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

by Carly Schabowski

  ‘Thank you for last night, Jean – the prompts and things during rehearsals.’

  ‘I have little else to do. My act is now just me – no one wants to see a tall man wander around on his own. It scares people.’

  ‘Surely that’s a good thing?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Our theme is the Day of the Dead. How about we have you dressed as Death himself? You know, we can make you look like a skeleton – a hooded figure. What do you say?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem right without Giordano.’

  ‘Henri says he is working on it. You need to have faith – he will find him and bring him home.’

  Jean only nodded and drank his coffee.

  On the last day of rehearsals Brigadeführer Wolff came to visit.

  ‘It looks a bit…’ He cocked his head to the side as he viewed the muted colours of the Big Top, the peeling paint on the signs for the smaller tents, and the faded bunting that marked the pathways around the field.

  ‘At night, it looks wonderful. It will come alive. We have lights to string up, torches, even fireworks,’ Michel reassured him.

  ‘It’d better,’ Wolff said, hitching up the waistband that had slipped below his paunch.

  ‘Herr Wolff!’ Frieda appeared, her hair brushed and shining, her eyebrows shaped and rouge on her cheeks.

  Suddenly the brigadeführer’s face changed. A smile, then a quick wipe of the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ he purred, and kissed her hand.

  ‘May I show you the elephant and lion we have for your darling wife’s birthday surprise?’

  ‘You may indeed.’ He offered his arm for her to take.

  As she walked away, she turned quickly and winked at Michel. He grinned at her. The ringmaster was no one without Frieda.

  That evening the troupe sat around a campfire, sharing stories, cups of cheap wine and bottles of beer.

  Around them, workers strung up lights, attaching them to large poles so that the entire camp was soon illuminated by thousands of small white lights that gently swayed in the evening air.

  Michel sat slightly apart from the group with Henri, who had brought his own bottle of Burgundy, a 1904 Clos du Roi, that he had been saving for a special occasion.

  ‘You know, Michel, I have missed the circus,’ Henri said. ‘It had been too long.’

  ‘Why did you stay away?’

  Henri drank and looked above him. ‘Those stars – I forget to look at them. Frieda told you about Paris. About the time Werner helped me. It was a hard time for me. It has been a hard time for me since. You see, Michel, I was in love.’

  ‘With one of the rich women?’

  Henri laughed. ‘They were my friends, the women. My very good friends. We enjoyed each other’s company. Most of them were older than me, widows with fortunes who needed some fun in their lives. I provided that for them. Ah now, Michel, don’t look at me like that. We loved each other in our own ways, and we used each other. But I was not in love with them. I was in love with someone else. Someone who was part of Werner’s circus, even before Werner became ringmaster. We met in Hungary. We fell in love as soon as we saw each other.’

  ‘Frieda mentioned you travelled with them.’

  ‘I did. Werner knew of my feelings, of the relationship that had developed. He saw us once and I told him the truth. As he kept my secret safe, I helped him inherit the circus, gave him money. But it was a friendship – it was not bribery at all. I would return to my wife, first in Hungary, and then when she died I married once more – a widow in Paris. She enjoyed the shows, the magic of it all. She knew I was in love with someone else, and she understood.’

  ‘Why did it have to be a secret? Was the woman married?’

  ‘Have you finished your wine? I have one more bottle. Here, uncork it.’

  Michel did as he was told yet did not refill his own glass – only Henri’s.

  ‘Look who has found her way back,’ Henri said, nodding towards the Big Top where Odélie stood chatting to a junior soldier who had been assigned to place the names on the reserved chairs in the tent.

  Michel saw her rest her hand on his arm and laugh at something he said. When he moved back inside the tent to continue his work, Odélie went over to the group, smiling and waving as if she had been away on holiday.

  ‘Odélie,’ Michel said as she stopped in front of him.

  ‘Michel! I hear you are the new ringmaster. You know, word spreads around Paris so quickly, and I just had to come back to perform – I knew you would need me.’

  ‘Not so,’ Henri said. ‘We have enough performers.’

  Her smile fixed in place, Odélie did not move. ‘Ah Henri, you are so funny. Always telling jokes. I’ll go and see my triplets, make sure they have not missed me too much.’

  ‘How quickly you make friends, Odélie,’ Henri said. ‘He’s a bit young for you, don’t you think?’

  ‘Herr Weber is a courteous young man, not like some. He is going to take me to dinner. There’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Apart from the fact he’s a German.’

  ‘If I remember rightly, are not Frieda and Werner both German? And yet we are friends with them. You need to stop being so small-minded, Henri. It does not suit you, makes you look old and sour.’

  Before Henri could retort, she stalked away towards the triplets.

  ‘She is trouble. Always has been. She has an eye for you, Michel.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ah. You do? Most men give in to her. I expect she’s seething with jealousy about you and Frieda.’

  ‘She has made a few comments.’

  ‘And yet she hasn’t made a scene. Yet.’

  ‘This is good wine,’ Michel said, changing the subject. He lit a cigarette, his eyes on Odélie as she kissed Frieda on both cheeks and giggled with her. Behind them, Monsieur Bertrand and Madame Rosie held hands. Michel smiled at the pair, happy that Bertrand had found someone.

  ‘That is nice to see,’ Henri said, following his gaze.

  ‘They are well matched.’

  ‘She was not married, you know.’

  ‘Who? Madame Rosie?’

  ‘No, not her. My love. In fact, the main problem was that she was not a she at all.’

  Michel inhaled the smoke then blew it out in front of him. Quietly, he said, ‘I see.’

  ‘A young tightrope walker. He was magnificent to watch.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Dead,’ Henri said simply, no trace of sadness in his voice. ‘Did we drink all the wine?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Come with me to my house. We will finish it there. Perhaps get Werner to join us if he is up for it.’

  Michel followed Henri to the house, his head aching. He watched the count walk a few steps in front, whistling a tune. He had met men like Henri before, and had, as others did, believed it to be wrong – immoral. But looking at Henri now – his kindness for the others, his willingness to help – made Michel feel as though he himself may have been the one in the wrong.

  Inside, the house was warm. Henri asked Michel to wait in the living room whilst he went to fetch Werner. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticked by five minutes before Henri appeared once more, Werner on his arm, wearing a plum dressing gown, a ruddy flush in his cheeks.

  ‘You are looking better,’ Michel said.

  ‘I wish I felt it.’ Werner sat heavily in an armchair by the fire and Henri placed a blanket over his legs. ‘Henri said we were celebrating. I told him we should wait until after the show – but as you can see, he does not listen.’

  ‘And when have I ever listened to you?’ Henri sang out, as he poured the rest of the wine into crystal glasses. He handed out the drinks then placed a record on the gramophone. The song Michel knew so well began to crackle, Fréhel’s voice calling out to dance the Java with the one you love.

  ‘La Java Bleue,’ Michel said.

  ‘I thought tha
t, as we were on the subject of love, this was the most appropriate song.’ Henri sat on the sofa, the orange glow from the fire casting strange shadows so that for a moment, Michel thought Henri was crying.

  ‘I thought this was a celebration. Why are we talking about love?’ Werner asked.

  ‘It is a celebration – a celebration of love. Have you never celebrated the great loves of your lives? Éva, the circus, Frieda?’

  Werner shook his head. ‘I have other things to do with my time than be a romantic like you!’

  ‘Come now, Werner, I have seen you be a romantic. Michel, listen, Werner and Éva were so in love. He would bring her flowers every day, just to make sure he saw her smile at least once a day. That is romance.’

  ‘I was young,’ Werner said.

  ‘And you, Michel. Are you a romantic?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I hope I am.’

  ‘Frieda thinks you are.’ Henri winked, and Werner shifted in his chair.

  ‘I hope to be everything she wants me to be.’ Michel was emboldened by the wine. ‘I hope to give her everything she wants. One day, I will have the money to buy her things, to be romantic.’

  ‘Money is not romance, Michel. It helps, of course. I have money, but I have no romance.’ Henri took a sip of wine, then looked above him at the painting of the man that hung above the fireplace.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Werner admonished Henri. ‘And I’m tired.’

  ‘We are celebrating! Here, have some more, then you can fall asleep like a baby. I told Michel about my own great love.’

  ‘You did?’ Werner raised his eyebrow.

  ‘I did. His name, Michel, was Pedro, from Madrid. He could dance, you know. Oh, how we would dance together when no one was looking.’

  ‘You said he died. What happened?’

  ‘Now, that is a sad tale. A sad, sad tale.’

  ‘Not one we need to go over,’ Werner told him.

  ‘No. We must. It is romantic in its own way – just as Éva losing you and you gaining a daughter is romantic. So is the way our love ended.’

  ‘Do as you wish. You will anyway.’

  ‘Now, Michel, Frieda told you that one night in Paris, she saw me battered, beaten even worse than our friend Werner here. Well, that was the night Pedro died. You see, my wife, God rest her soul—’

  ‘And the others,’ Werner interrupted.

  ‘Yes, the others too – all my wives. God rest their souls. Anyway. She was poorly and took to bed. I told her that Pedro was in Paris whilst Werner got things organised for their next jaunt. Pedro and I spent many a day roaming Paris, buying gifts, eating and talking. We went to museums, he taught me to speak some Spanish, I painted him. In the evenings we sat, just as any couple did, and read by the fire, or listened to music. When my wife was able, she joined us, and we had dinner together. It was nothing obscene like people think. It was just love. Then, one night, we went to a bar where we could hear some singers. We ordered a bottle of wine and sat together. It was dark in the bar, very dark, so now and then we held hands under the table.

  ‘It was about nine when things changed. The singer was taking a break, and the barman accidently flicked on the main light, illuminating the entire crowd – and Pedro and I with our arms around each other.

  ‘It was a mere moment, a flicker of something that many would never have noticed. But to our distress, it was seen.

  ‘A group of men behind us saw. They approached us and asked questions – Who are you? What is your name, address?

  ‘We were committing no crime, so I refused to answer them. I told them it was none of their business.

  ‘I did not know that one of the men was a gendarme. A high-ranking official at that. He did not take kindly to my refusal, so they dragged us outside. The gendarme told me he would prosecute us; some sort of law about morality. I told him once more that we were committing no crime.

  ‘I remember that one of the men laughed. Then, before I knew it, I was on the floor, being kicked and spat on. Pedro tried to help, he screamed for others to help us, but no one came. He attacked the gendarme, who was kicking the hardest. The gendarme threw him to the ground and then Pedro was silent.

  ‘They grew weary of their game soon enough and left us alone, bleeding into the gutter. It had started to rain, and it was as if the whole pavement ran with blood. I tried to stand and finally found I could. I made my way to Pedro. His face was unrecognisable. His face. It was still. He did not react when I screamed, when I cried. Nothing. His face…’ Suddenly Henri began to weep. Holding his head in his hands, he cried and screamed as if reliving the nightmare.

  Werner tried to get up from his chair but could not, so Michel sat beside Henri and held him close, rocking him like a baby until eventually the weeping became muffled sobs.

  ‘I told you not to talk about it,’ Werner said quietly.

  Henri looked to Werner and smiled sadly. He wiped his tears away with the cuff of his jacket. ‘I know. And you were right, as always. If I would only listen to you, Werner, my life would be so different.’

  ‘Can I get you something?’ Michel asked.

  ‘A whisky. Just one, then time for a nap. Don’t look at me like that, Werner, I said one more and then to bed. Thank you, dear Michel. Such a dear boy. Frieda is lucky to have you.’

  Michel sat and allowed Henri to drink and calm himself, the grandfather clock ticking loudly, reminding them that it was almost tomorrow – almost the day of the show.

  ‘It is too quiet here. Too quiet. That damned clock keeps reminding me of each second of my life that is ticking away. I will leave here soon. Leave and never come back.’

  ‘It is almost tomorrow,’ Michel said.

  ‘Yes. Indeed it is. You must rest. It is a big day for you, for all of us. You know Werner saved my life that day? He took me in, cleaned me up, nursed me. He went to my wife and told her what had happened. She was a powerful woman, Michel. The widow of a judge, no less. She made sure that nothing happened to me, but poor Pedro’s death was classed as an accident – there was nothing she could have done to change that. Werner, he stopped me from going mad, from drinking myself to death or jumping from a bridge.’

  ‘Which you tried to do so often it kept me awake for months,’ Werner added.

  ‘And yet, you persevered. You are my friend. My very best of friends. I am so glad to have met you.’

  ‘Now you are becoming maudlin. I can’t have maudlin. Neither can Michel, not the night before the show.’

  ‘You are right, you are always right, Werner.’ Henri stood and helped him to his feet. ‘Michel, sleep well. I am putting Werner to bed. It is time we all had some peace.’

  Michel watched Henri gently half carry and half walk his friend to the stairs. The two of them leaned on each other, holding each other up.

  Fifteen

  La Danse Macabre

  The morning of the show, the wind grew stronger with each hour; the canopy of the Big Top concaved for a moment, and then the next it filled with air and looked bulbous against the sky. Michel welcomed the wind that brought the cold and iced rain from the east, a fitting scene for their final performance – dramatic, unnerving, a last goodbye.

  The horses were skittish. The wind was different here, untamed and dangerous. They wanted to be free with it, run wild across fields without the constant eye of their trainers. The wind whispered to them, made them stamp their hooves and flare their nostrils, impatient for what was going to happen next.

  Under the turbulent grey-black sky, Michel waited for Frieda to come out of her costume fitting with Madame Rosie. Trees swayed and dipped as the wind bent them to its will, yet people milled about, holding down caps, grasping shut jackets, as if the wind would give up and forget about disturbing them in their final preparations. Their clothes were muted by the cold sky, making everyone seem to Michel like characters in a dream he could not control.

  Frieda came to him, as wild as the wind, her hair a stream of black behind her. Her green eyes loo
ked luminous in the dimmed light and when she kissed him, it was as though she was sealing their bond – they were going to be together forever.

  ‘I was just going to see your father,’ Michel said. ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘I can’t. Rosie is getting worried that she cannot do everyone’s make-up in time. We are all helping. Give Papa a kiss from me. I will see you soon.’

  ‘It’s almost time.’

  ‘It will be fine, Michel. Trust me. It will be fine.’ She kissed him again, then retreated to the caravan where he heard Rosie shouting at Bertrand for doing it wrong.

  As Michel entered Henri’s house, he could hear a woman sobbing, and the rise and fall of Henri’s voice.

  He tapped gently on the closed living room door and it swung open so quickly that Michel wondered if they had been waiting for him.

  ‘Come in.’ Henri’s face was tight with anger.

  Michel walked into the room and saw Odélie in the corner, tears streaming down her face, her eyes puffy and red as if she had been weeping for days.

  ‘Tell him!’ Henri commanded.

  ‘Please!’ Odélie begged, then sobbed into her hands, hiding her face.

  Henri approached her and grabbed her head, so she was forced to look at Michel. ‘Tell him!’ he shouted again.

  ‘I am sorry, Michel,’ she said, her voice not her own – childish, pleading. ‘I am so sorry.’ She fell from her chair and lay on the floor curled into a ball; her body racked with sobs.

  Michel made to move towards her, but Henri grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t. Leave her.’

  Henri walked away from her and took a bottle of whisky off a shelf, then poured two glasses. He placed one on the floor next to Odélie’s head. ‘Drink it and pull yourself together.’

  Michel sat, his leg jumping with nerves, as Henri drank his whisky back and then poured another.

  ‘She told them. She told that fils de pute little German officer who we all are. She told them what Werner has been doing. Salope! What for? What for? Some money? Some jewellery?’

  ‘He said he would look after me, that Wolff would take care of me!’ she cried. ‘It was a mistake – a slip of the tongue… I didn’t mean it – I trusted him!’