her hand and allowed himself to be guided into the square.

  ‘Thank you for your apology, Michel,’ she said quietly as he spun her slowly. ‘I know I say the wrong things sometimes. It’s habit.’

  ‘I’m just sorry I did not say it sooner.’ His eyes strayed to Frieda, only for a moment.

  ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

  ‘She is,’ Michel agreed.

  When the tune changed, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Frieda.

  ‘May I?’ she asked.

  Michel turned to her as Odélie moved away. He took Frieda’s hand and wrapped the other around her waist.

  ‘You look happy’ she said.

  ‘I am.’

  As Michel led Frieda around the square, as she laughed and then rested her head on his shoulder so her hair tickled his cheek, Michel spotted Odélie. She was talking to one of the young German soldiers, her body close to his, her hand resting on his forearm, but her eyes never left Michel and her smile had faltered – it was clear that his apology had not yet erased the hurt he had caused and he felt a pang of guilt.

  Kacper changed his tune and Michel knew it well – a song he had heard in Paris, at Odette’s café – ‘La Java Bleue’. As he danced with Frieda, he began to sing the words – words full of love for the person you danced with, of not wanting to let them go, but hold them close and try to keep the promise of love.

  ‘I did not know you could sing.’ Frieda looked up at him and he stopped.

  ‘I can’t! Well, I can, but not well.’

  ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘Carry on.’

  He held her tight and sang the words – a song for dancing the Java with your love, the one you could not imagine life without.

  By midnight the crowd had dispersed, one by one sluggishly walking home to their beds, children carried asleep on their fathers’ shoulders, women giggling, giddy from too much wine and fun.

  The troupe were also tired as they trudged back to the farm, Lucien leading the way with Coquette, who danced around her master’s heels, not yet worn out from the evening.

  Michel had to stay behind – the horses had, as horses do, left hefty, steaming deposits around the square, and he had been tasked by Werner to clear it before he could rest his head.

  He finished shovelling the square within an hour, stuffing the dung into a wheelbarrow given to him by the priest, who had visited the festivities for a cursory glance and a glass of Lucien’s wine.

  As Michel wheeled the squeaking barrow down the lane towards the farm, he whistled ‘La Java Bleue’ and thought of Odette in her café in Paris. He remembered the words, tested them, then sang them out into the night.

  As he finished the final line, he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped the wheelbarrow and listened. Then he looked behind him, but the dark was absolute. Nothing. He started walking again, the squeaking of the wheel too loud in the night.

  Still, he walked slowly, counting his steps, realising that an echo was indeed behind him. He stopped once more. Before he could turn, a heavy force hit the back of his head with a thump. The last thing Michel heard was the twit-twoo of an owl as he fell unconscious onto the dirt track.

  Michel awoke to a bright light above him.

  ‘You’re awake!’ Frieda’s voice, disembodied, floated around him. He closed his eyes against the glare.

  ‘Where am I?’ Michel’s voice was scratchy.

  ‘In Lucien’s house.’

  ‘Frieda?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone attacked you.’

  ‘My head hurts.’

  ‘It will. You were hit.’

  ‘On my head?’

  ‘Yes. You were hit on your head.’

  ‘Ask him his name.’ A voice, worried – Giordano.

  ‘He knows his name, don’t you, Michel?’ A question. A new voice. Jean.

  ‘Well, he does now, you foolish man! You are telling him his name!’

  ‘Hush! Both of you. Let him rest. See? He is falling asleep.’

  Michel opened his eyes. He remembered the light; now there was none. He was rocking slightly in his bed, side to side, side to side.

  ‘Frieda?’

  ‘It’s me.’ Giordano’s small, round face appeared over him. ‘Do you want to sit up?’

  ‘Who is rocking me?’

  ‘No one. You are in our caravan.’

  ‘We are moving?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want to sit up? I have water, some bread maybe?’

  Michel allowed Giordano to place his hands underneath him and help him to a sitting position. Then he tucked pillows behind his back and handed Michel a glass of water. He turned up the lamp to brighten the space, and colours suddenly jumped about in front of Michel’s eyes so that he had to blink a few times before they settled down into shapes he could recognise.

  ‘What happened to me?’

  ‘You were attacked.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Werner has a suspicion that maybe it was someone from the town, someone who didn’t like us being there and thought this would make us leave.’

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘A day or so.

  ‘Why are we moving?’

  ‘We are heading for a town near Paris. Werner has friends there – he wired them – and we can stay with them and be safe for a while.’

  ‘Paris…’ Michel said.

  ‘Werner says we are safer when we know exactly where the enemy is, where we will hear what is happening and when. He thinks we are no longer safe in small villages.’

  Michel shook his head and winced in pain. He raised his hand and his fingers found his bandaged skull, the back of his head swollen and hot to the touch.

  ‘Careful now, Michel. Careful.’

  ‘I left Paris because it was not safe.’

  ‘We are not going to Paris,’ Giordano said earnestly. ‘Near. Werner says we can get papers and perhaps leave France. He is trying. He has kept us safe so far; we must trust him. You must.’

  Michel drank down the water and Giordano refilled his glass.

  ‘Madame Geneviève did not come with us. Neither did Vassily,’ Giordano said. ‘They have
gone further south. Geneviève shaved her beard. She said her face had never felt so cold.’

  Despite himself, and the pain and sadness he felt at more people leaving the troupe, Michel laughed. It began as a chuckle, then as Giordano joined in, the laughter became loud and breathless, tears streaming down their faces.

  ‘Her face was cold!’ Michel laughed. ‘It was cold!’

  ‘You know,’ Giordano wiped the tears from his face, ‘she looked so beautiful without the beard. I was sorry I had not taken her for dinner or danced with her. I shall miss her.’ His smile disappeared.

  ‘And Vassily.’

  ‘And him.’

  ‘Thank God we still have Hugo. I could not go on without génépy.’ Giordano shook his head sadly.

  ‘Where is Frieda?’

  ‘In Madame Rosie’s caravan. She is keeping her company. She was sad to see Geneviève go.’

  ‘My head hurts.’ Suddenly, Michel felt nauseous.

  ‘Lie down, lie down. That is enough for now. Close your eyes and rest. I will tell Jean to slow down a little, make it less bumpy back here.’

  Michel lay back and closed his eyes, listening to Giordano speak to Jean at the front of the wagon. He was not sure if Jean slowed or not, but soon the rocking soothed his head and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

  The next time he awoke, Bisou’s face was above his.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ Giordano was there again, pushing the small pony back. ‘He was in Werner’s caravan so you could rest, but he ate a silk-covered pillow and Werner went mad. So, he’s here with us again.’

  ‘I need to sit up,’ Michel said, but as soon as he did, the swimming in his head made him sick.

  ‘Stay there. Stay still. We’ll stop soon. Just rest, Michel. Just rest.’

  Three days followed of Michel being cared for by either Giordano or Frieda. He stayed awake a little longer each time he, but soon his head would swim and throb with pain and he had to sleep once more. Madame Rosie brewed him a tea that took the edge off the headache, and applied a poultice to the wound.