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

by Carly Schabowski

  As Serge navigated the road in the twilight, Michel soon became aware of a hazy shadow in the distance.

  ‘This is it?’

  ‘This is it,’ Serge answered, as a clump of brick buildings came into view.

  The main house was set in an L-shape, the downstairs windows burning with lights from inside. A small gravel drive led to stables and a barn. But Serge did not stop; he continued to manoeuvre the horses past the stables, out into a field at the back of the house where the wheels sludged in the wet grass.

  ‘We’ll get bogged down,’ Michel said.

  Serge ignored him and encouraged the horses on, both with their ears set back, foam at their mouths from the strain.

  One by one, the others pulled into the field. Michel climbed down once Serge stopped and looked about him – on the left was the shadow of a cathedral’s tower, and the rooftops of houses disappearing into the dark.

  ‘This is it?’ Odélie lit a cigarette.

  ‘What were you expecting?’ Madame Rosie asked.

  ‘You said Paris, Jean. This is not Paris.’

  ‘He said near Paris,’ Giordano corrected. ‘This is near, is it not?’

  ‘I can’t see it.’ Odélie looked towards the horizon, as if the Eiffel Tower would appear before her eyes.

  ‘It’s dark, wait awhile,’ Jean joked.

  ‘I suggest we all get some sleep,’ Serge snapped, dark, puffy circles under his eyes.

  ‘Fine.’ Odélie climbed back inside her caravan, her voice loud as she complained to the triplets about their lacklustre camp.

  ‘Michel, you and I will stay with Werner. Hugo, Kacper – don’t bother to camp. Find a space with Jean and Giordano. Get some rest. It will be fine. Frieda, it may be better for you to sleep with Madame Rosie tonight. I snore, and Michel can tend to your father.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘He’s asleep for now but he has a slight fever. Keep mopping his brow and please wake me if you need anything.’

  Serge nodded, and Michel took her hand – lightly, briefly – before she followed Rosie.

  Michel unhitched the horses and let them graze. ‘We need something more for them.’

  ‘We’ll sort it at daylight.’

  ‘Look, I know it’s dark, but they need a stable,’ Michel insisted.

  ‘And I said we’ll sort it come daylight.’

  Reluctantly, Michel left the horses outside and sat in Werner’s caravan, watching as Serge gave Werner water to drink and placed a cool cloth on his forehead.

  ‘He’s still sleepy,’ Michel said stupidly.

  ‘It’s a fever. And infection. We will need to get a doctor first thing.’

  ‘I thought you said Werner had friends here?’

  Serge nodded and stretched out on the sofa. ‘They’ll come. They’ll find us. They know we have arrived.’

  Before Michel could ask more, Serge closed his eyes and it seemed to Michel he was instantly asleep. Michel stoked the log burner, feeding it and listening to it crackle as Serge snored, and Werner muttered strange words in his sleep.

  Michel, though weary from the journey, took out some paper and a pen, and wrote back to Bertrand.

  Dearest friend,

  I received your letters – Lucien kept them safe for me and gave them to me when I returned to Vodable.

  It was a joy to hear your voice, so distinct through your writing, and yet it brought me sadness and fear to hear of the way your spirit has dimmed since I left.

  I understand, of course. I think we are all changed in such a small amount of time, and I wonder if we will ever go back to being who we once were.

  You are right that the Germans are everywhere now. I have seen them many times with my own eyes. They fill the roads with their jeeps and black cars, which frighten me. There are more people on the roads too. On our journey here (we are now in Senlis, not far from you!) we saw many people carrying their belongings, their children. It reminded me of the day I left Paris – that same feeling of panic, of having the urge to leave and yet the fear of not knowing where you will end up.

  These people on the roads were from other countries too; there were some who had travelled from Belgium and were picking their way further south. We passed them on our way up north.

  You are wondering now why we are here? I am too. There is a part of me that feels we should have stayed south, but we had no money, and rationing was making things hard. It has got so bad, Bertrand, that Werner thinks we are safer with his mysterious friend – who I am yet to meet. He has talked of getting papers for us to leave France. I need to be honest; I don’t think it will be possible. I think he is running scared like everyone else, just trying to find something, anything, to cling on to.

  He is unwell. He was attacked by some soldiers in a bar. The truth is, I have come to like him. In my last letter to you, I told you of his wife. I have to tell you I was wrong. Frieda is not his wife, but his daughter. I wish I could tell you more, but as things are, I cannot.

  As I sit here and write, I can hear the drone of planes overhead. Whose planes, I do not know. I like to think it is the British, perhaps here to end it all?

  I have not eaten much for a while now. None of us have. Bread, coffee, cigarettes, and soup when we find something to put in it. I imagine if we carry on like this, we will soon disappear. I cannot help but remember how lucky I was to be able to buy mutton before, eat pastries and cakes. My stomach rumbles at the memory.

  Are you eating, Bertrand? I hope you are keeping well. I thank you for the francs you sent; they helped indeed. Please do not send more. They would not reach me anyway, as I am not sure when or if I will see Lucien again. Keep the money for yourself; keep warm and fed.

  I wish I could help you. The city is not far from here and I wonder if it is safe for me to visit you? I think it would be fine, but it is the getting there which may cause problems – I cannot very well ride into the city on a circus horse or with a caravan in tow!

  I will write again soon.

  Yours,

  Michel

  A knock on the door woke Michel. He had fallen asleep on a chair next to the fire that now burned low.

  Before he could answer, the door was opened to reveal a tall thin man, dressed head to toe in a black suit, his beard neatly trimmed to a point and his eyes the brightest of blues.

  ‘You made it!’ The man said. ‘Do you know that your horses are in the next field?’

  ‘They don’t have a stable,’ Michel said.

  ‘Indeed, they do. Indeed, they do!’ The man’s voice was melodious, his accent mixed, from countries Michel could not place.

  ‘May I?’ the man asked and stepped inside. ‘Ah, Serge, sleeping like the baby he is. And Werner. Oh God! Werner. What happened?’

  ‘He was attacked.’

  ‘Good God. I’ll go home right now, get my doctor. Wait here. Ah, you are already here… but don’t go anywhere!’

  The thin man practically leapt out of the caravan, and Michel watched his long legs sprint through the dewy grass towards the shadow of the large house.

  Serge grunted then woke. ‘It’s freezing, Michel, close the door!’

  ‘There was a man here.’

  Serge sat. ‘What kind?’

  ‘Tall, thin. He went to get his doctor.’

  ‘Henri,’ Serge said. ‘I told you he knew we were here. Michel, get that fire going. I am going for a piss.’

  Serge left and a bemused Michel added more fuel, then checked on Werner, waking him gently so that he could drink some water before collapsing back into a fitful sleep.

  Serge returned with Frieda in tow.

  ‘You scared Madame Rosie,’ she scolded Serge. ‘She opened the curtain, and there you were!’

  Serge shrugged.

  Frieda went straight to her father and stroked back his damp hair from his forehead. ‘Papa?’

  Werner’s eyes moved under the lids, but he did not wake.

  ‘He’s coming!’ The door was flung open once more and t
he tall thin man called Henri was back, his cheeks flushed with exertion.

  ‘Henri!’ Frieda walked towards him, and he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘It is good to see you.’

  ‘And you, my dear, and you. And of course, dear Serge.’

  ‘This is Michel,’ Frieda introduced him.

  ‘Michel, of course. How do you do?’ The man doffed his hat flamboyantly, then laughed at Michel’s confused expression. ‘I am a little over the top – it is my lineage, you see.’

  ‘Henri is a count,’ Frieda proudly said.

  ‘Or so he would have people believe,’ Serge grunted.

  ‘I am a count. A sir. A prince amongst paupers. And, I am at your service, Serge, as always.’

  ‘He lives in the house we passed; this is his land,’ Serge said. ‘Not that it always was his.’

  ‘It is mine. In name, on the title and in my heart. A gracious widow, God bless her soul, left everything to me. Can you imagine, Michel – a whole house and this land, just for the likes of me?’

  Michel felt himself instantly warm to Henri: a natural entertainer, a comic and clown yet no one’s fool, all rolled into one.

  ‘Now, we must get Werner back to my house. There he can rest.’ Henri sat down by the fire. ‘Serge, coffee, perhaps? Even these days it is still proper to offer a guest a drink,’ he twinkled.

  Michel watched as the burly bulk of Serge moved awkwardly around the small caravan, finding the kettle to put over the stove, cups, coffee. Henri, it seemed, was a magician as well, to be able to tame the wild sword swallower.

  ‘Where are the others? I see only four caravans.’

  ‘They left, one by one. Money was tight,’ Serge said.

  ‘Money? No, I think more likely they were scared by our German friends, no? When Werner wired me that the train had to be sold, I wept, my dears, I did! I knew what would happen. It is good you have come to me. You will be safe here.’

  ‘For how long?’ Serge passed Henri his coffee.

  ‘For as long as I can keep you safe.’ He threw up his hands. ‘You know, Serge, you do doubt me. When have I ever let you down before?’

  As he spoke another knock at the door disturbed them; this time two of Henri’s servants with a car they had managed to drive over the wet grass.

  ‘Ah, yes. Let’s get Werner into more comfortable surroundings, then bring in the troupe for breakfast. By then the doctor will have been and we will know where we are.’

  Henri instructed the servants to carry the deadweight of Werner to the car, and they set off towards the house, leaving Michel and Frieda standing in the cold damp field watching the smoke of the exhaust cloud the wintery air.

  An hour later, the troupe had woken and walked the half-mile to Henri’s home.

  In the daylight, the farmhouse was more than that. It had been refurbished, the roof re-tiled in red slate, the stone cleaned. To Michel, the house spread far and wide, corridors leading off to rooms filled with secrets. Box hedges lined the drive and a car sat waiting at the front door.

  They were ushered in by a servant who did not introduce himself. ‘He asked you to wait here.’ He directed them to the left, into an opulent living room, a fire burning in the grate, a chandelier winking overhead.

  ‘I cannot believe we are in the home of a count.’ Giordano grinned and plonked himself onto one of the sofas, the thick cushions enveloping him.

  ‘He is many things and nothing,’ Serge said. ‘He is an artist, that I know. He is famous for his paintings all over Europe. They say that even the Führer has one.’

  ‘If by “they say” you mean “Henri says”,’ Frieda reminded him.

  They all found seats, Michel balancing himself awkwardly on a spindly chair that he was sure had once belonged in a palace – its legs were gilded, the cushions a rich plum. Every available wall space was filled with paintings: women in profile, scenes of Paris and London. One portrait stood out more than the others – a young man staring at the painter, a sad smile on his lips, his heavy chocolate eyes following the viewer around the room.

  ‘That one’s Henri’s,’ Frieda said.

  The painting was titled Pedro, a bronze plaque affixed to the frame so that no one would ever need to ask.

  ‘He is like the Count of Monte Cristo,’ Jean said. ‘A count yet at the same time not a count. But perhaps not out for revenge like our fictional friend.’

  ‘Perhaps he is?’ Madame Rosie said.

  ‘So what if he is not a count?’ Michel was tired, confused, his hands still cold from the night-time journey. Jean lit a cigarette and passed it to him. Michel was thankful for the small warmth it afforded.

  ‘He is Papa’s oldest friend,’ Frieda began. ‘They met years ago, the same night he met my mother.’

  Michel smiled. It was the first time she had called Werner ‘Papa’ in front of everyone, almost as though Henri had reminded her of her past – that she was Werner’s little girl. ‘The summer solstice, in Hungary,’ Michel remembered. ‘He was the guest of a count.’

  Frieda nodded. ‘Henri – one and the same. He says he is a count of some noble family. A noble family that has bloodlines in all the major countries. He once showed me a family tree – it looked old, crinkled. When I was younger, I always thought that perhaps he was actually Count Dracula. It makes sense: he does not age and leaps about from city to city! Anyway, where was I?’

  ‘Hungary,’ Giordano said. ‘And I am. Hungry.’

  Jean barked a laugh and Frieda shook her head wearily at him.

  ‘Henri so admired the acts at the show that he made sure Papa was able to keep the tradition going. He gave him money, helped with permits, and when things were sometimes difficult, perhaps with the police, he made sure we were fine. He travelled with us and would return to Paris, or Milan, when he needed a break. One night, perhaps just after I first met him, he himself got into trouble. Papa did not tell me what had happened, only that the police, this time, needed to speak with Henri. Papa hid him in our spare room and told me I was not to go in there.

  ‘Of course, I disobeyed. I was fifteen; I could not help myself. When Papa and Serge left the apartment, I knocked gently on the door and Henri told me to enter. His face was battered, much like Papa’s is now, and he was crying.

  ‘I held him in my arms as he wept and he told me, “You should be careful who you love. Who you trust.” I did not know what he meant.’

  ‘But Werner got him out of whatever trouble he was in?’ Michel asked.

  ‘He did,’ Serge said.

  ‘What was it, the trouble?’ Giordano was ever alert to gossip.

  ‘I was in love, that is all. Unfortunately, it was with the wrong person.’ Henri’s voice broke in from the open door.

  ‘Monsieur Count, I do apologise—’ Giordano began.

  ‘No need.’ He waved the apology away. ‘Come, breakfast is ready. Let us dine together as friends.’

  Henri had had his servant lay the table with fresh bread, jams, fruit, steaming pots of coffee and cream, pastries, and even bowls of chocolat chaud that the triplets eagerly helped themselves to. Odélie appeared as everyone sat down, still yawning.

  ‘Still too early for you, my dear?’ Henri asked.

  ‘I need coffee.’

  ‘Too early for me too,’ Hugo said. ‘But I made the effort.’

  ‘It’s because there is food,’ Odélie said.

  ‘Free, too.’ Giordano grinned at her.

  Kacper sat feeding Gino small scraps of bread, his eyes watchful. Michel suddenly realised that he had never heard Kacper speak.

  ‘The doctor says Werner is fine for now. The fever has lessened, and he shall keep an eye on him,’ Henri said, smoking a cigarette as his guests ate.

  ‘Thank you,’ Frieda said. ‘You cannot know how much we appreciate it.’

  ‘How far are we from Paris?’ Odélie eyed Henri.

  ‘Ah, Odélie! How rude of me. How are you – you look tired?’ he joked.

  Odélie’s face went p
uce. ‘How far are we from Paris?’ she said again.

  ‘Never one to take a comment on your looks, were you? We can all be tired from time to time,’ Henri teased, ‘you are still a beauty.’

  ‘Do not make me ask again.’

  ‘How far? How far? Let me think. A few miles – maybe fifteen, twenty, thirty? Who knows? Not far, my dear. Have you somewhere to be in Paris?’

  They all looked to Odélie.

  ‘No. I only wondered.’

  ‘Good. Good. You have a nice place to stay for now.’

  ‘This is nicer.’ She looked around the room.

  ‘Ah, my dear, if I could have you as my house guest, I would. But, as you know, it would raise too many questions, too many. Better you stay where you are.’

  ‘How is it better? We are in plain sight.’

  ‘Right you are. Plain sight is better than hiding, as no one will think you have anything to hide. Anyway, I am working on things. In fact, Serge – we must go to Paris this evening. I have some friends, or rather some people, who may owe me a favour or two to sort out your situation.’

  ‘I am coming too,’ Odélie said.

  The triplets looked to their faux maman, their expressions anxious.

  ‘Madame Rosie will mind you.’ Odélie’s voice was harsh, annoyed by their neediness.

  The triplets looked over at Madame Rosie who smiled gently at them. Then, adopting her as ducklings adopt a mother duck, they were satisfied.

  ‘And my dear, what shall you do in Paris?’

  ‘See my family,’ Odélie said, but she did not look at Henri as she spoke.

  Later that day, as everyone settled in, lit fires and cooked what little food they had, Michel took the horses to Henri’s stables where he fed and watered them, noticing how happy they were now they were warm and dry. He gave the letter for Bertrand to Henri, who promised to post it once in the city.

  He sat and smoked in the barn whilst the others ate, strangely reluctant to go back to them.

  He had just ground the cigarette butt under his boot when he heard footsteps approaching.

  It was Kacper, Gino on his shoulder. He smiled at Michel.

  ‘You know, Kacper, I was thinking at breakfast that I have never spoken with you, not once. I realise how rude you must think me.’