Luc has left his seat, too, I notice as I make my sweeping bows to the crowd below. I wonder if he will be waiting for me in the grove as he said. Or maybe after all that has happened, he will have given up. After everything that happened, perhaps it would be for the best.
The audience hurries from the ring after the show, not loitering as they usually do but wanting to make it home and far away from the trouble. As we make our way from the tent, Herr Neuhoff comes into the backyard. He sinks down on top of an overturned crate, breathing hard.
“An arrest at the circus,” he pants. “I never would have imagined.” Until recently, the circus has been a haven from the war, like being inside a snow globe while the world continues outside. But the walls are thinning. I think back to Darmstadt, recalling Astrid’s reaction when I remarked that we would be safe in France. Even then she had known the truth. Nowhere is safe anymore.
Mopping at his brow with a handkerchief, he continues, “They’ve gone for now. But I want all of you to go back to your quarters immediately—and stay there.” I wait for him to rebuke me for what I had done on the trapeze, but he does not.
I look in the direction of the grove, searching for Luc. I spy him, half-hidden behind a leaning oak. Still here. Our eyes meet. He had seen me fall and his face is racked with worry. I start to smile, raising my hand in a low wave to signal to him that I am all right. His expression relaxes somewhat but his eyes remain locked on me, bidding me to come closer.
I take a step forward. But Herr Neuhoff is still sitting on the crate, watching. I cannot go to Luc.
I shouldn’t want to anyway, I remind myself. He kept from me the fact that he is the mayor’s son. Could Astrid be right about him hiding other things, as well?
Luc is still watching me, seeming to hold his breath, waiting. Several seconds pass. I take a step backward. Even if I wanted to, I would not dare defy Herr Neuhoff’s order and go after the police have been here. Luc’s face shifts from hopeful to confused and then disappointed as he realizes I am not coming toward him.
I take another step backward and nearly trip on something lying on the ground. By the edge of the big top, a doll lies in the dirt. I picture the girl who had been too upset at having to leave the circus to notice dropping it. Despite her father’s promises, she will not be coming back. I pick up the doll and take it with me for Theo.
Then I turn back to look at Luc once more. He has started in the direction of the village, shoulders low.
“Wait!” I want to cry. But I do not and a moment later he is gone.
13
Astrid
It is not quite dawn when I climb the ladder to the trapeze in near darkness, the entire chapiteau lit only by a single spluttering bulb that someone had forgotten to turn off. From the benches the big top appears magnificent, but up here the fabric is faded and around the edges the tassels frayed. Old music, tinny like that of the carousel at the end of the midway, plays in my mind. I see my brothers, teasing one another as they prepared to perform. The air seems to dance with the ghosts of my family.
I take hold of the bar and jump, flying through the air. I am ignoring my own admonishment to Noa never to fly alone. I have no choice, though. I can no longer perform, but I cannot stay on the ground. “You are addicted to the adrenaline,” Peter has accused me more than once. I want to argue, but it is true. There is a moment as I stare down from the board, the split second before I let go, where I am always certain I am going to die. That clarity—the focus of that moment—is what I miss most about not performing, more so than the adulation of the crowd or anything else.
The previous night when Noa had gone into the ring without me was the first time I had ever actually observed the circus in its entirety. As I watched the show, I was reminded of the time Erich had taken me to the Volksoper to see a show, Die Jungfrau von Orleans. Surrounded by the fashionable Berlin women and clouds of Chanel, I shifted around in my seat awkwardly, feeling as if I did not belong. But as the show began, I was able to see so much that others could not, the way the set was made to give the illusion of depth, how the act was enhanced with the little tricks all we performers had. I realized then that I could see through people, on stage or not. I had been doing it my whole life.
I fly higher, as if trying to outrun my memories. Heaving my legs upward, I swing high back to the board. Fine perspiration coats my skin and my legs ache pleasantly. That Herr Neuhoff said I might get to perform again when we reach the next town is little consolation. That is still two weeks away—a lifetime of performances. And there are no guarantees that I will be permitted to remain in the ring; now that Herr Neuhoff is aware of the peril, he will pull me from the show at the slightest of scares.
Scares like the police interrupting the show a few days earlier. Seeing the little girl’s face in the audience, the full magnitude of just how bad things have become crashes down upon me. She had started that day brightly like any other—as I had that last morning in Berlin with Erich—not knowing in just hours her world would be destroyed.
I wipe my eyes, brushing away the sting. In my family one did not cry, not for illness or death or other tragedy, and even as a girl I had held my tears through it all. It could have been worse, I remind myself; it could have been me the police had come to arrest.
I leap again and hang on to the bar in midair, not trying to swing higher, but letting the gentle rocking motion carry me back and forth. It seems for just a moment that if I do not move I can go back in time and everything will be as it once was. My body, this flight, they cannot take these from me—despite the thing Noa had done.
The things Noa had done, I correct myself. It was more than just telling Herr Neuhoff about the German officer. She had invited the mayor’s son to the show. And she had thrown herself from the trapeze in an attempt to save that man and his daughter from the police, a stunt as foolish as it was brave. Though we are nothing alike, more and more I see a headstrongness about Noa that reminds me of myself when I was young. An impulsiveness that makes her a danger to herself—and to all of us.
Suddenly I am dizzy. Something hits my stomach then, a wave of nausea so strong I almost lose my grip on the bar. I break out in a sweat and my palms grow dangerously moist. I struggle to make my way back up to the board. Failing moments like this are why I tell Noa she should not swing alone. Looking down, I am seized with fear. Circus performers are not known to have long lives. There were those who died in their act or were injured to the point they withered away. I run through the performers I know, those in my family and beyond, to try to find a single one who had lived to his or her seventieth birthday. But I cannot.
With a last desperate swing, I soar higher and reach the platform, legs trembling. I have never fallen before, or even come close. What is wrong with me?
Another wave of nausea sweeps over me and I make it down the ladder just in time to heave into a bucket that is not my own. I carry it outside to wash at the pump before anyone notices. The stench of wet bile causes my stomach to roil anew. I press my hand against my midsection. I had practically been born in the air and have never been sick from it. I’ve heard other aerialists speak of such things, suddenly being unable to tolerate the height or motion, but that was when they were ill or pregnant.
Pregnant. I freeze, stunned by the idea. It simply isn’t possible. But it is the only answer that makes sense. There had been a liquor-filled night right before leaving the winter quarters. I had not bled in almost three months, but that was not uncommon, and I attributed it to the toll performing and practicing took on my body. Surely if it were something more, I would have known.
I return to the big top and sit numbly on one of the benches, denial whirling through my mind. Erich and I had tried so long to have a child. Before his work became all-consuming, we would make love nearly every night and two or three times a day on the weekends. But nothing had ever come of it. I had
assumed that the fault had all been mine. I’d wondered how my mother could have been fertile enough to bear five children and me none. Year after year it hadn’t happened, and eventually we stopped talking about it.
The problem had lain with Erich, I realize, smugly. Not me. His perfect Aryan body was flawed. There would be no family for him with someone else either.
But my anxiety quickly eclipses any bit of satisfaction. Pregnancy had been the furthest thing from my mind, a child a long-forgotten dream. I am too old to be starting a family. Peter, with his moods and depression, hardly seems like an ideal father. We are not that kind of a couple. And we have no home.
I could take care of it. I have heard whispers of such things more than once during my years with the circus. Even as I think it, though, I know this is not an option.
Peter walks in and it is the one time I am not glad to see him. I swipe a hand across my cheeks to make sure they are dry, then cover my stomach, as though he might see the difference. I do not want to tell him and add to the stress and exhaustion of performing and being on the road. He does not need to worry about this now. I wait for him to see that I am pale and shaking, or perhaps smell the stench that lingers about me.
But he is too distracted to notice. “Come, I want to show you something,” he says, taking my hand and leading me from the ring to his cabin. It is close to the edge of the fairgrounds, a single, solid room not much larger than a shed. I stand in the doorway uncertainly, the smell of damp wood and earth mixing with stale smoke. I have not stayed with him since coming to Thiers because he’s been rehearsing so intently I haven’t wanted to intrude. Will he try to take me in his arms? I do not think I can bear to be close to him right now. Instead he beckons me past the bed. On the other side stands a new piece of furniture, a low rectangular oak chest, about five feet long, almost like an oversize steamer trunk.
“It’s lovely,” I say and run my hand over the wood, admiring the elaborately carved lid. “Where did you get it?” And why? Peter, with his Spartan and comfortless cabin, is not one for material possessions.
“I saw it at the local market and bartered with the woodworker. Don’t worry.” He smiles. “I got a good price.” But it isn’t that; the piece is solid and permanent, so impractical and out of place for the circus. What will he do with it when we move on?
Peter is not an illogical man and I wait for the further explanation that will make sense. He opens the lid and runs his hand along the bottom. Then he lifts it up, revealing a secret compartment, maybe a foot deep—just enough for a small person, if one laid flat. “Oh!” I exclaim.
“Just in case,” he says. He means for me to hide in it, if the SS or police come again. He watches my face and I try to control my reaction to the space, suffocating and coffin-like. “We really haven’t had a suitable hiding place for you here so I thought this might do,” he explains, trying to sound matter-of-fact. But his face is grave. Seeing the police try to arrest the man at the show had shaken Peter, as well. He knows as I do that the Germans or the French police will come again. That we must be ready.
He is trying to protect me. But there is something in his eyes, more than concern or even just affection. I had seen that look once before when Erich and I were first married. I turn away, shaken. I recall then what Noa had said about Peter’s feelings for me. I had been so quick to deny it, not wanting to see or believe. When I peer back at his hopeful eyes, though, I know that she was right. How had I not seen it before? Until now it had been easy to just mark this as a relationship of convenience. Then Noa held a mirror up to my face and I can ignore it no longer. I think back over the months, Peter constantly by my side, trying to protect me. His feelings were not sudden or new. They had been there all the time. How had Noa, so young and naive, seen everything while I had missed it?
“You hate it,” he says, running his hand over the chest and sounding disappointed.
Yes, I want to say, though I had vowed after what happened in Darmstadt that I would never hide again. “Not exactly,” I reply instead, not wanting to hurt his feelings when he meant well. “It’s perfect,” I add, too quickly. In truth, it is smaller than the hiding place in Darmstadt. I could scarcely manage it now, much less when my stomach grows larger.
“Then what is it?” he asks, cupping my chin in his hand and studying my face. “You’re so pale. Are you ill? Did something happen?” His face creases with concern as he sees through my facade, sensing something wrong.
Terror seizes me then. Not at my pregnancy or the danger of being caught by the police, or even the SS. No, I am petrified of this...this thing between me and Peter. It started as two people who were lonely, drawn to each other to fill a void. And it was meant to stay that way. But at some point when I was not paying attention, it had turned into so much more—for me as well as for him.
I hesitate. Telling Peter will change everything. But I cannot worry him like this by remaining silent. And there is a part of me that desperately wants to share the news with him. Tell him, a voice more Noa’s than mine seems to say inside my head. He loves me and that will be enough.
I take a deep breath, exhale. “Peter, I’m pregnant.” I hold my breath waiting for his reaction.
He does not answer but stares at me blankly. “Peter, did you hear me?” I ask. The walls seem to draw closer and the air is suffocating. “Please, say something.”
“That’s impossible,” he says, his voice filled with disbelief.
“It’s true,” I reply weakly. What did he think we had been doing all of those nights in the winter quarters?
He stands up and begins to pace, running his hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s possible of course,” he continues, as though I had not spoken. “Just hard to believe. And with everything that is going on right now, it complicates things.”
My heart sinks. Telling him had been a mistake. “You don’t sound pleased,” I say, and my cheeks burn, as though I have been slapped. “I didn’t plan this. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”
He sits again and takes my hands. “No, darling, it isn’t that at all,” he replies, his face softer now, tone gentle. “Nothing would make me happier.”
“You mean, you want to be a father?” I ask, surprised.
“No,” he says quickly and my heart sinks. He does not want this after all. “It’s that I already am.” His voice is slow and scratchy, every word hard-fought.
“I don’t understand.” The room around me begins to spin and bile rises in my throat once more. I will myself to take short, shallow breaths. “What are you talking about?”
“I had a child.” Had. His face is more pained than I have ever seen it.
“Oh!” I gasp. I am stunned. I had assumed Peter had a life before me, but a child? Suddenly it seems I do not know him at all.
“I was married to a ballerina from Moscow named Anya,” he says, looking away, his voice hollow. I try to picture his wife, and imagine with more than a little jealousy someone tall and willowy, with long graceful limbs. Where is she now? “We had a little girl, Katya.” His voice cracks as he says her name. He tries to continue, moving his lips, but no sound comes out.
“What happened?” I ask, dreading the answer but at the same time needing to know.
He sits mutely for several seconds, unable to go on. “Spanish flu. The best doctors and hospitals couldn’t help her.”
“How old was she?”
“Four.” He buries his head in his hands, his back shaking with silent sobs. I sit helplessly beside him, my mind reeling as I try to process it all. A few minutes later, he lifts his head, wiping his eyes. “I suppose I should have said something sooner, but it’s just so hard.
“Anya died shortly after Katya,” he adds. “The doctor said it was also flu. I think it was a broken heart. So it was all gone, you see.” His voice catches and I wonder if he might break down once more.
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“I’m sorry.” I throw my arms around him and rest my head against his shoulder. But my sympathy is inadequate and it is impossible to ease a pain I did not share. I understand so much more about him then, his dark moods and his drinking.
“This brings painful memories for you,” I add.
He shakes his head. “No, it is good to remember both of them. But you see why I am nervous.”
“I understand.” He is afraid, I realize, of having another child, loving as deeply as he once had. Then, he had all of the money and privilege in the world and it had not been enough. How could he possibly protect and care for a child now? “It will be fine,” I say, forcing conviction into my voice to cover my own doubts. “We can do this.” Now it is my turn to be strong.
“Yes, of course we can,” Peter replies, forcing a smile. He kisses me once, then again. He brings his mouth to my eyelids, lips, cheeks, breasts. His weight pushes me back against the bed and for a second it seems he will try to take me. But he simply rests his head on my belly, not speaking.
“Before you, I had given up hope,” he says finally. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I love you,” he adds. The feelings that he has kept pent up since we’ve been together seem to bubble forth. And though I once longed for them, I am overwhelmed. It is too much now, to carry him and the child.
He lifts his head and a light seems to dawn in his eyes. “We should get married,” he declares, taking both of my hands in his own. Married. The word reverberates in my head. Once it had meant something. Now in my mind, I see the papers Erich had thrust before me, saying that none of it had mattered at all, hear the clatter of my wedding ring as it fell to the floor of our apartment.
“Oh, Peter.” There was only once for me and marriage. I cannot fathom anyone wanting me in that way—or ever letting myself get that close to a man again. “We can’t.”