Margit, when she spoke, which was rarely, did not speak to Tomas. For two years she had managed to avoid saying more than a few scattered words to him. The thing was, she didn’t seem to be afraid of him. She wasn’t. Margit had discovered that Tomas had no more power over her, that his days of doing as he liked were over, and she need no longer fear him. To Margit, Tomas Skosa was already a memory.
András and Etel, who were never seen apart, had adjusted quickly to their new lives as wire walkers. It was not, András knew, so different from the life of a Rom. The main difference was that wire walkers could, if they were good, enjoy the respect and admiration of gadje, if only for the moments when they were performing. András took a strange pleasure in knowing that they were cheering for him. The wire was not the only trick that was going on.
Where Tomas had been harsh with Salvo’s training, Salvo was patient. The concepts were the same, and failure was no less an option, but Salvo preferred to coerce rather than threaten. Besides, Salvo would never have struck a woman—either Margit or his sister especially—and he would likewise not strike András, who could easily thrash him.
When they had begun to train, Salvo was stunned when it was András who took to the wire least. Margit had some training already and had a definite head start, so he wasn’t surprised there. Etel, in spite of her enthusiasm, had worried him most.
“If you fall, you die,” he told Etel sternly. The look she gave him made him feel as if he had just insulted not only her but himself somehow as well, so he gave up such admonishments. He had commenced training the next day.
First they learned immobility. Margit had no trouble, as she had already learned it, and Etel caught on almost immediately. It took András a week. After that they took their first steps. If they lost their balance, which they often did, they were not allowed to fall. Always they were made to grasp for the wire, hold onto it, then drop to the ground. If they missed the wire, or did not attempt to catch it, Salvo would have to fight hard to control his rage. “You just killed yourself,” he told them, “and probably one of us, too.” His voice made them ashamed, and after a month they could cross back and forth and no one ever fell.
Balancing and tricks came later. These took time, repetition and a sense of balance that was only perfected after hours and hours on the wire. Negotiating the wire had to become second nature before any tricks were possible. In time, though, they were ready, and even now Salvo continued to teach them any trick he knew, had seen or was able to envision. After two years, he was able to confidently trust each of them with his life, but he still preferred to be alone on the wire.
In the last six months Etel had grown four inches. Soon she would be as tall as Salvo. If her hair was cut and her nose was larger, she could have passed for a younger version of either of her brothers. In temperament, though, she resembled neither. Where András was slow, Etel moved with a quickness reminiscent of a hummingbird. Where Salvo was secretly fearful of very nearly everything, Etel was secretly afraid of nothing. She hid her courage, not wanting to appear brazen. She spoke in a voice softer than her own and often slouched, embarrassed by her height. She made no effort to keep herself clean, constantly having to be reminded by András or Margit to wash her clothes and face. And she smoked incessantly; she loved the smell of it.
IN 1937 THEY SECURED A BOOKING in one of Europe’s most prestigious venues, Berlin’s Wintergarten. It was a lavish setting, its curved stage and superior acoustics the envy of theatres across the continent. Its patrons, dressed in their finest tuxedos and gowns, ate meals worthy of royalty as they were entertained by the best acts Europe and the world had to offer. As each guest entered the Wintergarten a star on the ceiling was lit, and when the house reached full capacity the ceiling was ablaze with a splendour that rivalled nature.
The wire was strung between two velvet-ensconced private boxes, sixty feet above the stage. Below, a twenty-piece orchestra scored the act, strategically scattered in case one of the wire walkers fell. The house was sold out, as usual.
There was a rumour circulating that Cole Fisher-Fielding was expected to be in attendance, which sent Salvo into a panic that left him aching, his hands sore and stiff from the frightened fists they were permanently contracted into.
Nearly fifty years earlier Cole Fisher-Fielding had, along with four of his brothers and two of his sisters, started the Fisher-Fielding Extravaganza, a meagre spectacle consisting of seven or eight acts, most of them involving at least one family member. In less than twenty years the Fisher-Fielding Circus Company had come to employ over fifteen hundred people and was the undisputed giant of the North American circus world.
Cole Fisher-Fielding was the second youngest of his siblings, and the youngest to enter the circus business. Of his thirteen brothers and sisters, only half had taken an interest in the circus, although sooner or later they had all taken an interest in its financial prosperity. Cole Fisher-Fielding was the sole surviving member of F-F’s original founders, sixty-six years old, twice married and twice divorced. He would almost certainly die without an heir. Such was the fate of the majority of the Fisher-Fieldings; of the seven who had started the business, only three had produced children. It baffled many, for the sexual proclivity of the Fisher-Fieldings had never gone unnoticed. It was widely speculated that there was many a Fisher-Fielding who bore a bastard name wandering the streets of America.
That Cole Fisher-Fielding outlived his brothers and sisters was no accident; more than one associate of the F-F Circus Company had remarked that Cole would bury the entire family, some with malice and some without. He was the sort of man it was impossible not to have a strong opinion about. But whatever could be said of him, none could argue that he hadn’t earned the title of King of the Circus. During the early 1930s, when the Depression had broken most, if not all, of their competition, the F-F under Cole’s direction had not only survived but turned a profit. In fact, in the fifty years that the Fisher-Fielding Circus Company had operated, it had never once missed a pay call. There was no other circus on earth that could make that claim.
Their formula for success was simple. Intimates of Cole had heard his mantra a thousand times if once, and could repeat it asleep. Number one: Never try to cheat the customer. The circus runs on repeat business. The best advertisement was a happy customer. Number two: Hire the best acts and keep them. Number three: Take care of your own. F-F workers were the best fed, best paid, best treated in the business. Simple as that.
It was his second tenet that had brought him to Europe. He had a nose for talent. Most of the top acts of the American circus had been discovered by Cole Fisher-Fielding and everyone knew it. Including Salvo Ursari.
It was no real surprise that he would show his face at the Wintergarten. After all, he was after the best acts in Europe, and the Wintergarten was the best venue. One naturally followed the other. What made Salvo nervous, besides the prospect of performing in front of this famous man, was what might happen if the troupe were offered a spot in the F-F Extravaganza. It had been much discussed among them, and sentiments were split down the middle, with Salvo undecided. András and Etel were keen to move to America, lured by the promise of a new land and the security of belonging to a large circus. Margit was reluctant to leave, wary of America, uninterested in stardom. Tomas Skosa was adamant that he would not go; he refused to even consider the possibility.
“Why not?” András had asked him. It was a rare occasion for András to speak to Tomas. Hardly anyone except Salvo spoke to him.
“Because this is where I am,” Tomas said. “There is work to do here.”
“But—”
“No but. You go if you like. I must remain.”
“No offers have been made,” Salvo said. “There is no point to this discussion.”
“If there is an offer, I will go,” András said. “I owe this place nothing.”
“Go, then, Rom. No one will complain.”
András, angry, set his jaw, but he did not move.
> “No offers have been made,” Salvo repeated.
Etel looked at him. “Do you think there will be one?”
Salvo shrugged.
“What would Fisher-Fielding want with us?” Margit said. “There are plenty of wire walkers around.”
“We are good,” Etel said.
“Yes, but to be in the Fisher-Fielding Company you must be great,” Margit said.
“You are not great,” Tomas said. Everyone looked at him. Inside, they all suspected he was right, and they despised him for it. He could feel it. He curled his lip to them, rose from his chair and left.
András’s eyes stayed on the door long after it had closed, then he turned to Margit. “You should have killed him when you had the chance.”
“Enough,” Salvo said. “We should rest. Tonight is a big one.”
Later, as he lay down, Salvo shook on the bed, his clothes soaked in sweat, his stomach lurching. He didn’t know what made him so afraid. It wasn’t the walk; he had no fear for that night’s performance. Yet Salvo was afraid. He closed his eyes, waiting for the fear to subside. It took a very long time.
ONE BY ONE, THE STARS ON THE CEILING of the Wintergarten were lit. After the final star glowed, the band began to play. When they finished their song the evening’s performance would begin. The audience, which consisted heavily of uniformed government officials, waited with palpable anticipation.
The high wire would be the final act. In a cramped dressing room Salvo waited with András, Etel and Margit for a stagehand to tell them it was time to go on. No one talked. Salvo could not wait to be on the wire. The others were nervous. They would be trying a new trick this evening, one that was guaranteed to be a showstopper, one way or another.
For the previous two months they had practised the act daily, repeating it long after their arms and legs were sore and their will to continue had faded. Salvo demanded and received such attention. In the past two weeks they had done the new trick over a hundred times without incident, but everyone knew that doing a trick in practice and doing it in a show were very different prospects. And this was not just a show, this was a show at the Wintergarten, with Cole Fisher-Fielding of the great Fisher-Fielding Circus Company in attendance. It was also, as far as they knew, the first time anyone had attempted a trick like this one.
So they waited in silence as the jugglers juggled and the dancers danced, did not sneak a look at the trained seals or the boneless woman. They didn’t care that the other performers thought them elitist. They did, in a way, consider themselves different than the other performers, for they were risking their lives. If a juggler dropped a ball, no one died. It was rare for a trained seal to go berserk and cause injury. But one slip on the wire and that was it for them. That fact set them apart from the others, whether the others were willing to acknowledge it or not.
They had been asked to use a net for this performance out of concern not only for their safety but the safety of the audience and band members. Salvo had refused. It was his feeling that a net made things more dangerous, gave them a false sense of security. And a net did not prevent injury or even death. Salvo knew of a wire walker who had fallen into one from a relatively modest height, only to be bounced off and impaled by his own balancing pole. He would entertain no talk of nets. None of the others questioned him in this conviction, although secretly they wondered whether Salvo wasn’t motivated more by the excitement that working netless added to the act than by concerns about safety.
Salvo was surprised that Tomas hadn’t showed up for this performance. He often didn’t, but this show was different, and every time he heard a noise in the hall outside, Salvo glanced at the door, expecting it to open and Tomas to enter. When it finally did open, it was not Tomas but a stagehand, telling them that they were the next act.
As they walked to the stage, Salvo leading, followed by Margit, then Etel, then András, the other performers averted their eyes. Behind them someone whistled. Salvo’s hair bristled; it was bad luck to whistle before a walk, something everyone in the Wintergarten knew. He wasn’t worried about the whistle itself. There was no room for superstition on the wire, he believed. It was the ill intent of the person who had whistled that caused him worry. Sabotage was not unheard of.
Still, Salvo did not offer up a prayer as he climbed the ladder that led to the wire. He would fall when and if his time came. Nothing could change that. Margit prayed, though, as did Etel and even András, although it was not normally his custom. This show was different, and whatever else András thought about God, he believed that He was a part of the wire, and for this show it seemed right to ask for special consideration. He felt a little cheap as he did it but shook his head clear. The wire called.
Salvo stood on the platform. When he had silence, he stepped onto the wire. There was a method to the act: Salvo believed that contrast was the key. As loud enhances quiet, dark begets light, Salvo maintained that danger implied safety. So he always started the act with the safest of wire walks; he crossed from one platform to the other, and then back again. Next, they did the wire dance, followed by another solo, Salvo performing a backwards somersault. With András and Margit they did a three-high with a chair, then it was time for the new trick.
A quick pause on the platform, everyone ready, then they took to the wire in a line: Salvo, Margit, Etel, András. When they reached the middle of the wire, Salvo and Etel reversed direction, so that András and Etel were facing each other, as were Salvo and Margit. Salvo dropped to a knee, and Margit placed her hands on his shoulders. As he stood, she leapt off the wire and towards him, perfectly upside down as he reached the full height of his stance. András and Etel repeated this procedure, and Salvo and András each took a step towards the other, with the women holding handstands on their shoulders. Salvo and András stayed steady, as Etel and Margit each arched their backs, leaning as far back as they could, until their feet touched. From the ground, the four of them looked like the beams of an A-frame house.
They held the position for ten seconds, no one faltering, and then Etel and Margit straightened, and Salvo and András stepped away from each other. Etel and Margit swung down so that they were sitting on the men’s shoulders. Salvo and András turned 180 degrees and walked off the wire to opposite platforms.
The Wintergarten’s audience had enjoyed the new trick very much, and indeed the entire performance. As the troupe returned to the ground, many left their seats to congratulate them, and the theatre manager shook Salvo’s hand so hard and happily that Salvo thought it might fall off. Cole Fisher-Fielding was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Tomas.
Afterward András took Etel and Margit back to their hotel while Salvo waited for their pay. Salvo wasn’t quite sure how to go about it since Tomas usually collected their fee, so he waited nervously outside the manager’s office. He could hear that there were people inside, and he didn’t want to disturb them. It sounded as though a heated conversation was in progress.
Finally the door opened, and a handsome, older man in an immaculate black suit emerged. The man was taken aback, appearing to recognize Salvo. He spun around, re-entering the manager’s office.
“Filth!” he swore, his German betraying some sort of accent. “He’s been right outside your office the whole time. Who is it you think you’re dealing with? I suppose he’s waiting to be paid. Honestly, Franz. Why I do business with you, I’ll never understand.”
The man came outside again and extended a hand to Salvo.
“Cole Fisher-Fielding. You’ve heard of me?” He spoke in Hungarian now.
Salvo nodded. He was afraid to speak, in case he said something stupid.
“Great act. Absolutely first class. How’d you like to work for the F-F?”
Salvo’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
“Look, you think about it. You want to work for me, you come to America, all expenses paid. You work steady, forty weeks a year, for top pay. Hell,” he paused, “you can even have your own railcar.” He thrust a card into Sal
vo’s hand. “I have a train to catch. You decide you want to work for the biggest show in the world, you contact me.”
Cole Fisher-Fielding flashed Salvo a million-dollar smile, winked and strode down the hall. Salvo was paralyzed. He was unable to believe what had happened.
The theatre manager approached. “Arrogant prick,” he said. “Where’s Skosa?”
“I don’t know,” Salvo said.
“No matter. Here’s your pay. Nice show.” The theatre manager looked at Salvo for a moment, then returned to his office. As Salvo walked towards the exit, he called to him. “If I were you, I’d think twice about going to America. Lots of people have found it a disappointment.”
Salvo considered the manager’s words for a moment, before pushing open the door and heading for the hotel.
He ran most of the way and was fairly winded by the time he reached the room. At first, as he tried to catch his breath, he didn’t notice that things were not as they should have been. But he soon saw that the room was a mess. Their suitcases had been opened, everything emptied and strewn across the floor. Tomas’s had been cut open, the lining exposed. There was a smear of blood on the wall and a hole in the plaster. Before he had any more time to examine the room, he sensed a presence behind him and felt two sets of hands seize his arms. He did not have to look long to realize that these hands belonged to Gestapo officers, seven of them in all. He had seen these uniforms before, both on the street and in the Wintergarten, and of course he knew them by reputation. He had no doubt that his life was in danger.
He was taken by car to a castle on the edge of the city, where he was locked in a room that admitted neither light nor sound. He was in this room for what seemed like hours, all the while trying to guess why he was there. He had heard rumours of Roma being rounded up by these people, and he believed them, but he had considered himself exempt because he wasn’t German and because he was a performer. He now wondered whether he hadn’t been incredibly naive in his assumptions.