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

by Carly Schabowski

  The cabarets still advertised their acts, the vendors still sold their wares, but the flags pinned to buildings, flying in the air, were a stark reminder that Paris was no longer their own.

  ‘I feel like everyone is looking at me,’ Giordano said.

  ‘Look straight ahead, don’t meet anyone’s eyes. Just keep moving.’

  The rattle of a truck hitting a pothole made Michel jump. Soldiers sat in the open back, the diesel engine growling. One of them stood and whistled at a woman who was crossing the street ahead.

  She looked up and smiled at the solider. Then, once the truck was out of sight, she hurried her steps, her heels click-clacking past Michel.

  Werner’s family apartment was on the second floor of a building on the Boulevard de Clichy, above a brasserie that had changed its name to Der Gute Deutsche, the Good German, to entice its city’s newest inhabitants.

  Michel led the way up the tiled staircase, his and Giordano’s feet echoing with each step. He knocked on the door of apartment three: no answer. He tried the handle, but it was securely locked.

  ‘Serge?’ Giordano bent down and spoke into the keyhole. ‘It’s us, are you there?’

  ‘Even if he is, he won’t hear that.’

  ‘Should I shout?’

  Just then, a neighbour, an elderly woman with a small dog with dainty paws, opened her front door and looked at the pair. ‘Oui?’

  ‘Madame, I am looking for the people who live here,’ Michel began.

  ‘No one lives there. That short fat man did – German, he was. Funny he’s not come back since his friends arrived.’ She fiddled with her keys, then closed her front door and locked it. ‘You’ll want to leave now. No one lives here anymore. Just me and Babette.’ She nodded at the dog, who was pulling at the leash to descend the staircase for their walk.

  Michel and Giordano followed her back down the stairs and out into the street, watching as she made her way carefully towards a newspaper stand, the dog stopping to sniff at every wall.

  ‘What now?’ Giordano asked.

  ‘We need to go to the bars, the clubs, the places where Frieda said they could be – where their friends are.’

  ‘It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Michel. I doubt we will find them there now.’

  Michel thought for a second, then knew exactly where to wait.

  Odette’s café was still standing. Her morning trade sat at the scuffed wooden tables and bar, drinking their coffees and filling the air with tobacco smoke. The warbling voice of Piaf sang out from the record player as it scratched over her song, ‘On danse sur ma chanson’. Odette swayed to the music behind the bar, a red-and-white checked tea towel in her hands, her scarlet lips mouthing the words.

  Michel stood for a moment, feeling as though he had been taken back in time, back to when everything was as it should be.

  He spotted Bertrand’s black woollen beret bent over a newspaper at the table furthest from the door, and walked towards him.

  ‘You have not changed one bit,’ Michel said.

  Bertrand looked up. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, his eyes wide. Finally, he said, ‘Michel…’

  Within seconds Bertrand was on his feet and had enveloped Michel in an embrace. When they pulled apart, Bertrand wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘And who is this?’

  ‘Giordano. My friend.’

  Bertrand pumped his hand up and down. ‘Pleased to meet you. Yes, pleased. Madame Odette! Look who it is!’

  ‘Ah, Michel!’ Madame Odette stopped singing and came to Michel, kissing him on both cheeks, once, twice then three times. ‘Sit. Sit. I will bring you coffee. I have croissants too. Yes?’

  She did not wait for their answer and scurried about, now and again looking back at Michel to check that he really was there.

  ‘She will drive a man crazy,’ Bertrand said and grinned.

  ‘I have missed her.’

  ‘No one misses her. She’s annoying.’

  ‘Michel has told me so much about you,’ Giordano said.

  ‘He has? All wonderful things, I am sure.’

  ‘What else could I tell him?’

  ‘That I made you leave your home?’

  ‘You didn’t do that. They did.’ Michel looked outside as if a German solider would be standing, staring in at the window. ‘You did what you thought best.’

  ‘And here you are.’

  ‘I am only here for a day, at most. I am trying to find some friends.’

  ‘Friends? And who are they?’

  Odette chose that moment to place the coffee and croissants in front of Michel, and it was a few more minutes before he could explain.

  ‘We will go and see if we can find out anything this evening. There are a few bars, some clubs,’ Michel finished. ‘I think that’s all we can do.’

  ‘And you want me to help?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but if you wanted to…’

  ‘Wanted to? I would be delighted. Anything for a bit of excitement.’

  ‘So, the Germans taking the city was not excitement enough for you?’

  Bertrand sat back in his chair and lit his pipe. After a few deep puffs he got a satisfactory draw. ‘My dear Michel, the Boche are utterly boring. No wonder they visit our cafés and bars so much. Germany, I think, must be a dreary place indeed.’

  The trio spent the rest of the day in Bertrand’s apartment. Giordano slept while Michel and Bertrand talked.

  ‘Did you get my last letter?’

  Bertrand stood and looked at his bookshelf before pulling out the Bible. He took out the letters from the middle, their envelopes stained.

  ‘I thought that if the Boche ever wanted to have a look around here, they wouldn’t bother with the Bible. Their souls already belong to the Devil. I wrote a reply to your last letter – it arrived yesterday. I kept it here as I had nowhere to post it now you’ve left Lucien’s. I cannot believe you are sitting here now!’

  ‘I cannot believe it myself.’

  ‘Read it. Not that it is as entertaining as your adventure, but it will stop me from having to tell you everything. I am going out. I will get us some food. Rationing is driving us all crazy, but I have my ways.’

  Once Bertrand had left, Michel opened up the new letter.

  Dear Michel,

  I received your letter this morning. At first I was delighted to see your familiar scrawl, yet as I read, I became fearful.

  You told me of your fellow performer taken away, of your ringmaster attacked, of your escape and hiding. I sit here and do not know quite how to respond. I feel I have let you down. I should not have forced you onto that train – I did not think it would come to this.

  It is worse here too. A few other familiar faces have been arrested. Monsieur Freidman and his son are gone – you remember that the Germans took his shoe shop. Madame Freidman left in the middle of the night with their daughter and her mother. She took nothing but a suitcase.

  I hate to admit it, I do, but I feel safer now they have gone – not that I would wish it on anybody, but I was worried that soon they would come for me. They still could, of course.

  I spoke with Arnoud the butcher the other day, and he said that he will shoot himself rather than be taken. He says he has two bullets, just in case the first does not do the trick. It is extreme, but I found myself agreeing with him. Estelle and her mother are still in the countryside, so for many months it has been just him and the dogs he feeds scraps to.

  I invited him for a brandy. He said he will come, but I do not think he will. He does not leave the shop except to make what meagre deliveries he has left.

  There is nothing good about this war apart from one thing, Michel, and this you need to keep hold of – you and Frieda. You must tell her you love her. Tell her before it is too late. All you have is each day, so make it as wonderful as you can. Tell her you love her every hour, every minute.

  I wish I had done the same, Michel. I wish it was all different.

  There
are things I would love to do. Travel, perhaps – I should have done that. Fall in love again – even at my age! These are regrets that lie heavy on me now. Each day, each time I hear gunshots, those blasted planes, someone else being arrested, my regrets get heavier and heavier on my shoulders, so that I feel I will soon be unable to move.

  Do not be unable to move, Michel. Find a way to keep moving.

  Your friend,

  Bertrand

  As Michel folded the letter and placed it back inside the Bible, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked around Bertrand’s apartment and felt for the first time its hollowness, its loneliness; in the pictures of a dead wife, in the books about Africa, America, all the places he had never been and could never go.

  He closed his eyes and let his mind drift as he sat in the familiar surroundings, bringing his childhood memories to the fore; of his mother who cared for him, working endlessly as a cleaner, her hands red-raw and rough to touch, just so that he could live and be happy. How many parents were out there now, worrying for their children, doing everything they could to protect them?

  Michel woke to the sound of Bertrand opening the front door.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ Bertrand closed the apartment door behind him and entered the room carrying a bag. ‘I told Arnoud you were here. He sent some beef – a little grey, I admit, but still!’

  Michel stood and enveloped Bertrand in a hug.

  ‘Now, now, Michel. It’s only beef, don’t get too excited. Go and wake your friend.’

  When the clock on the mantelpiece gently chimed six o’clock, the trio made to leave.

  They walked quickly, catching the overcrowded, sweating metro to Montmartre, Michel holding on to Giordano’s shoulder as if he were a small child that could be lost in the throng.

  By dark, Montmartre had transformed into a colourfully lit beast, reminding Michel of the way the circus came alive at night as if by magic.

  The windmill sails of the Moulin Rouge were lit with yellow bulbs, the sign underneath in neon red. A line of uniformed men were paying their way in whilst the cabarets a few doors down churned out music and laughter that carried to the street.

  ‘I thought it would look different,’ Michel said. ‘I thought it would be quiet, boarded-up houses – something to make it feel as though it is not ours.’

  ‘They are careful to protect it, Michel. It is Herr Hitler’s prize to own Paris – full of soldiers on leave, enjoying the city as if it is their own and letting us know that we are not to partake of anything unless they permit it. Do not be fooled by the lights, Michel. They are not the real light of Paris. They are fake – all of them,’ Bertrand warned.

  Giordano led the way down a side street, then another, to a rowdy bar that appeared too small to Michel to hold all the voices that came from inside.

  The dwarf opened the door and pushed his way through, and before Michel had squeezed past two men with large tattooed arms, Giordano was back. ‘They were here, two days ago. No one has seen them since.’

  Out into the cold: Giordano led the way once more.

  ‘Who were those people?’ asked Michel.

  ‘Performers mostly. Out of work actors, singers – you name it and you can find it in these streets.’

  ‘Curfew is at nine. We must be quick.’ Bertrand checked the time.

  ‘Only one more place they could be,’ Giordano said. ‘But you should probably wait here.’ He indicated a café – small, clean and quiet.

  ‘Why?’ Michel asked.

  ‘It is not, how do you say, for you, I suppose. I know how to get myself inside, but perhaps not you.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go alone.’

  ‘I will be fine. Sit, sit. Order some wine. I will be back in less than the time it takes you to drink it.’

  ‘And if you are not?’

  ‘I will be.’ Giordano grinned and marched away, turning down yet another darkened alley where disembodied voices drifted on the night air; the ghosts of Paris trying to reclaim their city of light.

  Bertrand and Michel ordered a glass of red each and waited, expecting Giordano to return within minutes.

  But when an hour had passed, Michel stood and paid the waiter. ‘There is something wrong. I can feel it.’

  Before they rounded the corner to follow in Giordano’s footsteps, the voices had changed. They were no longer happy, laughing. The music had gone. The tones were harsh. German.

  A crowd had gathered, and Michel and Bertrand pushed through until they could see five men, their hands on their heads, being led away by an armed solider. An officer stood at the entrance of a small house and barked something Michel did not understand.

  Two more men were led out, then a woman, and finally Giordano.

  Michel moved forward once more, his heart drumming in his ears.

  The German officer shouted at the crowd, who began to move away, back to their homes.

  ‘Giordano!’ Michel shouted.

  But Giordano could not turn around to look. The gun was trained at his back and the soldier nudged him forward to walk quicker, away from Michel down a dark, silent alley.

  ‘Come, Michel.’ Bertrand pulled Michel away.

  ‘We have to help him! Where are they taking him?’

  ‘Hush. Come now. Quickly.’

  Bertrand dropped his head down and dragged Michel by the arm.

  ‘Quickly, quickly, Michel. Walk faster.’

  As they hurried along, following the shadows to Bertrand’s apartment, the streets had become deserted; the only presence was German soldiers, who relaxed at the bars that were now theirs alone.

  The metro had stopped for the night, so they had to walk the six miles to Bertrand’s, always checking over their shoulder, neither wanting to talk.

  Once they arrived, Michel slumped into the armchair he had departed in early summer and Bertrand handed him a glass of brandy, then worried at the curtains to make sure no light shone through to the outside. He lit another candle; three now cast ghostly shadows on the walls and bookcases.

  ‘It is stupid, this curfew.’ Bertrand knocked his brandy back quickly.

  ‘Where have they taken him, Bertrand?’

  ‘If it is a round-up, I hear that those taken are questioned first – they find out if there are any resistance amongst them. Then, any Jews. Then anyone they do not like.’

  ‘We should have gone with him.’

  ‘He said himself it was not a place for us.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘It was a private bar, Michel, run by people Giordano knows and we do not. I expect they run many a bar in Paris without a licence – they have for years. Now, I suppose, their time is coming to an end.’

  ‘They will let him go – they must. He’s not part of the resistance, he’s not Jewish, he’s no one of interest to them.’

  ‘Unless he talks. Unless he tells them who and where your friends are.’ Bertrand poured the rest of the brandy into their glasses.

  ‘He wouldn’t.’

  ‘They have ways, Michel.’

  They both sat back and tried not to think of the ways in which they could make Giordano talk. Michel felt sick. His insides churned and his whole body ached.

  ‘We need to let your friends know – the troupe – just in case,’ Bertrand said to the shadows that played on the ceiling, jumping and flickering to one another in their game.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Tomorrow I will take you. We will tell them and then, Michel, you will hide until the Germans get bored and go home.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Only time will tell.’ With that, Bertrand leaned forward and blew out the candles. The pair sat, listening to each other breathe, until sleep finally took them away.

  Michel woke, still sitting in the armchair, his head leaning on his left shoulder, his neck sore and stiff.

  Bertrand was nowhere to be seen as Michel stood at the window and looked out at those leaving for work, going to school.

>   He suddenly felt nauseous. It rose up quickly, and he ran to the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left but bile. He washed his face then looked at himself in the mirror – his eyes were red and puffy, the stubble on his face now thick.

  He thought of Giordano, of his face, of what they may be doing to him. Then he thought of Jean – how could he tell him? How could he tell him his best friend might never return?

  Michel sat on the bathroom floor and felt the bile rise up again. He retched until his ribs hurt, then slumped down, his head in his hands, and wept.

  ‘I have it. She says she wants it back in a day. I say we have at least a week before she gets mad.’ Michel looked up and saw Bertrand, hat on his head, satchel in his hand. ‘What’s wrong? Why are you down there?’

  ‘I was ill.’

  ‘We need to go. We need to warn them.’

  ‘How can I tell them, Bertrand? How can I? It’s my fault, I should never have brought Giordano here.’

  Bertrand kneeled next to him on the cool tiles. ‘It is not your fault. It is this war that is at fault. They will understand. Please, Michel. We must do what we can, and what we can do is let them know what happened.’

  Michel allowed Bertrand to help him to his feet.

  ‘I borrowed Odette’s car. She has a permit to leave the city. Her lieutenant gifted it to her. I had to give her my cognac as collateral, so I suggest we go before she sells it or worse, drinks it herself.’

  ‘What about Giordano? We can’t just leave. We should look for him before we go – maybe we can find him?’

  ‘Michel, there is nothing we can do right now. If your friend Henri is as important as you say he is, if he returns, if your ringmaster knows someone… they can help. But I am an old man. I don’t know how to get the Boche to change their minds. I don’t know tricks. And neither do you. The only thing we can do is leave, go to your friends and warn them. Then, let us see what happens next.’

  Thirteen