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

by Carly Schabowski

  Kacper shrugged. He patted Beau, then Bisou.

  ‘It’s all been a bit crazy, hasn’t it?’

  Kacper sat down on an upturned bucket and nodded.

  ‘I am tired. You must be too. It’s all a mess.’

  Kacper held his palms upwards as if to say, What can you do?

  ‘I agree. Kacper, tell me about yourself.’

  Kacper raised his eyebrows, then pulled out a harmonica from his pocket. He began to play, and Michel sat forward.

  ‘I know this one!’ he said. ‘My mother – my mother loved this song.’ And Michel began to sing along – a song of talking about love, of wanting to hear it as much as possible.

  ‘I told you that you were a beautiful singer.’ Frieda stood in the doorway watching.

  Kacper did not stop playing so Michel turned to Frieda, and sang to her that he loved her, that he would tell her he loved her every day and never stop.

  ‘Are you awake?’ Michel’s head swam in a dream and he thought he could hear Bertrand.

  ‘Are you awake?’ the voice said again.

  Michel tried to open his eyes, the lids heavy and unmoving. ‘What time is it?’ he muttered.

  ‘Five in the evening, I think. It is getting dark.’

  His left eye opened and he saw Hugo sitting on the sofa opposite Werner’s bed, on which he now slept.

  ‘I had to sleep last night with his feet in my face. Can you imagine? Kacper’s. And Giordano had the cheek to say I snore. Do I snore, Michel?’

  Michel groaned and pulled the blanket up to his chin. His nose was cold, and he wanted to bury his face in the pillow.

  ‘Why are you sleeping in the afternoon? I suppose you did not sleep much for the past few nights – days, in fact.’

  ‘Hugo, why are you still talking to me?’ Michel opened both eyes and sat up, rubbing away the sleep.

  ‘Do you think we are safe at last?’

  Michel saw now that Hugo’s left leg danced as he spoke, and his nails were bitten and raw. ‘We are.’

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t. Madame Rosie says she saw something in her cards, something awful, like… a beast.’

  ‘A beast?’

  ‘Well, something like that. Or death. Maybe she said death? Or maybe she said a beast would kill us. I cannot remember. It was late, I was tired. But I have been thinking of beasts all day and then Giordano says I snore! It’s not good, Michel, it really is not.’ Hugo extinguished his cigarette, then lit another.

  ‘You need to calm down.’ Michel climbed out of bed and quickly into his trousers, pulling a thin brown woollen jumper over his head.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say! You are not Jewish, are you? Or, are you? Well, you don’t look it, not to me anyway. I am. Kacper is. Jean is. Giordano – well – he isn’t but I hear they don’t like freaks. Is that true? Don’t look at me like that, Michel. I love Giordano, I do. I am just saying. Frieda is Jewish too. And Madame Rosie. The triplets also. You know their father was killed for printing a pamphlet against the Reich? Frieda rescued them. She rescued all of us. But you are not Jewish, are you, Michel?’

  Michel had dressed, tied his laces and lit his own cigarette by the time Hugo had finished. ‘No. I am not.’

  ‘There, see? I told you.’ Hugo was pleased that he had figured something out, even if it was of little importance. ‘But you won’t tell, will you? You won’t tell anyone?’

  ‘I won’t, Hugo. I promise you.’

  ‘You’re a good man. Frieda says you are a good man, that she trusts you. If she says that then I do too.’

  ‘Thank you, Hugo.’

  ‘Felix too – he was Jewish. They took him. Werner said that he was taken because he was fighting, but I know he was lying – I know it!’

  Michel looked at the frightened clown, his mind going over Felix’s disappearance. He knew it would not have been fighting – he knew that Werner had been afraid at the time. Why didn’t I realise the truth?

  ‘I’m sure it was nothing,’ Michel lied to Hugo. ‘If Werner said it was for fighting then I’m sure it was true.’

  ‘So, he wasn’t taken because he was a Jew?’ Hugo asked hopefully.

  ‘Génépy, you need génépy,’ Michel said and opened the door, leading them to Jean and Giordano’s caravan.

  Giordano reluctantly brought out his last bottle. Hugo said that in theory he could make more, but he didn’t have the ingredients and maybe the Germans would find them because he was making it, so it might be better if he didn’t?

  ‘Hush!’ Giordano snapped. ‘Drink and calm down.’

  Michel sat on a wooden chair close to the fire burning in the iron stove. His nose was still cold; his whole body ached.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Hugo stood near the window, smoking distractedly and drinking his alcohol in quick sips.

  ‘Madame Rosie has gone to sit with Werner. Serge, Odélie and Henri left in a black car earlier. Kacper has gone for a walk around the grounds with Gino.’

  Michel smiled at the thought of Gino appreciating the architecture of Henri’s grand house, and the town with its cathedral spire that pricked the clouds.

  ‘What are we to do?’ Hugo asked. ‘Just sit?’

  ‘Read a book. Here.’ Jean handed him a volume bound in red leather with gold lettering.

  ‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ he read.

  ‘Like Henri. Read it. You will enjoy it. He brought it for me as a joke after what I said, but I think you are in need of a riveting tale more than I am.’

  Despite himself, Hugo took it and sat down, the book on his lap.

  There was a quiet knock at the door and Frieda entered. ‘Michel, can I borrow you for a minute?’

  Michel left the others to their drinks and followed Frieda into her and Werner’s caravan. ‘What can I do for you, my love?’

  She drew him to her and kissed him deeply.

  ‘That’s all I wanted,’ she said when she pulled away. ‘I just wanted us to be alone for a while.’

  She opened the internal door Michel had noticed the first time he had come into the caravan, and inside was a double bed with a thick yellow duvet and plumped pillows.

  ‘My bedroom,’ she said.

  Michel looked at her. ‘It feels wrong to go in there,’ he said.

  ‘Why is it wrong?’

  ‘It’s your room.’

  ‘I did not realise you were such a gentleman.’ She did not smile.

  ‘I just don’t want to hurt you, Frieda. I have hurt women in the past…’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many women?’

  ‘Not many, no, not many at all. It’s just that the way I feel about you, Frieda, I want to make you happy.’

  She took his hand in hers. ‘It would make me happy if you would lie next to me, stroke my hair and tell me how much you love me.’

  He smiled at her and allowed her to take him into the bedroom. They lay down next to each other, just a few centimetres between their faces.

  ‘You think we will be all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I want to leave.’

  ‘And where would you go?’

  She rolled away from him and let out a sigh. ‘The world – the whole world!’ She lifted her arms up as if the space between her hands was the circumference of the earth.

  Michel propped his head on his hands.

  ‘The whole world is pretty big; can you think of one place?’

  ‘One place… One place… How about California? It’s warm there. Werner got a postcard once, from someone who had left to join a circus there as a trapeze act.’

  ‘Like you.’

  ‘Like me.’

  ‘Certainly, my love, we will go there.’

  She stroked his face.

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘All I can promise you is that we will go away together. Start a life together. Be safe somewhere.’

  ‘Will we have children?’
<
br />   ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three – no, four. Maybe five.’

  ‘Five? You are crazy, Michel.’

  ‘We will need them to have our own troupe.’

  ‘Our own troupe…’ she repeated.

  ‘It will be the Cirque de Bonnet—’

  ‘And you will be the ringmaster.’

  ‘I will be the ringmaster. And you will be the star act. Our children will do whatever they like – perhaps they will be clowns, or tumblers, or fire eaters.’

  ‘And we can send for Jean and Giordano. And Madame Rosie, and Kacper and Gino.’

  ‘Of course. And Hugo.’

  ‘Perhaps not Hugo,’ she said. ‘He would not travel that far, I am sure; he would worry too much.’

  ‘And Madame Geneviève, and Vassily—’

  ‘She would have to grow her beard back again,’ Frieda said, laughing.

  Michel laughed with her, then kissed her. ‘We will have our friends and our family with us.’

  ‘A Cirque des Amis – a circus of friends,’ she whispered.

  ‘A Cirque des Amis,’ he agreed.

  She sat up and lit a cigarette for them both. ‘I’m sure Odélie is not coming back from Paris tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Serge told me she wanted to leave. She has found her chance now.’

  ‘The triplets will miss her.’

  ‘They will. Will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘I saw the way she was with you in the beginning. You were hers. She told me so.’

  ‘I was never hers,’ Michel said. ‘She may have thought that, but I wasn’t.’

  ‘You made love to her though.’

  ‘She practically ambushed me!’

  ‘But you didn’t say no.’

  Michel shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t say no.’

  Frieda licked her lips then took another drag of the cigarette.

  ‘It wasn’t making love. It was a mistake. I thought you were married. I thought I could never stand a chance with a woman like you.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise, Michel. That was the past. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to affect our future.’

  Michel took the cigarette from her, then kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Nothing will affect our future. It is you and me.’

  ‘And our Cirque des Amis.’

  As they kissed, her hands roamed his face, his neck and then down his chest towards his belt. She stopped when he gasped, pulled away from him and smiled. She unbuttoned her black shirt, her breasts falling free like ripened fruit. He ached to touch her, but she was not yet finished. She undid her trousers and let them fall to her ankles, revealing the long legs he had watched for months.

  She unpinned her hair so it cascaded down her back. He moaned with pleasure – the sight of her was enough.

  ‘Do you really love me?’ she asked, her voice testing, joking.

  ‘I do love you.’

  ‘Do you want me?’

  He had no words. His mouth was dry. He could only nod.

  She looked at his trousers. ‘I can tell,’ she said and giggled.

  He grinned at her and she climbed on top of him, undressing him with frantic fingers, until at last they joined together, both sighing with relief.

  Twelve

  Monsieur Bertrand

  ‘I read the cards,’ Madame Rosie said. ‘I read them, and I saw it again.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Michel sat with Frieda, eating dinner in her caravan the following night.

  ‘I saw the Tower, Death, the Lovers.’

  ‘They can mean different things,’ Frieda said, clearing the soup bowls, the bread and crumbs.

  ‘I know. Don’t you think I know that? But where are Serge and Odélie? They have been gone more than a day.’

  ‘They will be back soon.’

  ‘I don’t know. There is danger. I can feel it.’

  ‘Sit, Rosie. Please. Take this.’ Frieda handed her a small glass of wine. ‘We borrowed it from Henri’s basement. He’ll never know.’

  Madame Rosie drank. ‘What if they are not back tomorrow? What then? Do we sit here and just wait?’

  ‘If they are not back tomorrow, then I will go to Paris myself and find them.’ Michel placed his hand on top of hers.

  Madame Rosie visibly relaxed. ‘I’ll tell Hugo and Kacper, they will be so relieved.’

  When she left, Frieda sat back down at the tiny fold-away table. Her hair was loose, and she wore a red sweater and black skirt. ‘You look beautiful,’ Michel said.

  ‘More beautiful than when I am wearing sequins? This sweater is so old.’ She plucked at the wool to make her point.

  ‘More beautiful than sequins,’ he said, and leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose.

  ‘You didn’t mean it, did you? That you would go to Paris?’

  Michel shrugged. ‘They’ll be back. I won’t need to go.’

  ‘We should go and check on Papa, see how he is.’

  ‘You stay. You were with him most of the day. I will go and sit with him for a while.’

  Michel kissed her goodbye and made his way to the house, up the carpeted staircase to Werner’s bedroom.

  He opened the door slowly. Werner was tucked under crisp white sheets and a green bedspread, his face as pale as the pillows.

  ‘Werner?’ Michel whispered, as he sat on a chair next to the bed.

  His eyelids fluttered, then opened just enough to see who had spoken. ‘Michel,’ his voice crackled.

  ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘Water.’

  Michel gently held a glass to his lips and allowed him to sip, then wiped his mouth with a cloth.

  ‘I hear one of Henri’s servants is looking after you? Frieda says he is driving you mad.’

  Werner managed a weak smile.

  ‘Frieda also said the doctor had been again – that your temperature has dropped. That’s a good sign?’

  Werner closed his eyes.

  ‘I’ll let you sleep.’ Michel made to stand, but Werner’s hand grabbed his.

  Werner did not speak, but he did not let go of Michel’s hand, so he sat down once more and held his hand until his breathing was quiet and even, his grip relaxed.

  By four o’clock the following afternoon, nerves were frayed, and the troupe met in Henri’s living room, much to the annoyance of his servant.

  ‘You should go to Paris, Michel, you said you would,’ Madame Rosie said.

  Michel looked to Frieda whose eyes were wide and frightened like a rabbit’s.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Jean said.

  ‘Ha! No, you will not,’ Giordano retorted. ‘You, a tall Jew. In Paris. Are you mad or just a fool?’

  ‘Both?’ Jean suggested.

  ‘I would offer to go…’ Hugo began. ‘But I’ve found some ingredients for génépy, and with the war and everything, I think my service is better put to use doing that.’

  Eliáš stood and cleared his throat. ‘I will go.’

  ‘No!’ his sister Eliška cried, her face still so like a child’s.

  Edita coughed and everyone turned to look at her. She was as quiet as the others, yet a foot taller, wider too, her face always set as if she were busy figuring out complicated mathematical equations.

  ‘Michel will go,’ she said, her voice soft yet firm like a teacher’s. ‘He is not Jewish, and he lived in Paris. He should go, it will be safer for him. If he needs someone to go with him, then Giordano is right, it should be him. He knows where Serge and Henri would go – who they may speak to. He has the right identification. None of the rest of us can risk it. Remember Anton?’

  The group nodded.

  ‘And Felix,’ she added. ‘No. It must be this way. Michel and Giordano. If they cannot find them, we wait here a little longer.’

  ‘And then?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘And then we decide what to do
next.’

  Sometime after four in the morning, Michel packed a small bag and together with Giordano set out for Paris.

  They picked their way down a rutted track towards the town, where Henri’s servant told him to see Monsieur Gardinier who would be taking his deliveries into the city.

  ‘You really think we can find them?’ Giordano walked quickly, clutching a small carpet bag to his chest.

  ‘We can only try.’ Michel felt in his pocket once more for the address of Werner’s apartment, which Serge had access to, and names of bars Frieda thought they might visit.

  ‘They would have called the house if they were going to stay,’ Giordano told the early morning air. ‘They would have called. We are doing the right thing.’

  ‘We are.’

  For a few francs, Monsieur Gardinier grunted at them to sit in the back of his truck with the delivery.

  ‘He did not tell us it was cheese.’ Giordano sat opposite Michel, both leaning on crates that emitted the rich, cloying scent of camembert.

  ‘They all claim Normandy camembert is the best, but mark my words, mine is better!’ Monsieur Gardinier shouted over the engine, which rattled and choked as he changed gears.

  ‘He is crazy,’ Giordano whispered, as Gardinier continued his tale of how the cheese was made, and how perfect the milk was.

  Michel nodded then closed his eyes, allowing the movement of the truck to soothe his nerves. We will find them. Nothing is wrong—

  ‘Five minutes!’ Gardinier’s voice woke Michel.

  ‘I slept,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you. I thought perhaps you needed your rest.’

  ‘Montmartre, you said. Here, be quick, and carry one of those crates back there – I need to deliver this one.’ Gardinier opened the rear of the truck.

  Michel and Giordano awkwardly carried the crate into the fromagerie, and as soon as they placed it on the ground, they took their leave and thanked Gardinier.

  ‘Cost you double next time.’ He counted out the francs Michel handed him.

  Michel looked around at the streets he had known all his life and was surprised by how little they had changed. Restaurant Suzette still shone in the morning light, tables set outside even in the cold. The only difference was that her clientele all wore German army uniforms.