Книга - The Orphan’s Tale: The phenomenal international bestseller about courage and loyalty against the odds
The Orphan's Tale: The phenomenal international bestseller about courage and loyalty against the odds
Pam Jenoff
THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER ‘Secrets, lies, treachery, and passion… I read this novel in a headlong rush.’ – Christina Barker Kline, #1 bestselling author of Orphan TrainIn Nazi-occupied Holland, seventeen-year-old Noa snatches a baby from a train bound for the concentration camps, fleeing with him into the snowy wilderness surrounding the train tracks.Passing through the woods is a German circus, led by the heroic Herr Neuhoff. They agree to take in Noa and the baby, on one condition: to earn her keep, Noa must master the flying trapeze – under the tutorage of mysterious aerialist, Astrid.Soaring high above the crowds, Noa and Astrid must learn to trust one another…or plummet. But with the threat of war closing in, loyalty can become the most dangerous trait of all.
A powerful novel of friendship set in a traveling circus during World War II, The Orphan’s Tale introduces two extraordinary women and their harrowing stories of sacrifice and survival
Sixteen-year-old Noa has been cast out in disgrace after becoming pregnant by a Nazi soldier and being forced to give up her baby. She lives above a small rail station, which she cleans in order to earn her keep... When Noa discovers a boxcar containing dozens of Jewish infants bound for a concentration camp, she is reminded of the child that was taken from her. And in a moment that will change the course of her life, she snatches one of the babies and flees into the snowy night.
Noa finds refuge with a German circus, but she must learn the flying trapeze act so she can blend in undetected, spurning the resentment of the lead aerialist, Astrid. At first rivals, Noa and Astrid soon forge a powerful bond. But as the facade that protects them proves increasingly tenuous, Noa and Astrid must decide whether their friendship is enough to save one another—or if the secrets that burn between them will destroy everything.
Praise for the novels of Pam Jenoff (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
“A heartbreakingly romantic story of forbidden love during WW2”
—Heat
“Must-read”
—Daily Express
“A beautiful story of love and redemption about a woman struggling to find her voice and her way amidst the turmoil of World War II.”
—Kristin Hannah, bestselling author of The Nightingale
“A warm and heartfelt story of emotional survival.”
—Diane Chamberlain
“When it comes to bringing an era to life, this author has no peer.”
—Susan Wiggs
“Heartfelt, stirring... Definitely one for my keeper shelf.”
—Karen White
“The kind of book that absorbs you from the beginning and doesn’t let go.”
—Beatriz Williams
“Powerfully and emotionally written.... This is a book you’ll want to read more than once.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4.5 stars
“Fans of Kate Morton and Alyson Richman should reach for Jenoff’s latest.”
—Booklist
Also by Pam Jenoff (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Kommandant’s Girl
The Diplomat’s Wife
The Ambassador’s Daughter
The Winter Guest
The Last Embrace
Copyright (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017
Copyright © Pam Jenoff 2017
Pam Jenoff asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9781474056700
Version: 2018-07-10
For my family.
Contents
Cover (#u0370ac51-9014-5512-b23c-a5203a9d79d2)
Back Cover Text (#u4d5a4346-e1bb-5bc9-b7c8-ce55225e5028)
Praise (#u1a0cc054-d339-56ee-af0b-6a4a6090914a)
Also by Pam Jenoff (#u9e20ffc8-37bb-5fcd-b2dc-69dac054dd2d)
Title Page (#ua6c9e765-5d3f-54ba-928f-c6fae69dd0fc)
Copyright (#ue2acaa1a-ddb0-51c1-a5c7-3b4aa2f4e444)
Dedication (#u3555e0a8-96bb-583d-be34-96ef03836179)
Prologue (#u70cbd079-ecd6-594f-a665-4f37931a1138)
Chapter 1 (#u4084c8dc-7f24-59bf-be10-6db25772bf7f)
Chapter 2 (#u6dbc9df1-f4c9-5474-8ad3-46f7a08ddfa5)
Chapter 3 (#u0337f9ab-6c1a-580d-9073-515d2a98b09d)
Chapter 4 (#u99e6b461-9ea7-511d-810d-6fc1e6ee2a21)
Chapter 5 (#u6a2c2668-d02e-59ce-b99d-5e6827fbed39)
Chapter 6 (#u229a97cd-0663-5258-8801-b76be7ad615d)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
A Conversation with Pam Jenoff (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Paris
They will be looking for me by now.
I pause on the granite steps of the museum, reaching for the railing to steady myself. Pain, sharper than ever, creaks through my left hip, not perfectly healed from last year’s break. Across the Avenue Winston Churchill, behind the glass dome of the Grand Palais, the March sky is rosy at dusk.
I peer around the edge of the arched entranceway of the Petit Palais. From the massive stone columns hangs a red banner two stories high: Deux Cents ans de Magie du Cirque—Two Hundred Years of Circus Magic. It is festooned with elephants, a tiger and a clown, their colors so much brighter in my memories.
I should have told someone I was going. They would have only tried to stop me, though. My escape, months in the planning since I’d read about the upcoming exhibit in the Times, had been well orchestrated: I had bribed an aide at the nursing home to take the photo I needed to mail to the passport office, paid for the plane ticket in cash. I’d almost been caught when the taxicab I’d called pulled up in front of the home in the predawn darkness and honked loudly. But the guard at the desk remained asleep.
Summoning my strength now, I begin to climb again, taking each painful step one by one. Inside the lobby, the opening gala is already in full swing, clusters of men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns mingling beneath the elaborately painted dome ceiling. Conversations in French bubble around me like a long-forgotten perfume I am desperate to inhale. Familiar words trickle back, first in a stream then a river, though I’ve scarcely heard them in half a century.
I do not stop at the reception desk to check in; they are not expecting me. Instead, dodging the butlered hors d’oeuvres and champagne, I make my way along the mosaic floors, past walls of murals to the circus exhibit, its entrance marked by a smaller version of the banner outside. There are photos blown up and hung from the ceiling by wire too fine to see, images of a sword swallower and dancing horses and still more clowns. From the labels below each picture, the names come back to me like a song: Lorch, D’Augny, Neuhoff—great European circus dynasties felled by war and time. At the last of these names, my eyes begin to burn.
Beyond the photos hangs a tall, worn placard of a woman suspended from silk ropes by her arms, one leg extended behind her in a midair arabesque. Her youthful face and body are barely recognizable to me. In my mind, the song of the carousel begins to play tinny and faint like a music box. I feel the searing heat of the lights, so hot it could almost peel off my skin. A flying trapeze hangs above the exhibit, fixed as if in midflight. Even now, my almost ninety-year-old legs ache with yearning to climb up there.
But there is no time for memories. Getting here took longer than I thought, like everything else these days, and there isn’t a minute to spare. Pushing down the lump in my throat, I press forward, past the costumes and headdresses, artifacts of a lost civilization. Finally, I reach the railcar. Some of the side panels have been removed to reveal the close, tiny berths inside. I am struck by the compact size, less than half my shared room at the nursing home. It had seemed so much larger in my mind. Had we really lived in there for months on end? I reach out my hand to touch the rotting wood. Though I had known the railcar was the same the minute I had seen it in the paper, some piece of my heart had been too afraid to believe it until now.
Voices grow louder behind me. I glance quickly over my shoulder. The reception is breaking up and the attendees drawing closer to the exhibit. In a few more minutes, it will be too late.
I look back once more, then crouch to slip beneath the roped stanchion. Hide, a voice seems to say, the long-buried instinct rising up in me once more. Instead, I run my hand under the bottom of the railcar. The compartment is there, exactly as I remembered. The door still sticks, but if I press on it just so... It snaps open and I imagine the rush of excitement of a young girl looking for a scribbled invitation to a secret rendezvous.
But as I reach inside, my fingers close around cold, dark space. The compartment is empty and the dream I had that it might hold the answers evaporates like cool mist.
1 (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Noa (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Germany, 1944
The sound comes low like the buzzing of the bees that once chased Papa across the farm and caused him to spend a week swathed in bandages.
I set down the brush I’d been using to scrub the floor, once-elegant marble now cracked beneath boot heels and set with fine lines of mud and ash that will never lift. Listening for the direction of the sound, I cross the station beneath the sign announcing in bold black: Bahnhof Bensheim. A big name for nothing more than a waiting room with two toilets, a ticket window and a wurst stand that operates when there is meat to be had and the weather is not awful. I bend to pick up a coin at the base of one of the benches, pocket it. It amazes me the things that people forget or leave behind.
Outside, my breath rises in puffs in the February night air. The sky is a collage of ivory and gray, more snow threatening. The station sits low in a valley, surrounded by lush hills of pine trees on three sides, their pointed green tips poking out above snow-covered branches. The air has a slightly burnt smell. Before the war, Bensheim had been just another tiny stop that most travelers passed through without noticing. But the Germans make use of everything it seems, and the location is good for parking trains and switching out engines during the night.
I’ve been here almost four months. It hadn’t been so bad in the autumn and I was happy to find shelter after I’d been sent packing with two days’ worth of food, three if I stretched it. The girls’ home where I lived after my parents found out I was expecting and kicked me out had been located far from anywhere in the name of discretion and they could have dropped me off in Mainz, or at least the nearest town. They simply opened the door, though, dismissing me on foot. I’d headed to the train station before realizing that I had nowhere to go. More than once during my months away, I had thought of returning home, begging forgiveness. It was not that I was too proud. I would have gotten down on my knees if I thought it would do any good. But I knew from the fury in my father’s eyes the day he forced me out that his heart was closed. I could not stand rejection twice.
In a moment of luck, though, the station had needed a cleaner. I peer around the back of the building now toward the tiny closet where I sleep on a mattress on the floor. The maternity dress is the same one I wore the day I left the home, except that the full front now hangs limply. It will not always be this way, of course. I will find a real job—one that pays in more than not-quite-moldy bread—and a proper home.
I see myself in the train station window. I have the kind of looks that just fit in, dishwater hair that whitens with the summer sun, pale blue eyes. Once my plainness bothered me; here it is a benefit. The two other station workers, the ticket girl and the man at the kiosk, come and then go home each night, hardly speaking to me. The travelers pass through the station with the daily edition of Der Stürmer tucked under their arms, grinding cigarettes into the floor, not caring who I am or where I came from. Though lonely, I need it that way. I cannot answer questions about the past.
No, they do not notice me. I see them, though, the soldiers on leave and the mothers and wives who come each day to scan the platform hopefully for a son or husband before leaving alone. You can always tell the ones who are trying to flee. They try to look normal, as if just going on vacation. But their clothes are too tight from the layers padded underneath and bags so full they threaten to burst at any second. They do not make eye contact, but hustle their children along with pale, strained faces.
The buzzing noise grows louder and more high-pitched. It is coming from the train I’d heard screech in earlier, now parked on the far track. I start toward it, past the nearly empty coal bins, most of their stores long taken for troops fighting in the east. Perhaps someone has left on an engine or other machinery. I do not want to be blamed, and risk losing my job. Despite the grimness of my situation, I know it could be worse—and that I am lucky to be here.
Lucky. I’d heard it first from an elderly German woman who shared some herring with me on the bus to Den Hague after leaving my parents. “You are the Aryan ideal,” she told me between fishy lip smacks, as we wound through detours and cratered roads.
I thought she was joking; I had plain blond hair and a little stump of a nose. My body was sturdy—athletic, until it had begun to soften out and grow curvy. Other than when the German had whispered soft words into my ear at night, I had always considered myself unremarkable. But now I’d been told I was just right. I found myself confiding in the woman about my pregnancy and how I had been thrown out. She told me to go to Wiesbaden, and scribbled a note saying I was carrying a child of the Reich. I took it and went. It did not occur to me whether it was dangerous to go to Germany or that I should refuse. Somebody wanted children like mine. My parents would have sooner died than accepted help from the Germans. But the woman said they would give me shelter; how bad could they be? I had nowhere else to go.
I was lucky, they said again when I reached the girls’ home. Though Dutch, I was considered of Aryan race and my child—otherwise shamed as an uneheliches Kind, conceived out of wedlock—might just be accepted into the Lebensborn program and raised by a good German family. I’d spent nearly six months there, reading and helping with the housework until my stomach became too bulky. The facility, if not grand, was modern and clean, designed to deliver babies in good health to the Reich. I’d gotten to know a sturdy girl called Eva who was a few months further along than me, but one night she awoke in blood and they took her to the hospital and I did not see her again. After that, I kept to myself. None of us would be there for long.
My time came on a cold October morning when I stood up from the breakfast table at the girls’ home and my water broke. The next eighteen hours were a blur of awful pain, punctuated by words of command, without encouragement or a soothing touch. At last, the baby had emerged with a wail and my entire body shuddered with emptiness, a machine shutting down. A strange look crossed the nurse’s face.
“What is it?” I demanded. I was not supposed to see the child. But I struggled against pain to sit upright. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything is fine,” the doctor assured. “The child is healthy.” His voice was perturbed, though, face stormy through thick glasses above the draped cream sheet. I leaned forward and a set of piercing coal eyes met mine.
Those eyes that were not Aryan.
I understood then the doctor’s distress. The child looked nothing like the perfect race. Some hidden gene, on my side or the German’s, had given him dark eyes and olive skin. He would not be accepted into the Lebensborn program.
My baby cried out, shrill and high-pitched, as though he had heard his fate and was protesting. I had reached for him through the pain. “I want to hold him.”
The doctor and the nurse, who had been recording details about the child on some sort of form, exchanged uneasy looks. “We don’t, that is, the Lebensborn program does not allow that.”
I struggled to sit up. “Then I’ll take him and leave.” It had been a bluff; I had nowhere to go. I had signed papers giving up my rights when I arrived in exchange for letting me stay, there were hospital guards... I could barely even walk. “Please let me have him for a second.”
“Nein.” The nurse shook her head emphatically, slipping from the room as I continued to plead.
Once she was out of sight, something in my voice forced the doctor to relent. “Just for a moment,” he said, reluctantly handing me the child. I stared at the red face, inhaled the delicious scent of his head that was pointed from so many hours of struggling to be born and I focused on his eyes. Those beautiful eyes. How could something so perfect not be their ideal?
He was mine, though. A wave of love crested and broke over me. I had not wanted this child, but in that moment, all the regret washed away, replaced by longing. Panic and relief swept me under. They would not want him now. I’d have to take him home because there was no other choice. I would keep him, find a way...
Then the nurse returned and ripped him from my arms.
“No, wait,” I protested. As I struggled to reach for my baby, something sharp pierced my arm. My head swam. Hands pressed me back on the bed. I faded, still seeing those dark eyes.
I awoke alone in that cold, sterile delivery room, without my child, or a husband or mother or even a nurse, an empty vessel that no one wanted anymore. They said afterward that he went to a good home. I had no way of knowing if they were telling the truth.
I swallow against the dryness of my throat, forcing the memory away. Then I step from the station into the biting cold air, relieved that the Schutzpolizei des Reiches, the leering state police who patrol the station, are nowhere to be seen. Most likely they are fighting the cold in their truck with a flask. I scan the train, trying to pinpoint the buzzing sound. It comes from the last boxcar, adjacent to the caboose—not from the engine. No, the noise comes from something inside the train. Something alive.
I stop. I have made it a point to never go near the trains, to look away when they pass by—because they are carrying Jews.
I was still living at home in our village the first time I had seen the sorry roundup of men, women and children in the market square. I had run to my father, crying. He was a patriot and stood up for everything else—why not this? “It’s awful,” he conceded through his graying beard, stained yellow from pipe smoke. He had wiped my tear-stained cheeks and given me some vague explanation about how there were ways to handle things. But those ways had not stopped my classmate Steffi Klein from being marched to the train station with her younger brother and parents in the same dress she’d worn to my birthday a month earlier.
The sound continues to grow, almost a keening now, like a wounded animal in the brush. I scan the empty platform and peer around the edge of the station. Can the police hear the noise, too? I stand uncertainly at the platform’s edge, peering down the barren railway tracks that separate me from the boxcar. I should just walk away. Keep your eyes down, that has been the lesson of the years of war. No good ever came from noticing the business of others. If I am caught nosing into parts of the station where I do not belong, I will be let go from my job, left without a place to live, or perhaps even arrested. But I have never been any good at not looking. Too curious, my mother said when I was little. I have always needed to know. I step forward, unable to ignore the sound that, as I draw closer now, sounds like cries.
Or the tiny foot that is visible through the open door of the railcar.
I pull back the door. “Oh!” My voice echoes dangerously through the darkness, inviting detection. There are babies, tiny bodies too many to count, lying on the hay-covered floor of the railcar, packed close and atop one another. Most do not move and I can’t tell whether they are dead or sleeping. From amid the stillness, piteous cries mix with gasps and moans like the bleating of lambs.
I grasp the side of the railcar, struggling to breathe over the wall of urine and feces and vomit that assaults me. Since coming here, I have dulled myself to the images, like a bad dream or a film that couldn’t possibly be real. This is different, though. So many infants, all alone, ripped from the arms of their mothers. My lower stomach begins to burn.
I stand helplessly in front of the boxcar, frozen in shock. Where had these babies come from? They must have just arrived, for surely they could not last long in the icy temperatures.
I have seen the trains going east for months, people where the cattle and sacks of grain should have been. Despite the awfulness of the transport, I had told myself they were going somewhere like a camp or a village, just being kept in one place. The notion was fuzzy in my mind, but I imagined somewhere maybe with cabins or tents like the seaside campsite south of our village in Holland for those who couldn’t afford a real holiday or preferred something more rustic. Resettlement. In these dead and dying babies, though, I see the wholeness of the lie.
I glance over my shoulder. The trains of people are always guarded. But here there is no one—because there is simply no chance of the infants getting away.
Closest to me lies a baby with gray skin, its lips blue. I try to brush the thin layer of frost from its eyelashes but the child is already stiff and gone. I yank my hand back, scanning the others. Most of the infants are naked or just wrapped in a blanket or cloth, stripped of anything that would have protected them from the harsh cold. But in the center of the car, two perfect pale pink booties stick stiffly up in the air, attached to a baby who is otherwise naked. Someone had cared enough to knit those, stitch by stitch. A sob escapes through my lips.
A head peeks out among the others. Straw and feces cover its heart-shaped face. The child does not look pained or distressed, but wears a puzzled expression, as if to say “Now what am I doing here?” There is something familiar about it: coal-dark eyes, piercing through me, just as they had the day I had given birth. My heart swells.
The baby’s face crumples suddenly and it squalls. My hands shoot out, and I strain to reach it over the others before anyone else hears. My grasp falls short of the infant, who wails louder. I try to climb into the car, but the children are packed so tightly, I can’t manage for fear of stepping on one. Desperately, I strain my arms once more, just reaching. I pick up the crying child, needing to silence it. Its skin is icy as I pluck it from the car, naked save for a soiled cloth diaper.
The baby in my arms now, only the second I’d ever held, seems to calm in the crook of my elbow. Could this possibly be my child, brought back to me by fate or chance? The child’s eyes close and its head bows forward. Whether it is sleeping or dying, I cannot say. Clutching it, I start away from the train. Then I turn back: if any of those other children are still alive, I am their only chance. I should take more.
But the baby I am holding cries again, the shrill sound cutting through the silence. I cover its mouth and run back into the station.
I walk toward the closet where I sleep. Stopping at the door, I look around desperately. I have nothing. Instead I walk into the women’s toilet, the usually dank smell hardly noticeable after the boxcar. At the sink, I wipe the filth from the infant’s face with one of the rags I use for cleaning. The baby is warmer now, but two of its toes are blue and I wonder if it might lose them. Where did it come from?
I open the filthy diaper. The child is a boy like my own had been. Closer now I can see that his tiny penis looks different from the German’s, or that of the boy at school who had shown me his when I was seven. Circumcised. Steffi had told me the word once, explaining what they had done to her little brother. The child is Jewish. Not mine.
I step back as the reality I had known all along sinks in: I cannot keep a Jewish baby, or a baby at all, by myself and cleaning the station twelve hours a day. What had I been thinking?
The baby begins to roll sideways from the ledge by the sink where I had left him. I leap forward, catching him before he falls to the hard tile floor. I am unfamiliar with infants and I hold him at arm’s length now, like a dangerous animal. But he moves closer, nuzzling against my neck. I clumsily make a diaper out of the other rag, then carry the child from the toilet and out of the station, heading back toward the railcar. I have to put him back on the train, as if none of this ever happened.
At the edge of the platform, I freeze. One of the guards is now walking along the tracks, blocking my way back to the train. I search desperately in all directions. Close to the side of the station sits a milk delivery truck, the rear stacked high with large cans. Impulsively I start toward it. I slide the baby into one of the empty jugs, trying not to think about how icy the metal must be against his bare skin. He does not make a sound but just stares at me helplessly.
I duck behind a bench as the truck door slams. In a second, it will leave, taking the infant with it.
And no one will know what I have done.
2 (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Astrid (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Germany, 1942—fourteen months earlier
I stand at the edge of the withered grounds that had once been our winter quarters. Though there has been no fighting here, the valley looks like a battlefield, broken wagons and scrap metal scattered everywhere. A cold wind blows through the hollow window frames of the deserted cabins, sending tattered fabric curtains wafting upward before they fall deflated. Most of the windows are shattered and I try not to wonder if that had happened with time, or if someone had smashed them in a struggle or rage. The creaking doors are open, properties fallen into disrepair as they surely never would have if Mama been here to care for them. There is a hint of smoke on the air as though someone has been burning brush recently. In the distance, a crow cries out in protest.
Drawing my coat closer around me, I walk away from the wreckage and start up toward the villa that once was my home. The grounds are exactly as they had been when I was a girl, the hill rising before the front door in that way that sent the water rushing haphazardly into the foyer when the spring rains came. But the garden where my mother tended hydrangeas so lovingly each spring is withered and crushed to dirt. I see my brothers wrestling in the front yard before being cowed into practice, scolded for wasting their energy and risking an injury that would jeopardize the show. As children we loved to sleep under the open sky in the yard in summer, fingers intertwined, the sky a canopy of stars above us.
I stop. A large red flag with a black swastika hangs above the door. Someone, a high-ranking SS officer no doubt, has moved into the home that once was ours. I clench my fists, sickened to think of them using our linens and dishes, soiling Mama’s beautiful sofa and rugs with their boots. Then I look away. It is not the material things for which I mourn.
I search the windows of the villa, looking in vain for a familiar face. I had known that my family was no longer here ever since my last letter returned undeliverable. I had come anyway, though, some part of me imagining life unchanged, or at least hoping for a clue as to where they had gone. But wind blows through the desolate grounds. There is nothing left anymore.
I should not be here either, I realize. Anxiety quickly replaces my sadness. I cannot afford to loiter and risk being spotted by whoever lives here now, or face questions about who I am and why I have come. My eyes travel across the hill toward the adjacent estate where the Circus Neuhoff has their winter quarters. Their hulking slate villa stands opposite ours, two sentries guarding the Rheinhessen valley between.
Earlier as the train neared Darmstadt, I saw a poster advertising the Circus Neuhoff. At first, my usual distaste at the name rose. Klemt and Neuhoff were rival circuses and we had competed for years, trying to outdo one another. But the circus, though dysfunctional, was still a family. Our two circuses had grown up alongside one another like siblings in separate bedrooms. We had been rivals on the road. In the off-season, though, we children went to school and played together, sledding down the hill and occasionally sharing meals. Once when Herr Neuhoff had been felled by a bad back and could not serve as ringmaster, we sent my brother Jules to help their show.
I have not seen Herr Neuhoff in years, though. And he is Gentile, so everything has changed. His circus flourishes while ours is gone. No, I cannot expect help from Herr Neuhoff, but perhaps he knows what became of my family.
When I reach the Neuhoff estate, a maidservant I do not recognize opens the door. “Guten Abend,” I say. “Ist Herr Neuhoff hier?” I am suddenly shy, embarrassed to arrive unannounced on their doorstep like some sort of beggar. “I’m Ingrid Klemt.” I use my maiden name. The woman’s face reveals that she already knows who I am, though from the circus or from somewhere else, I cannot tell. My departure years earlier had been remarkable, whispered about for miles around.
One did not leave to marry a German officer as I had—especially if one was Jewish.
Erich had first come to the circus in the spring of 1934. I noticed him from behind the curtains—it is a myth that we cannot see the audience beyond the lights—not only because of his uniform but because he sat alone, without a wife or children. I was not some young girl, easily wooed, but nearly twenty-nine. Busy with the circus and constantly on the road, I had assumed that marriage had passed me by. Erich was impossibly handsome, though, with a strong jaw marred only by a cleft chin, and square features softened by the bluest of eyes. He came a second night and pink roses appeared before my dressing room door. We courted that spring, and he made the long trip down from Berlin every weekend to the cities where we performed to spend time with me between shows and on Sundays.
We should have known even then that our relationship was doomed. Though Hitler had just come to power a year earlier, the Reich had already made clear its hatred for the Jews. But there was passion and intensity in Erich’s eyes that made everything around us cease to exist. When he proposed, I didn’t think twice. We did not see the problems that loomed large, making our future together impossible—we simply looked the other way.
My father had not fought me on leaving with Erich. I expected him to rebuke me for marrying a non-Jew, but he only smiled sadly when I told him. “I always thought you would have taken over the show for me,” he’d said, his sad chocolate eyes a mirror of my own behind his spectacles. I was surprised. I had three older brothers, four if you counted Isadore, who had been killed at Verdun; there was no reason to think that Papa might have considered me. “Especially with Jules taking his own branch of the show to Nice. And the twins...” Papa had shaken his head ruefully. Mathias and Markus were strong and graceful, performing acrobatic marvels that made the audience gasp. Their skills were purely physical, though. “It was you, liebchen, with the head for business and the flair of showmanship. But I’m not going to keep you like a caged animal.”
I’d never known he saw me that way. Only now I was leaving him. I could have changed my mind and stayed. But Erich and the life I thought I always wanted beckoned. So I left for Berlin, taking Papa’s blessing with me.
Perhaps if I hadn’t, my family might still be here.
The maid ushers me to a sitting room that, though still grand, shows signs of wear. The rugs are a bit frayed and there are some spaces in the silver cabinet that are empty, as though the bigger pieces had been taken or sold. Stale cigar smoke mixes with the scent of lemon polish. I peer out the window, straining to see my family’s estate through the fog that has settled above the valley. I wonder who lives in our villa now and what they see when they look down at the barren deserted winter quarters.
After our wedding, a small ceremony with a justice of the peace, I moved into Erich’s spacious apartment overlooking the Tiergarten. I spent my days strolling the shops along Bergmannstrasse, buying richly colored paintings and rugs and embroidered satin pillows, little things that would make his once-sparse quarters our home. Our biggest dilemma was which café to frequent for Sunday brunch.
I’d been in Berlin for almost five years when the war broke out. Erich received a promotion to something I didn’t understand having to do with munitions and his days became longer. He would come home either dark and moody, or heady with excitement about things he could not share with me. “It will all be so different when the Reich is victorious, trust me.” But I didn’t want different. I liked our life just as it had been. What was so wrong with the old ways?
Things had not gone back to the way they had been, though. Instead they worsened rapidly. They said awful things about Jews on the radio and in the newspapers. Jewish shop windows were broken and doors painted. “My family...” I’d fretted to Erich over brunch in our Berlin apartment after I’d seen the windows of a Jewish butcher shop on Oranienburger Strasse shattered. I was the wife of a German officer. I was safe. But what about my family back home?
“Nothing will hurt them, Inna,” he soothed, rubbing my shoulders.
“If it’s happening here,” I pressed, “then Darmstadt can be no better.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “Shh. There have just been a few acts of vandalism in the city, a showing. Look around you. Everything is fine.” The apartment was scented with the smell of rich coffee. A pitcher of fresh orange juice sat on the table. Surely it could not be so much worse elsewhere. I rested my head on the broad shelf of Erich’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar warmth of his neck. “The Klemt family circus is internationally known,” he reassured. He was right. Our family circus had been generations in the making, born from the old horse shows in Prussia—my great-great-grandfather, they said, had left the Lipizzaner Stallions in Vienna to start our first circus. And the next generation had followed and the one after that, the very oddest sort of family business.
Erich continued, “That’s why I stopped to see the show on my way back from Munich that day. And then I saw you...” He pulled me onto his lap.
I raised my hand, cutting him off. Normally I loved his retelling of how we met, but I was too worried to listen. “I should go check on them.”
“How will you find them on tour?” he asked, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. It was true; midsummer, they could be almost anywhere in Germany or France. “And what would you do to help them? No, they would want you to stay here. Safe. With me.” He nuzzled me playfully.
He was right of course, I had told myself, lulled by his lips upon my neck. But still the worry nagged. Then one day the letter came. “Dearest Ingrid, we have disbanded the circus...” Papa’s tone was matter-of-fact, no plea for help, though I could only imagine his anguish at taking apart the family business that had flourished for more than a century. It did not say what they would do next or if they would leave, and I wondered if that was by design.
I wrote immediately, begging him to tell me what their plans were, if they needed money. I would have brought the whole family to Berlin and fit them into our apartment. But that would only have meant drawing them closer to the danger. In any event, the point was moot: my letter came back unopened. That had been six months earlier and there had been no word. Where had they gone?
“Ingrid!” Herr Neuhoff booms as he enters the sitting room. If he is surprised to see me, he gives no indication. Herr Neuhoff is not as old as my father and in my childhood memories, he had been dashing and handsome, if portly, with dark hair and a mustache. But he is shorter than I remembered, with a full stomach and just a gray fringe of hair. I rise and start toward him. Then, seeing the small swastika pin on his lapel, I stop. Coming here had been a mistake. “For appearances,” he says hastily.
“Yes, of course.” But I am not sure whether to believe him. I should just go. His face appears genuinely glad to see me, though. I decide to take a chance.
He gestures to a chair overlaid with lace and I sit, perching uneasily. “Cognac?” he offers.
I falter. “That would be lovely.” He rings a bell and the same woman who answered the door brings in a tray—one house servant where there used to be many. The Circus Neuhoff has not been left untouched by the war. I feign a sip from the glass she offers me. I do not want to be rude, but I need to keep my head about me to figure out where I am going from here. There is no resting place for me in Darmstadt anymore.
“You’ve just come from Berlin?” His tone is polite, one step short of asking what I am doing here.
“Yes. Papa wrote that he disbanded the circus.” Herr Neuhoff’s brow creases with his unspoken question: the circus broke up months ago. Why have I come now? “More recently I lost contact and my letters came back unanswered,” I add. “Have you heard from them?”
“I’m afraid nothing,” he replies. “There were only a few of them left at the end, all of the workers had gone.” Because it was illegal to work for the Jews. My father had treated his performers and even the manual laborers like family, caring for them when they were sick, inviting them to family celebrations, such as my brothers’ bar mitzvahs. He’d given generously to the town, too, doing charity shows for the hospital and donating to the political officials to curry favor. Trying so very hard to make us one of them. We had nearly forgotten that we weren’t.
Herr Neuhoff continues, “I went looking for them you know, after. But the house was empty. They were gone, though whether they went on their own or something had happened, I couldn’t say.” He walks to the mahogany desk in the corner and opens a drawer. “I do have this.” He reveals a Kiddush cup and I rise, fighting the urge to cry out at the familiar Hebrew letters. “This was yours, no?”
I nod, taking it from him. How had he gotten it? There had been a menorah, as well, and other things. The Germans must have taken those. I run my finger along the edge of the cup. On the road my family would have gathered in our railcar just to light the candles and share a bit of whatever wine and bread could be found, a few minutes of just us. I see shoulders pressed close to fit around the tiny table, my brothers’ faces illuminated by candlelight. We were not so very religious—we had to perform on Saturdays and had not managed to keep kosher on the road. But we clung fast to the little things, a moment’s observance each week. No matter how happy I had been with Erich, some part of my heart always drifted from the gay Berlin cafés back to the quiet Sabbaths.
I sink down once more. “I should never have left.”
“The Germans still would have put your father out of business,” he points out. If I had been here, though, perhaps the Germans would not have forced my family from their home or arrested them, or done whatever had caused them to not be here any longer. My connection to Erich, which I had held up like such a shield, had in the end proved worthless.
Herr Neuhoff coughs once, then again, his face reddening. I wonder if he is ill.
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” he says when he has recovered. “You’ll go back to Berlin now?”
I shift awkwardly. “I’m afraid not.”
It has been three days since Erich returned unexpectedly early from work to our apartment. I threw myself into his arms. “I’m so glad to see you,” I exclaimed. “Dinner isn’t quite ready yet, but we could have a drink.” He spent so many nights at official dinners or buried in his study with papers. It seemed like forever since we’d shared a quiet evening together.
He did not put his arms around me but remained stiff. “Ingrid,” he said, using my full name and not the pet name he’d given me, “we need to divorce.”
“Divorce?” I wasn’t sure I had ever said the word before. Divorce was something that happened in a movie or a book about rich people. I didn’t know anyone who had ever done it—in my world you married until you died. “Is there another woman?” I croaked, barely able to manage the words. Of course there was not. The passion between us had been unbreakable—until now.
Surprise and pain flashed over his face at the very idea. “No!” And in that one word I knew exactly the depths of his love and that this awful thing was hurting him. So why would he even say it? “The Reich has ordered all officers with Jewish wives to divorce,” he explained. How many, I wondered, could there possibly be? He pulled out some documents and handed them to me with smooth strong hands. The papers carried a hint of his cologne. There was not even a spot for me to sign, my agreement or disagreement irrelevant—it was fait accompli. “It has been ordered by the Führer,” he adds. His voice was dispassionate, as though describing the day-to-day matters that went on in his department. “There is no choice.”
“We’ll run,” I said, forcing the quaver from my voice. “I can be packed in half an hour.” Improbably I lifted the roast from the table, as though that was the first thing I would take. “Bring the brown suitcase.” But Erich stood stiffly, feet planted. “What is it?”
“My job,” he replied. “People would know I was gone.” He would not go with me. The roast dropped from my hands, plate shattering, the smell of warm meat and gravy wafting sickeningly upward. It was preferable to the rest of the immaculate table, a caricature of the perfect life I thought we’d had. The brown liquid splattered upward against my stockings, staining them.
I jutted my chin defiantly. “Then I shall keep the apartment.”
But he shook his head, reaching into his billfold and emptying the contents into my hands. “You need to go. Now.” Go where? My family was all gone; I did not have papers out of Germany. Still I found my suitcase and packed mechanically, as if going on holiday. I had no idea what to take.
Two hours later when I was packed and ready to go, Erich stood before me in his uniform, so very much like the man I had spied in the audience beyond the lights the day we met. He waited awkwardly as I started for the door, as if seeing out a guest.
I stood in front of him for several seconds, staring up beseechingly, willing his eyes to meet mine. “How can you do this?” I asked. He did not answer. This is not happening, a voice inside me seemed to say. In other circumstances, I would have refused to go. But I had been caught off guard, the wind knocked out of me by an unexpected punch. I was simply too stunned to fight. “Here.” I pulled off my wedding band and held it out. “This isn’t mine anymore.”
Looking down at the ring, his whole face seemed to fall, as if realizing for the first time the finality of what he was doing. I wondered in that moment if he would tear up the papers that decreed our marriage over and say we would face the future together, whatever the odds. He swiped at his eyes.
When his hand moved away the hardness of the “new Erich,” as I called him in the recent months when it had all seemed to change, reappeared. He pushed the ring away and it clattered to the floor. I hurried to pick it up, cheeks stinging from the roughness of his once-gentle touch. “You keep it,” he said. “You can sell it if you need money.” As if the one thing that bound us together meant so little to me. He fled the apartment without looking back and in that moment the years we shared seemed to evaporate and disappear.
Of course I do not know Herr Neuhoff well enough to tell him any of this. “I’ve left Berlin for good,” I say, firmly enough to foreclose further discussion. I run my finger over my wedding band, which I had put on once more as I’d left Berlin so as to attract less attention while traveling.
“So where will you go?” Herr Neuhoff asks. I do not answer. “You should leave Germany,” he adds gently. Leaving. It was the thing that no one talked about anymore, the door that had closed. I’d heard Mama suggest it once years earlier, before things had gotten bad. Then the idea had seemed laughable—we were Germans and our circus had been here for centuries. In hindsight it was the only option, but none of us had been wise enough to take it because no one knew how bad things would become. And now that chance was gone. “Or you could join us,” Herr Neuhoff adds.
“Join you?” The surprise in my voice borders on rude.
He nods. “Our circus. I am missing an aerialist since Angelina broke her hip.” I stare at him, disbelieving. Though the seasonal workers and even performers might transfer between circuses, one circus family working for another is unheard of—I can no more imagine myself part of the Circus Neuhoff than a leopard changing its spots. The suggestion makes sense, though—and the way he phrases it does not sound as if he is offering me charity, but rather that I would be filling a need.
Still, my spine stiffens. “I couldn’t possibly.” To stay here would mean being beholden to Herr Neuhoff, another man. After Erich, I will never do that again.
“Really, you’d be doing me a huge service.” His voice is sincere. I am more than just a spare performer. Having a Klemt join his circus, well, that would be something, at least to the older folks who remembered our act at its heyday. With my name and reputation as an aerialist, I am like a collectible, an item to be had.
“I’m a Jew,” I say. To employ me now would be a crime. Why would he take on such danger?
“I’m aware.” His mustache twitches with amusement. “You are Zirkus Volk,” he adds quietly. That transcends all else.
Still my doubts linger. “You have SS living next door now, don’t you? It will be so dangerous.”
He waves his hand, as if this is of no consequence. “We’ll change your name.” But my name is what he wants—the very thing that makes me most valuable to him. “Astrid,” he pronounces.
“Astrid,” I repeat, trying it on for size. Close to Ingrid, but not the same. And it sounds Scandinavian, vaguely exotic—perfect for the circus. “Astrid Sorrell.”
His eyebrows rise. “Wasn’t that your husband’s surname?”
For a second, I falter, surprised that he had known. Then I nod. Erich had taken everything from me but that. He would never know.
“Plus, I could use your good sense about the business,” he adds. “It’s only me and Emmet.” Herr Neuhoff had been dealt a cruel blow. In the circus, large families are the norm; ours had four brothers, each more handsome and talented than the next. But Herr Neuhoff’s wife had died birthing Emmet and he had not remarried, leaving him alone with just one shiftless heir who had neither the talent to perform nor the head to run the business. Instead, Emmet spent his time gambling in the cities on tour and ogling the dancing girls. I shudder to think what might become of this circus when his father is gone.
“So you’ll stay?” Herr Neuhoff asks. I consider the question. Our two families had not always gotten along. My coming here today had been a change. We were rivals, more so than allies—until now.
I want to say no, to get on a train and keep searching for my family. I’ve had enough of depending on others. But Herr Neuhoff’s eyes are soft; he takes no joy in the misfortune that has befallen my family and is only trying to help. I can already hear the music of the orchestra, and the ache to perform, buried so deep I’d almost forgotten, rises sharply within me. A second chance.
“All right then,” I say finally. I cannot refuse him—and I have nowhere else to go. “We’ll try it. Perhaps on the road, we might hear word of where my family has gone.” He presses his lips together, not wanting to give me false hope.
“You can stay at the house,” he offers. He does not expect me to live in the women’s lodge like a common performer. “It would be good to have the company.”
But I cannot stay up here and hope to have the girls accept me as one of them. “That’s very kind, but I should stay with the others.” As a child, I had always felt more comfortable down in the cabins with the performers. I had yearned to sleep in the women’s quarters, which, despite the too many bodies, smells and noises, had a kind of solidarity.
He nods, acquiescing to the truth in my words. “We’ll pay you thirty a week.” In our circus, money had not been discussed. Wages were paid fairly, with increases over the years. He pulls a paper from the desk drawer and scribbles on it. “Your contract,” he explains. I look at him, confused. With us there had been no contracts—people made verbal agreements and kept them over decades of working together. He continues, “It just says that if you want to leave before the season is over, you will pay us back.” I feel owned in a way I never have before and I hate it.
“Come, I’ll help you get settled.” He leads me out of the house and down the hill in the direction of the cabins. I keep my eyes straight forward, not looking back in the direction of my former home. We near an old gymnasium and my throat tightens. Once my family had practiced here. “They weren’t using it anymore,” he offers, his voice apologetic. But it had been ours. In that moment, I regret the bargain I have made. Working for another circus family feels like treason.
Herr Neuhoff continues on, but I stop in front of the gymnasium door. “I should practice,” I say.
“There’s no need to start today. Surely you will want to get settled.”
“I should practice,” I repeat. If I don’t start now, I never will.
He nods. “Very well. I’ll leave you to it.” As he starts away, I look up from the base of the hill across the valley toward my family home. How can I stay here, so unbearably close to the shadows of the past? I see my brothers’ faces. I will perform where they cannot.
The door to the gymnasium creaks as I pull it open. I set down my valise, twisting my wedding band around my finger. There are a few other performers scattered through the practice hall. Some faces are vaguely familiar, as if from another lifetime; others I do not know at all. At the back of the practice hall by the piano, there is a tall man with a long somber face. Our eyes meet and though I do not recognize him from my circus years, it seems we have met somewhere before. He holds my gaze for several seconds before finally turning away.
I inhale the familiar smell of hay and manure and cigarette smoke and perfume, not so very different. The thick rosin coats the insides of my nostrils and it is as if I had never left.
I take off the wedding band and put it in my pocket, then go to change for rehearsal.
3 (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Noa (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Of course I did not leave him.
I started away from the child, imagining my life just as it had been a few short minutes earlier. The milk truck would go and I could return to my work and pretend none of it ever happened. Then I stopped again. I couldn’t abandon a helpless infant and leave him alone there to die, just as surely as he would have on the train. Quickly I raced to the sour-smelling milk can and pulled him out. A moment later, the engine roared and the truck lurched forward. I clutched the child tighter and he nestled against me forgivingly. His warmth filled my arms. In that second, everything was all right.
The policeman near the train yelled something I couldn’t make out. A second guard appeared on the station platform, holding a snarling Alsatian on a leash. In my panic, I jumped, and the child nearly slipped from my arms. Tightening my hold on him, I ducked around the corner as they raced past me to the train. They couldn’t have possibly noticed one baby missing amid so many. They were pointing, though, from the boxcar door I left open in my haste to my telltale footprints in the snow.
I ran desperately into the station toward the closet where I slept. At the back of the closet there was a rickety ladder leading to the attic. As I reached for it, my foot tangled around a threadbare blanket on the floor. Shaking it off, I started to climb the ladder. But I had only one arm to hold on and I slipped from the second rung, nearly dropping the baby, whose wail rang out, threatening to expose us.
Recovering, I started upward again. The voices grew louder, broken by a sharp bark. I reached the attic, a space with a low ceiling smelling of dead rodents and mold. I hurried through the tangle of empty boxes toward the lone window. My nails ripped as I pried it open. A blast of icy air smacked my face. I leaned forward and put my head through the window, but it was too small. I could not make it past my shoulders.
Below I heard the guards, inside the building now. I pushed the baby quickly through the window and placed him on the sloping, snow-covered roof that overhung the station platform. I steadied him there, praying he did not roll downward or cry out from the iciness against his skin.
I closed the window and hurried down the attic steps, grabbing my broom. As I walked out of the closet, I nearly slammed into one of the guards.
“Guten abend...” I stammered, forcing myself to meet his eyes. He did not respond, but stared at me piercingly.
“Entschuldigen Sie, bitte.” Excusing myself, I walked around the guard, feeling his eyes on me, bracing for his command to stop. I slipped outside and pretended to sweep the coal-tinged snow from the platform until I was sure he wasn’t watching me. Then I raced around the side of the station, staying close to the shadow of the building. I looked up at the low roof, searching for a foothold to reach it. Finding none, I climbed the drainpipe, iciness soaking through my torn tights. As I neared the top, my arms burned. I reached up, praying that the infant was still there. But my fingers closed around emptiness.
My stomach dropped. Had the Germans found the baby? I stretched again, arms straining farther and finding a bit of cloth. I pulled on it, trying to draw the child toward me. But he rolled past my fingertips. I reached for him frantically, grabbing the edge of the cloth diaper just before he fell.
I drew him close to me and scampered down, nearly slipping myself as I struggled to hold on with one hand. At last I reached the ground and tucked the baby securely in my coat. But the Germans were just around the corner, their voices close and angry. Not daring to linger another second, I ran, footsteps breaking the smoothness of snow.
* * *
Hours have passed since I fled the station. I don’t know how many, only that it is deepest night and snowing again, the sky a muted gray. Or it would have been, if I could look up. The storm has grown heavier, though, sharp bits of ice cutting at my eyes and forcing me to tuck my chin once more. I’d gone in the direction away from the hills and toward the shelter of the woods, but the ground that appeared flat in the distance rolls and dips, straining my legs. I cling instead to a smoother path that runs too close to the edge of the forest. I glance nervously at the narrow road that runs parallel to the trees. So far it has thankfully remained deserted.
In the endless blanket of white I imagine our tiny farm, close to the Dutch coast, the air thick with salt and chilled by the North Sea, where I lived with only my parents. Though we had been spared from the air raids that had brought Rotterdam to rubble, occupation had come down hard. The Germans had focused on defending the coastal towns, mining the beaches so we could no longer walk them and billeting soldiers everywhere—which is how I met the one who fathered my child.
He hadn’t forced me. If he had, or if I had pretended it, my parents might have been more forgiving. He had not even tried during the fortnight he stayed at our farm, though I could tell from the long looks across the table that he wanted to. His tall, broad-shouldered presence had been too large in the close cottage space, a piece of furniture that did not fit. We all breathed a sigh of relief once he had been moved to new quarters. But he returned, bringing a half-dozen fresh eggs like we hadn’t seen since before the war, and later chocolate to thank us. I was weary—the war had been raging since I was twelve, taking all of the dances and normal things I might have known as a teenager with it. For the first time with the soldier, not much more than a boy himself, it seemed like I stood out.
So when he came to me in the night, slipping through the back door and into my cold, narrow bed, I’d felt chosen, and excited by his touch—a man so much more certain than the fumbling boys I’d known at school. I didn’t see the uniform, with the same insignia that the SS marching Steffi Klein away had worn. He was just a soldier who had been conscripted into the army. Not one of them. My memories of our one night together are hazy, like a half-forgotten dream of desire and then pain that caused me to cover my own mouth so my parents wouldn’t hear my cry. It was over just as quickly, leaving me with a longing not quite fulfilled and a sense that there should have been more to it.
Then he was gone. The German did not come around again and two days later I learned that his unit had moved on. I knew then I had made a mistake. It wasn’t until about a month later that I realized how serious my mistake had been.
The end came without warning on a spring day warmer than most. Morning sun bathed our seaside village of Scheveningen and gulls called to one another above the inlet. Lying in my bed, it had almost been possible to forget about the war for a few minutes.
Then my bedroom door swung open and the knowledge of the truth raged in my father’s bulging eyes. “Out!”
I stared at him in disbelief. How could he possibly have known? I had told no one. I had not expected to be able to keep it a secret forever, but surely for another month or so, long enough to figure out what to do. Mama, who had walked in while I was dressing a few days earlier, must have seen the slight curve of my stomach. The rest, the timing of when the German had been with us, would not have been so very hard to figure out.
Papa was proud and staunchly Dutch, with a limp from the Great War to prove it. My affair with the German was the greatest betrayal. Surely, though, he did not mean for me, his only daughter and just sixteen, to leave. But the same man who had once laced my boots and carried me on his shoulders now unrelentingly held the door open for me to walk through a final time.
I braced for him to strike me or berate me further, but he simply pointed to the door. “Go.” His eyes did not meet mine.
“No!” Mama cried as I went. There was no strength behind her voice, though. As she ran after me, my heart lifted. Perhaps just this once she would stand up to him and fight for me. Instead she just pressed the money she had tucked away into my palm. I waited for her to embrace me.
She did not.
A horn whistles long and low in the distance. I duck behind a tree as a train appears from the same direction we’d come, snaking a path through the field of white. Though I can’t be sure, from a far distance there is a train car that looks exactly like the one from which I pulled the baby. Headed east, like the other trains of Jews. Babies taken, as my own had been, but from families with two parents who loved, wanted them. Stifling a cry, I step from the trees, wanting to run after it and take other children as I had this one. But the baby’s body sinks warm and heavy in my arms, the lone life I have saved.
Saved—at least for now. Behind the receding train, the sky is lightening to gray in the east. It will be dawn soon and we are still too close to the station. The police could come at any moment. Snow falls heavy, soaking my thin coat and reaching the child beneath it. We must keep going. I push deeper into the woods, out of sight. The air is still with that silence that only snow can bring. My feet are icy bricks now, legs weary. I am weak from the little I’ve eaten in my months at the station and my mouth is dry with thirst. There is nothing beyond the trees but endless white. I try to remember from my journey to the girls’ home months earlier how far it is to the next village. But even if we make it there, no one will risk his own life to shelter us.
I switch the baby to my other hip, brushing the snow from his forehead. How long has it been since he last ate? He has not moved or cried since we left the station and I wonder if he is still breathing. Hurriedly I pull aside into a thick cluster of trees and unwrap him a bit more, keeping him close for warmth. His eyes are closed and he is sleeping—or so I hope. His lips are cracked and bleeding from dehydration, but his chest rises and falls evenly. His bare feet are like tiny bricks of ice.
I scan the forest desperately, remembering the other babies on the train, most already gone. I should have taken some of their clothes for the child. I am repulsed at the thought. I unbutton my coat and blouse, grimacing at the blast of ice and snow against my skin. I hold the baby to my breast, willing some of the thin gray liquid that I’d squeezed out to relieve my discomfort nearly four months earlier to appear in tiny dots. But my movements are clumsy—no one had taught me how to nurse, and the child is too weak to latch on. My breasts ache with longing but nothing comes. My milk is gone, dried up. After I’d given birth, the nurse had told me there were women who would pay for my milk. I’d shaken my head, unwilling no matter how much I needed the money to have that taken from me, too. With my child gone, I was desperate to be done with the whole thing as quickly as possible.
My child. Part of me wishes I had not held my baby that once, that my arms had not memorized the shape of his body and head. Maybe then my arms would not ache every second. Once I had considered what I would have called him. But as names appeared in my mind, a knife of pain shot through me and I had clamped down on the thought. I wonder what he is called now, praying he had reached people who cared enough to give him a really good, strong name.
Pushing thoughts of my own child aside, I study the baby in my arms. His face is squared off a bit around the full cheeks and perfectly pointed at the chin. The shape is distinct and I just know there is a whole family out there—please let them still be out there—with faces exactly that same shape.
Something crackles behind me in the distance beyond the trees. I turn back, squinting to see through the falling snow, but the way we’ve come is obscured by the tangle of branches and brush. My heartbeat quickens. It might be a car engine. Though we are well-hidden by the trees now, there is a road not far from the edge of the woods. If the police followed us, my footprints in the snow would easily lead them here. I hold my breath, feeling like a hunted animal as I strain to listen through the stillness for voices or other sounds. Nothing—at least for now.
Closing my coat, I press forward through the trees. I hold the baby clumsily in one arm, using the other to clear a low branch in front of us. Snow shakes from it and falls down the collar of my coat, icy and wet. My feet, soaked through the patchy secondhand boots, begin to ache.
The baby grows heavier with every step. I slow, breathing heavily, then reach down for a handful of snow to ease the dryness of my mouth, the coldness burning through the holes in my glove. I straighten, nearly dropping the child. Is he thirsty? I wonder if giving him a bit of snow will help or make things worse. Holding him at arm’s length, I am suddenly helpless. There is so much I do not know. Other than those fleeting seconds after I had given birth, I have never held a child, much less cared for one. I want to set him down. Empty-handed I might make it to the next village. He would have died in that train car anyway. Would this be so much worse?
The baby’s hand, no bigger than a walnut, shoots up, grasping for my finger and holding tight. What does he think when he looks up and sees a face different from the one that he had known since birth? He is almost the exact same age that my own child would be. I imagine a mother whose scars still ache like mine. Looking at this child, my heart breaks open. He once had a name. How could a child too young to know his own name ever hope to find his parents? I will him to breathe, to keep going until we can find shelter.
I cradle his head gently before covering it once more. Then redoubling my efforts, I press on. But the wind grows stronger now, whipping the snow-clad branches at me and making it hard to breathe. Stopping a second time had been a mistake. There is no shelter other than the train station for many kilometers. If we stay here, we will die, just as surely as the child would have on that train.
“I can’t do this!” I cry aloud, forgetting in my desperation that I must not be heard.
The wind howls louder in response.
I try to move forward again. My toes are numb now, legs leaden. Each step into the sharp wind grows harder. The snow turns to icy sleet, forming a layer on us. The world around us has turned strangely gray at the edges. The child’s eyes are closed, and he is resigned to the fate that has always been his. I take a step forward and stumble and stand again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unable to hold him any longer. Then I fall forward and everything goes black.
4 (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Astrid (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
The squeak of a doorknob turning, hands pressing against hard wood. At first, they seem part of a dream I cannot quite make out.
The sounds come again, though, louder this time, followed by the scraping of the door opening. I struggle to sit. Sharp terror shoots through me. Inspections have come without warning in the fifteen months since my return, Gestapo or the local police who do their bidding. They have not noticed me yet, nor asked for the ausweis Herr Neuhoff had gotten for me, the identification card I fear will not be good enough. My reputation as a performer is a blessing and a curse in Darmstadt, giving me the means to survive, but at the same time making my false identity a thin veneer, nearly impossible to maintain. So when the inspectors come I disappear into the bottom of one of the tarp-covered wagons, or if there is no time, into the woods. But here in Peter’s cabin, with its lone door and no cellar, I am trapped.
A deep male voice cuts through the darkness. “It’s only me.” Peter’s hands, which I feel so often in the night these past months, stirring me from dreams of the past I do not want to leave, rub my back gently. “Someone has been found in the forest.”
I roll over. “Who found them, you?” I ask. Peter hardly sleeps, but walks at night, prowling the countryside like a restless coyote even in deepest winter. I reach up to touch his stubbled cheek, noting with concern the circles that ring his eyes more darkly now.
“I was down by the stream,” he replies. “I thought it was a wounded animal.” Peter’s vowels are over-rounded, v’s nearly w’s, his Russian accent undiluted by time as though he had left Leningrad weeks and not years ago.
“So naturally, you went closer,” I say, my voice chiding. I would have gone the other way.
“Yes.” He helps me to my feet. “They weren’t conscious so I carried them back here.” His breath holds a hint of liquor, drunk too recently to have gone sour.
“They?” I repeat, the word now a question.
“A woman.” A bit of jealousy passes through me as I imagine him holding someone else. “There was also a child.” He pulls a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket.
A woman and child, alone in the woods at night. This is queer, even for the circus. No good can come from strange happenings—or strangers.
I dress hurriedly and pull on my coat. Below the lapel I can feel the rough outline of torn threads where the yellow star had once been sewn. I follow Peter out into the frigid darkness, tucking my chin low against the biting wind. His cottage is one of a half dozen scattered across the gently sloping valley, private quarters saved for the most senior and skilled of performers. Though my official residence is in the lodge, a long building set apart where most of the other girls sleep, staying with Peter had quickly become the norm. I slip back and forth at night and before dawn with only the slightest pretense.
When I came back to Darmstadt, I had meant to stay only long enough for Herr Neuhoff to find a replacement aerialist and for me to figure out where I was going. But the arrangement worked, and as I prepared to join the circus on the road that first year, my visions of leaving waned. And I met Peter, who had joined the Circus Neuhoff during the years that I was gone. He is a clown, though not the type of buffoon whom noncircus folk normally associate with the title. His performances are original and elaborate and they combine comedy, satire and irony with an artistry that even I have never seen before.
I had not expected to be with anyone again, much less fall in love. Peter is a decade older, and different from the rest of the performers. He had been born to the Russian aristocracy when there was one; some said he was the cousin of Czar Nicholas. In another life we never would have met. The circus is a great equalizer, though; no matter class or race or background, we are all the same here, judged on our talent. Peter fought in the Great War. He had not sustained injuries, at least none that were visible, but there is a kind of melancholy that suggested he has never recovered. His sadness resonated with me and we were drawn to one another.
I start toward the women’s lodge. Peter shakes his head and guides me in a different direction. “Up there.” The light of his cigarette gleams like a torch as he inhales.
The newcomers are at Herr Neuhoff’s villa—also rather unusual. “They can’t stay,” I whisper, though there is no one else around to hear.
“Of course not,” Peter replies. “Just temporary shelter so they wouldn’t die from the storm.” His shadow looms over me. It is not only Peter’s sorrow that makes his greatness as a clown so improbable. He told me once that the first time he had tried to join a circus, they sent him away, saying he was too tall to be a clown. So he’d apprenticed at a theater in Kiev, developed an ironic persona that suited his craggy features and long-legged style and then gone from circus to circus, building fame around his act. Peter’s antics, which often feature a humorous disregard for authority, are known far and wide. Through the war years, his routines had grown more caustic and his hatred of war and fascism less veiled. As his reputation for daring irreverence grew, so did the crowds.
He opens the door to the villa, where I’ve been only for the holiday party Herr Neuhoff throws for the entire circus each December and a handful of other times since my return. We slip inside without knocking. From the top of the staircase, Herr Neuhoff gestures that we should join him. In one of the guest rooms, a girl with long blond hair sleeps in a mahogany four-poster bed. Her pale skin is almost translucent against the rich burgundy sheets.
On the low table beside her, a baby lies in a makeshift bassinet, fashioned from a large woven basket. Moses on the Nile, watching us with dark, interested eyes. The child cannot be more than a few months old, I guess, though I have no experience with such things. It has long lashes and round cheeks that one seldom sees for all of the deprivation these days. Beautiful—but aren’t they all at that age?
Herr Neuhoff nods toward the child. “Before she passed out, she said he is her brother.”
A boy. “But where did they come from?” I ask. Herr Neuhoff simply shrugs.
The girl sleeps soundly. With a clear conscience, my mother might have said. She has thick, blond plaits, like a lass out of a Hans Christian Andersen tale. She could have been one of the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the League of German Girls, striding along Alexanderplatz with arms linked, singing vile songs about the Fatherland and killing Jews. Peter had described her as a woman but she could not be more than seventeen. I feel so very old and tired by comparison.
The girl stirs. Her arms shoot straight out, searching for the baby in a gesture I know all too well from my own dreams. Then sensing emptiness, she begins to flail.
Watching her desperation, the words run through my head: there is no way that is her brother.
Herr Neuhoff lifts the child and places it in the young woman’s arms and instantly she calms. “Waar ben ik?” Dutch. She blinks, then repeats the question in German: Where am I? Her voice is thin, wavering.
“Darmstadt,” Herr Neuhoff replies. No recognition registers on her face. She is not from these parts. “You are with the Circus Neuhoff.”
She blinks. “A circus.” Though to us it seems quite normal—indeed for more than half of my life it was all I had known—to her it must sound like something from a fantasy tale. A freak show. I stiffen, instantly reverting to the defensive girl facing down stares on the schoolyard. Throw her back out into the snow if we aren’t good enough.
“How old are you, child?” Herr Neuhoff asks gently.
“I’ll be seventeen next month. I fled my father’s house,” she offers, her German smoother now. “I’m Noa Weil and this is my brother.” Her words come too quickly, answering questions that no one has asked.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
A moment’s hesitation. “Theo. We’re from the Dutch coast,” she says with another pause. “Things were very bad. My father drank and beat us. Mother died in childbirth. So I took my brother and we left.” What is she doing here, hundreds of miles from home? No one would flee Holland for Germany now. Her story does not make sense. I wait for Herr Neuhoff to ask if she has papers.
The girl studies the child’s face with darting eyes. “Is he all right?”
“Yes, he ate well before falling asleep,” Herr Neuhoff reassures.
The girl’s brow wrinkles. “Ate?”
“Drank, I should say,” Herr Neuhoff corrects. “Some formula our cook made from sugar and honey.” Surely the girl would know that if she had been caring for the child.
I step back toward Peter, who reclines in a chair by the door. “She’s lying,” I say in a low voice. The fool girl had probably gotten pregnant. One does not speak of such things, though.
Peter shrugs with detachment. “She must have her reasons for running. We all do.”
“You are welcome to stay,” Herr Neuhoff says. I stare at him dumbfounded: What can he be thinking? He continues, “You’ll have to work, of course, when you’re well enough.”
“Of course.” The girl sits up, spine stiffening, at the suggestion that she might expect charity. “I can clean and cook.” I scoff at her naïveté, imagining her in the cookhouse making pancakes and peeling potatoes by the hundreds.
Herr Neuhoff waves his hand. “Cooks and cleaners we have. No, with your looks that would be a waste. I want you to perform.” Peter shoots me a puzzled look. New performers are recruited from across Europe and beyond; the spots are competitive and hard fought, possible only with a lifetime of training. One does not simply find talent on the street—or in the forest. Herr Neuhoff knows that. He turns to me. “You need a new aerialist, yes?” Over his shoulder, the girl’s eyes widen.
I hesitate. Once the act might have had a dozen or more aerialists, throwing parallel passes and somersaulting past one another in midair. But we have only three now and since my return I’d been largely reduced to the corde lisse and Spanish web. “Of course, but she has never performed. I can’t simply teach her the flying trapeze. Perhaps she could ride a horse or sell programs.” There are dozens of easier jobs she can do. What is making Herr Neuhoff think that she can perform? Usually I can scout talent a mile away. Here I see nothing. He is trying to make a duck into a swan and such a plan would only be met with failure.
“We don’t have time to find another aerialist before we go on the road,” Herr Neuhoff replies. “She has the right look. We have almost six weeks until we leave for tour.” He does not meet my eyes as he says this. Six weeks is a blink of an eye compared with the lifetime of training the rest of us have endured. He is asking me to perform the impossible and he knows it.
“She’s too thick to be an aerialist,” I say, appraising her body critically. Even beneath the duvet, it is plump around the hips and thighs. She is weak, soft in the middle with an innocence that suggests she has never known hard work. She would not have survived the night in the snow if Peter had not found her. And she will not last the week here.
Hearing a shuffling sound, I turn. Herr Neuhoff’s son, Emmet, watches from the doorway, his doughy mouth curled as he takes in our disagreement. He had always been an odd child, playing mean-spirited pranks and getting in trouble. “Wouldn’t want to be upstaged, would you?” he sneers at me.
I look away, ignoring him. The girl is prettier than me, I have to admit, cataloging her looks relative to my own in that way all women do. Good looks will not carry her here, though. In the circus what matters is the talent and experience—of which she has none.
“She can’t stay,” Peter says from his chair, the forcefulness of his voice causing me to jump. Herr Neuhoff is a kind man, but it is his circus and even the star performers such as Peter do not dare to disagree with him openly. “I mean, when she’s well enough she’ll have to go,” he clarifies.
“Where?” Herr Neuhoff demands.
“I don’t know,” Peter admits. “But how can she stay? A girl with a baby, people will ask questions.” He is thinking of me, the additional scrutiny and danger their arrival might bring. Though my identity and past are quietly known among the circus folk, we’ve been able to maintain the pretense with outsiders—at least until now. “We can’t risk the attention.”
“It won’t be a problem if she is part of our act,” Herr Neuhoff counters. “Performers join circuses all of the time.”
They used to, I correct in my head. New performers had joined the circus many times over the years—once we had Serbian animal trainers, a juggler from China. Everything had grown leaner in recent years, though. These days there simply isn’t the money to bring on more acts.
“A cousin from one of the other circuses,” Herr Neuhoff suggests, his plan unfurling. Our own performers would know differently, but the story might satisfy the seasonal workers. “If she’s all ready to perform, then no one will notice,” he adds. It is true that the audience would not pay any attention; they come faithfully each year, but they do not see the people behind the performances.
“That’s very kind of you to offer me a place,” the girl interjects. She struggles to rise from the bed without letting go of the baby, but the very effort seems to wind her and she leans back once more. “But we wouldn’t want to be a burden. As soon as we’ve rested and the weather breaks, we’ll be on our way.” I can see the panic in her eyes. They have nowhere to go.
Vindicated, I turn to Herr Neuhoff. “You see, she can’t do it.”
“I didn’t say that.” The girl straightens again, lifting her chin. “I’m a hard worker and I’m sure that with enough training I can.” Suddenly she seems eager to prove herself where a minute earlier she had not even wanted to try, a kind of defiance I recognize from myself. I wonder if she even knows what she is getting herself into.
“But we can’t possibly have her ready,” I repeat, searching for another argument to persuade him that this will not work.
“You can do this, Astrid.” There is a new forcefulness to Herr Neuhoff’s words. He stops a step short of ordering, instead willing me to agree. “You found shelter here. You need to do this.” His eyes burn into me. So this is how my debt is to be repaid. The whole circus had risked themselves to hide me, now I am to do the same for this stranger. His face softens. “Two innocents. If we do not help them, they will surely die. I won’t have that on my hands.” He could no sooner turn her and the baby away than he could have me.
My eyes meet Peter’s and he opens his mouth to protest once more that we would be risking everything. But then he closes it, knowing as I do that arguing further will do no good.
“Fine,” I say at last. There are limits to what Herr Neuhoff can ask of me, though. “Six weeks,” I say. “I will try to have her ready by the time we go on the road. And if not, then she must leave.” It is the most I have ever stood up to him and for a second it is as if we are equals once more. But those are bygone days. I meet his stare, willing myself not to blink.
“Agreed,” he relents, surprising me.
“We start tomorrow at dawn,” I pronounce. Six weeks or six years it does not matter—she will still not be able to do it. The girl watches me closely and I wait for her to protest. She remains silent, though, a hint of gratitude in her wide, fearful eyes.
“But she was nearly frozen,” Herr Neuhoff protests. “She’s exhausted. She needs time to recover.”
“Tomorrow,” I insist. She will fail and we will be done with her.
5 (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Noa (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
She comes for me before dawn.
I am already awake, wearing a dressing gown that is not my own. Moments earlier, I bolted upright, shaken. I’d dreamed that I had gone back to the railcar at the station a second time, not just to save more babies but because I somehow knew that my own child was among them. But when I pulled open the door to the train car it was empty. I reached into the pitch-blackness and shrieked as my arms closed around nothing.
I’d awoken from the dream, hoping I had not screamed aloud and startled others in the strange house. I fought to close my eyes again. I had to go back and save my child. But the image was gone.
As my trembling ebbed, I reached for the baby, who slept peacefully in the basket they had made into a bassinet by my bedside. I pulled him to me, his warmth soothing. I adjusted my eyes to the still room, partly lit by the moonlight that filtered in through curtains held back by braided ropes. A low fire burned in the corner. The fine furnishings were grander than any I’d ever seen. I recalled the odd faces assembled when I’d awoken the previous day, the round circus owner and the woman who looked at me with such distaste and the long-faced man who had sat in the chair watching, like the cast of characters from a story my mother read to me as a child. The circus, they said—it is hard to believe that such a world still exists even during the war. I might have been less surprised to find myself on the moon. I had been to the circus only once when I was three and I cried at the glaring lights and loud noises until my father had taken me out of the tent. And now here I am. It is strange, but no stranger than finding a boxcar full of infants, or any of the things that have happened to me since leaving home.
I gaze down at the baby, freshly bathed and nestled in my arms. Theo, I’d called him without thinking when they asked. I don’t know where the name had come from. He sleeps in the crook of my elbow and I hold still so as not to disturb him. His face is peaceful, cheeks now rosy. Where had he slept before being put in the train? I imagine a warm crib, hands that patted his back to soothe him. I pray that my own child is sleeping somewhere just as safe.
The previous evening they had spoken about me as though I was not there. “She’s got a circus look about her, don’t you think?” the circus owner had said when my eyes were closed and they thought I wasn’t listening. They were sizing me up like a horse they were about to buy. I wanted to stand and say thank-you-but-no-thank-you, to pick up the baby and walk into the night. But the fierce winds still howled and through the window the hills were an unbroken sea of white. If I started out with Theo again, we would not make it to another shelter. So I let them talk about me. This isn’t our place, though. We will stay long enough to save some money and then leave. Where we will go exactly, I don’t know.
“You’ll be paid ten marks a week,” the circus owner had said. The price seemed shrewd, but not so low that he was taking advantage. Should I have asked for more? Perhaps it was a generous sum for one who had never performed. I know so little about money, and I am hardly in a position to bargain.
After the circus people had finished talking about me, they had left the room and I’d fallen asleep. I’d awoken once and found my way to the water closet in the darkness. A few times something rumbled in the distance, seeming to echo off the hills. Air raids perhaps, like the ones I’d heard so many times at the rail station. But they were not close enough to cause alarm.
No one had come to the room again—until now. Hearing footsteps in the hall, I slide from the bed carefully so as not to wake Theo, wanting to open the door before anyone knocks. The woman they had called Astrid, the one who had watched me so disdainfully the previous night, stands before me now in the semidarkness, the moonlight behind giving her a strange glow. Her jet-black hair is bobbed short and curled at the ends, framing her face. She wears no jewelry except for a pair of gold earrings with a small crimson gem in each. She is beautiful in an exotic way with too-large features that fit together perfectly. She does not smile.
“You’ve slept long enough,” she declares without greeting or introduction. “Time to get up and start working.” She throws a leotard in my direction, faded and mended at the toe. “You’ll need to wear this.” I have no idea where my own clothes, soaked and tattered, have gone. I wait for her to leave so I can change, but she simply half turns away. “We haven’t a day to lose. I will train you—or attempt to, anyway. I don’t think you can manage it, but if you do, you may travel with us.”
“Train to do what, exactly?” I ask, wishing I had thought to ask the previous evening before saying I could do it.
“Learn the flying trapeze,” she answers.
I had heard them discuss this the previous evening. They used the word “aerialist,” I recall now. Through the fog of my exhaustion, I had not contemplated what it really meant. Now the outrageousness of the proposal crashes down upon me: they want me to climb to the ceiling and risk my life swinging like a monkey. I’m not captive here. I don’t have to do this. “That’s very kind of you, but I hardly think...” I don’t want to offend her. “I can’t possibly do that. I can clean, or perhaps cook,” I offer, as I had the night before.
“Herr Neuhoff owns the circus,” she informs me. “This is what he wants.” Her diction is polished, as if she is not from around here. “Of course if you can’t manage it...you have maybe a rich uncle waiting to take you in?” Though her tone is mocking, she has a point. I cannot go back to the station where surely the baby and I have both been noticed missing by now. On my own I might have kept running. But the bitter cold had nearly killed us once. We would not make it a second time.
I bite my lip. “I’ll try. Two weeks.” Two weeks will give me time to get stronger and find somewhere for Theo and me to go. We will not, of course, stay with the circus.
“We were going to give you six.” She shrugs, not seeming to care. “Let’s go.” I change into the leotard as modestly as I can beneath the gown.
“Wait.” I hesitate, looking at Theo, who still sleeps on the bed.
“Your brother,” she says, emphasizing the second word. “Theo, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She hesitates for a beat, watching me. Then she picks him up. I fight the urge to protest, the notion of anyone else holding him unbearable. She places him into the makeshift bassinet. “I’ve asked the housemaid, Greta, to come up and watch him.”
“He’s colicky,” I say.
“Greta has raised eight of her own. She’ll manage.”
Still I hesitate. It is more than just Theo’s care that concerns me: if the maid changes his diaper, she will learn that he is a Jew. I take in his clean outfit and realize it’s too late. Someone already knows the truth about his identity.
I follow Astrid down the stairs of the darkened house, the air musty and burnt. Then I put on my still-damp boots, which stand by the front door. She hands me my coat, and I notice that she does not wear one. Her figure is flawless, lean legs that belie her strength and a perfectly flat waist like I’d had before the baby. She is shorter than I thought the previous day. But her body is like a statue, elegant lines seemingly carved from granite.
Outside, we pad silently across the open field, our footsteps crackling against the ice. The air is dry and milder, though; had it been like this a day ago, I might have made it farther into the woods without collapsing. Moonlight shines down brightly. The night sky is filled with stars and for a second it seems that each is for one of the infants on the train. Somewhere, if they are still alive, Theo’s parents are wondering where their child has gone, hearts crying out in anguish, just as my own does. I look at the sky and send up a silent prayer, wishing they might know their son is alive.
Astrid unlocks the door to a large building. She flicks a switch and lights splutter on overhead. Inside, it is a run-down gymnasium that smells of sweat, old tumbling mats rotting in the corner. It is dingy and worn, worlds away from the glamour and sparkle I’d always associated with the circus.
“Take off your coat,” she instructs, stepping closer. Her bare arm brushes mine. My own pale skin is marred a thousand times with moles and scars, but Astrid’s is a smooth, unbroken canvas of olive, like a lake on a day without wind. She produces beige tape that she wraps around my wrists slowly and methodically, then kneels and covers my legs with chalk, taking care not to miss a single spot. Her nails are perfectly polished, but her hands are lined and coarse, unable to hide the years the way her face and body can. She must be close to forty.
Finally she pats a thick powder onto my hands. “Rosin. You must keep your hands dry always. Otherwise, you will slip. Do not assume the net will save you. If you hit too hard it will drop to the floor or you’ll be thrown off. You must land in the center of the net, not by the edge.” There is no warmth in her voice as she rattles off instructions, practiced over time, that will help to keep me from falling, or killing myself if I do. My mind reels: Does she actually think I can manage this?
She gestures that I should follow her to a ladder that stands close to one of the walls, bolted perfectly upright. “The act will have to be simplified of course,” she says, as if reminding me that I can never possibly be good enough. “It takes a lifetime of training to truly become an aerialist. There are ways to compensate so that the audience will not notice. Of course, there is no room for conjuring in the circus. The audience has to trust that all of our feats are real.”
She begins to climb the ladder with the ease of a cat, then looks down expectantly to where I stand, not moving. I scan the length of the ladder to the high ceiling. The top must be at least forty feet from the ground, with nothing below but a tired-looking net just a meter or so off the hard floor. I have never been afraid of heights, but I’ve had no cause: our house in the village was a single story and there were no mountains for hundreds of kilometers. I’ve never imagined anything like this.
“There has to be something else,” I say, a note of pleading creeping into my voice.
“Herr Neuhoff wants you to learn the aerial act,” she replies firmly. “The trapeze is actually easier than many of the other acts.” I can’t imagine anything more difficult. She continues, “I can guide you, put you where you need to be. Or not.” She looks at me evenly. “Perhaps we should go tell Herr Neuhoff that this isn’t going to work out.”
And have him cast you out into the cold, seems her unspoken conclusion. I’m not sure the kind-faced circus owner would actually do that, but I don’t want to find out. More important, I’m not going to give Astrid the satisfaction of being right.
Reluctantly, I begin climbing rung by rung, trying not to tremble. I tighten my grip, wondering when the bolts had last been checked and whether it is sturdy enough for both of us. We reach a tiny ledge, scarcely big enough for two people. I wait for Astrid to help me onto it. When she does not, I carefully squeeze myself on, standing too close beside her. She unlatches a trapeze bar from its catch.
Astrid leaps from the platform, sending it rocking so that I grasp for something to hold on to to keep myself from falling. I marvel at how she swings easily through the air, somersaulting around the bar, twirling with just one hand. Then she opens her body like a diving gull, hanging upside down beneath the bar. She rights herself and returns, aiming for the platform and landing neatly in the tiny space beside me. “Like that,” she says, as though it were easy.
I am too stunned to speak. She hands the bar to me. It is thick and unfamiliar in my hand. “Here.” She adjusts my grip impatiently.
I look from her to my hands, then back again. “I can’t possibly. I’m not ready.”
“Just hang on and swing,” she urges. I stand frozen. There have been moments when I have acknowledged death—during childbirth when life seemed to rush from my body, when I saw the babies on the train, and as I struggled through the snow with Theo just days earlier. But it lies before me more real than ever now in the abyss between the platform and the ground.
An image of my mother pops improbably into my mind. In the months since I had been gone, I’d struggled to push away thoughts of home: the patchwork quilt on my bed tucked in the alcove, the corner nook by the stove where we used to sit and read. I have not allowed myself to think of such things, knowing that if I allowed even a trickle of memories I would be drowned in a flood I could not stop. But homesickness washes over me now. I do not want to be here on this tiny platform about to leap to my death. I want my mother. I want to be home.
“Are there other aerialists?” I ask, stalling for time.
Astrid hesitates. “Two others, and one of them will help us when we get further along. But they will primarily be working on the cradle swing, or the Spanish web, which is my other act. They will not be working with us.” I am surprised. I imagine that the flying trapeze is the centerpiece of the show, the goal for any aerialist. Perhaps they do not want to work with me either.
“Come now,” she says, before I can ask further. “You can sit on the swing, if you aren’t ready. Pretend you are on a playground.” Her tone is condescending. She takes the bar and draws it close to me. “Balance just below your backside,” she instructs. I sit on it, trying to get comfortable. “Like that. Good.” She lets go. I swing out from the platform, grasping the wires on either side so tightly that they cut into my hands. There is a kind of natural flow to it, like getting your feet under you on a boat. “Now lean back.” Surely she is joking. But her voice is serious, her face unsmiling. I lean back too fast and upset my balance, nearly slipping from the seat. As I swing back closer to the platform, she reaches out and grabs the ropes above the bar, pulling me onto the board and helping me off.
She sits on the bar and swings out, then lets go. I gasp as she starts to fall. But she catches herself by her knees and swings upside down. Her dark hair fans out beneath her, and her inverted eyebrows arch toward the ground. She rights herself and climbs back onto the platform. “Hock hang,” she informs me.
“How did you come to be with the circus?” I ask.
“I was born into a circus family nearby,” she replies. “Not this one.” She hands me the bar. “Your turn, for real this time.” She puts the bar in my hand, adjusting my grip. “Jump and swing by your arms.”
I stand motionless, legs locked. “Of course if you can’t do it, I can just tell Herr Neuhoff that you quit,” she taunts once more.
“No, no,” I reply quickly. “Give me a second.”
“This time you will swing by your arms. Hold the bar down here.” She indicates a spot just below my hips. “Then raise it above your head when you jump off to get height.”
It is now or never. I take a deep breath, then leap. My feet flail and I flop helplessly like a fish on a line, the furthest thing from Astrid’s own graceful movement. But I am doing it.
“Use your legs to take you higher,” Astrid calls, urging me onward. “It’s called the kick out. Like on a swing when you were a child.” I shoot my legs out. “Keep your ankles together.” It is working, I think. “No, no!” Astrid’s voice rises even louder, her dissatisfaction echoing across the practice hall. “Keep your body in a line when you return. First in the neutral position. Head straight.” Her instructions are rapid-fire and endless and I struggle to keep them all in my head at once. “Now kick your legs back. That is called the sweep.”
I gain momentum, swinging back and forth until the air whooshes past my ears and Astrid’s voice seems to fade. The ground slips and slides beneath me. This is not so bad. I had done gymnastics for years and those muscles bounce back now. Not the flips and twists that Astrid had done, but I am managing.
Then my arms begin to ache. I cannot hold on much longer. “Help!” I cry. I had not thought about how to get back.
“You have to do it yourself,” she calls in return. “Use your legs to swing higher.” It is quite impossible. My arms are burning now. I kick my legs forward to increase my momentum. I near the board this time, but it is not enough. I am going to fall, injure myself, maybe even die, and for what? With one last desperate kick, I send myself higher.
Astrid catches the ropes as I near the board, pulling me in and helping me to my feet.
“That was close,” I pant, legs trembling.
“Again,” she says coolly, and I stare at her in disbelief. I can’t imagine getting up there once more after nearly falling, much less right away. But to earn my keep, and Theo’s, I have no other choice. I start to grab the bar once more. “Wait,” she calls. I turn back hopefully. Has she changed her mind?
“Those.” She is pointing to my breasts. I look down self-consciously. They had grown fuller since I’d given birth, even though the milk had since dried up and gone away. “They’re too big for when you are in the air.” She climbs down the ladder and returns with a roll of thick gauze. “Take down your top,” she instructs. I look down at the practice hall below to make sure no one else is there. Then I lower the leotard, trying not to blush as she binds me so tightly it is hard to breathe. She doesn’t seem to notice my embarrassment. “You’re soft here,” she says, patting my stomach, an intimate gesture that makes me pull back. “That will change with training.”
Other performers have begun to trickle into the practice hall, stretching and juggling in opposite corners. “What happened to the last girl, the one who swung with you before me?”
“Don’t ask,” she replies as she steps back to study her work. “For the show, we’ll find a corset.” So she thinks I might be able to do it after all. I exhale quietly.
“Again.” I take the bar and jump once more, this time with a bit less hesitation. “Dance, use your muscles, take charge, take flight,” she pushes, never satisfied. We work all morning on that same swinging motion, kick out, neutral, sweep. I strive hard to point my toes and make my body exactly like hers. I attempt to mimic her patterns, but my motions are clumsy and unfamiliar, a joke in comparison with hers. I improve, I think. But no praise comes. I keep trying, evermore eager to please her.
“That was not awful,” Astrid concedes at last. She sounds almost disappointed that I am not a total failure. “You studied dance?”
“Gymnastics.” More than studied, actually. I practiced six days a week, more when I could. I had been a natural and I might have gone to the national team if Papa had not declared it a worthless endeavor. Though it has been more than a year after I had last trained and my stomach is weak from childbirth, the muscles in my arms and legs are still strong and quick.
“It’s just like gymnastics,” Astrid says. “Only your feet never touch the ground.” A faint smile appears on her face for the first time. Then it fades just as quickly. “Again.”
Nearly an hour passes and we are still working. “Water,” I pant.
Astrid looks at me in surprise, a pet she has forgotten to feed. “We can break for a quick lunch. And then after, we will begin again.”
We climb down. I swallow a capful of tepid water Astrid offers from a thermos. She drops to one of the mats and pulls bread and cheese from a small pail. “Not too much food,” she cautions. “We only have time for a short break and you don’t want to cramp.”
I take a bite of the bread she has offered me, taking in the now-bustling practice hall. My eyes stop on a heavyset man of about twenty in the doorway. I recall seeing him the previous night. Then, as now, he slouches idly, watching.
“Keep an eye out for that one,” Astrid says in a low voice. “Herr Neuhoff’s son, Emmet.” I wait for her to elaborate, but she does not. Emmet has his father’s paunchy build, and he does not wear it well. He is stoop-shouldered, pants gapping a bit where they meet the suspenders. His expression is leering.
Unsettled, I turn back to Astrid. “Is it always this hard? The training, I mean.”
She laughs. “Hard? Here in the winter quarters, this is rest. Hard is two and sometimes three shows a day on the road.”
“The road?” I picture a path, long and desolate, like the one I had taken the night I fled the station with Theo.
“We leave the winter quarters at the first Thursday in April,” she explains. “How’s your French?”
“Passable.” I had studied it a few years in school and found that I took to languages readily, but I had never quite mastered the accent.
“Good. We will go first to a town in Auvergne called Thiers.” That is hundreds of kilometers from here, I recall, seeing the map on the wall of my classroom at school. Outside of occupied Germany. Until last year, I had never left the Netherlands. She continues rattling off several additional cities in France where the circus will perform. My head swims. “Not so many this time,” she finishes. “We used to go farther—Copenhagen, Lake Como. But with the war it isn’t possible.”
I am not disappointed, though—I can hardly fathom traveling farther than Germany. “Will we perform in Paris?”
“We?” she repeats. I realize my error too late: it is one thing for Astrid to include me in the circus’s future plans, but to do it myself is overstepping. “You have to prove yourself before you can join us.”
“I meant, does the circus go to Paris?” I correct quickly.
She shakes her head. “Too much competition from the French circuses there. And too expensive. But when I lived in Berlin—”
“I thought you grew up in Darmstadt,” I interrupt.
“I was born into my family’s circus here. But I left for a time when I was married.” She fiddles with the gold earring in her left ear. “Before Peter.” Her voice softens.
“Peter...he was the man who was with you last night?” The somber man who sat in the corner of my room smoking had spoken little. His dark eyes burned intensely.
“Yes,” she replies. Her eyes turn guarded, like a door snapping shut. “You should not ask so many questions,” she adds, terse once more.
I had asked about only a few things, I want to point out in my own defense. But sometimes one question can feel like a thousand—like the previous night, when Herr Neuhoff asked about my past. There are so many other things I still want to know about Astrid, though, like where her family had gone and why she performs with Herr Neuhoff’s circus instead.
“Peter is a clown,” Astrid says. I look across the practice hall at the handful of other performers who have come in, a juggler and a man with a monkey, but I do not see him. I picture his large Cossack features, the sloped mustache and drooping cheeks. He could not have been anything but a sad clown, so fitting for these dreary times.
As if on cue, Peter enters the practice hall. He does not wear the makeup I would have imagined for a clown, but baggy trousers and a floppy hat. His eyes meet Astrid’s. Though there are others here, I suddenly feel like an intruder in the space between them. He does not come over, but I can feel his affection for her as he studies her face. He walks to a piano in the far corner of the hall and speaks with the man seated at it, who begins to play.
When she faces me, Astrid’s expression is hard and businesslike once more. “Your brother,” she says, “he looks nothing like you.”
I am caught off guard by the abrupt shift of topic. “My mother,” I feign. “She was very dark-skinned.” I bite my tongue, trying to counter my natural instinct of offering too much information. I brace for an onslaught of additional questions, but Astrid seems content to leave it alone and continues eating in silence.
At the end of the theater, Peter is rehearsing an act, goose-stepping with legs straight out, imitating with great exaggeration the march of the German soldier. Watching him, I grow nervous. I turn to Astrid. “Surely he isn’t planning to do that for the show?” She does not answer, but stares at him, her eyes narrow with fear.
Herr Neuhoff enters and crosses the hall with more speed than I would have thought he could manage, given his age and weight. He barrels toward Peter, face stormy. Had he seen Peter rehearsing through one of the windows or had someone told him about the routine? The music stops abruptly with a clatter. Herr Neuhoff confers with Peter. Though his voice is low, he gestures wildly with his hands. Peter shakes his head vehemently. Astrid’s brow wrinkles with concern as she watches the two men.
A minute later Herr Neuhoff clambers toward us, red-faced. “You must talk to him,” he thunders at Astrid. “This new act mocking the Germans...”
Astrid raises her palms plaintively upward. “I can’t stop him. That’s who he is as an artist.”
Herr Neuhoff will not let the matter go. “We keep our heads low, stay out of the fray—that’s how I’ve been able to keep this circus going—and protect everyone.” From what? I want to ask. But I do not dare. “Tell him, Astrid,” Herr Neuhoff urges in a low voice. “He’ll listen to you. Tell him—or I’ll pull him from the show.”
Alarm crosses Astrid’s face. “I’ll try,” she promises.
“Would he?” I cannot help but ask after Herr Neuhoff has walked from the building. “Pull Peter from the show, I mean.”
She shakes her head. “Peter is one of the circus’s biggest draws and his acts are what hold the whole thing together. Without him, there is no show,” she adds. But she is still upset. Her hand shakes as she puts her sandwich away, largely uneaten. “We should keep going and rehearse the next bit.”
I take a bite, swallow hurriedly. “There’s more?”
“You think people will pay just to see you hang there like a monkey?” Astrid laughs harshly. “You’ve only just started. It is not enough to simply swing back and forth. Anyone can do that. We need to dance in the air, do things that seem impossible. Don’t worry, I will line up your trick so that when you release and fly, I’m in place to catch you.”
The bread I’ve just eaten sticks in my throat as I remember the way she tumbled through the air. “Fly?” I manage.
“Yes. That’s why it is called the flying trapeze. You are the flier and you will release and come to me. I will be the catcher.” She starts for the ring.
But I remain in place, feet planted. “Why must I be the one to let go?” I dare to ask.
“Because I would never trust you to catch me.” Her voice is cold. “Come.”
She heads for a ladder on the other side of the room, parallel to the one we’d climbed earlier, but with a sturdier-looking swing. I follow, but she shakes her head. “You go on that side with Gerda.” She gestures to another aerialist whom I hadn’t seen come in and who is already climbing the ladder Astrid and I had used previously. I follow her. At the top, Astrid and I stand on opposite platforms, an ocean apart from one another. “Swing just like before. And when I say, you let go. I will do the rest.”
“And Gerda?” I ask, stalling.
“She will send the bar back for you to catch on the return,” Astrid replies.
I stare at her, not believing. “So I have to let go twice?”
“Unless you have wings, yes. You have to get back somehow.” Astrid grabs the opposite bar and leaps, then swings around so she is hanging by her legs. “Now you,” she prompts.
I jump out, kicking my toes high. “Higher, higher,” she urges, her arms extended toward me. “You have to be above me when I tell you to let go.” I force myself upward, driving with my feet. “Better. On my cue. Three, two, one—now!” But my hands remain stuck to the bar.
“Fool!” she cries. “Everything in the circus depends upon timing, synchronicity. You must listen to me. Otherwise you will get us both killed.”
I manage my way onto the board, then climb down the ladder and meet Astrid back on the ground. “You let go in gymnastics, surely,” she says, clearly frustrated.
“That was different,” I reply. By about thirty-five feet, I add silently.
She folds her arms. “There’s no act without the release.”
“There is no way that I can do this,” I insist. We stare at each other for several seconds, neither speaking.
“You want to go, so go. No one expected more.” Her words shoot out at me like a slap.
“Least of all you,” I retort. She wants me to fail. She does not want me here.
Astrid blinks, her expression somewhere between anger and surprise. “How dare you?” she asks, and I fear I have gone too far.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. Her face softens somewhat. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You don’t think I can do it.”
“No, I didn’t think this would work when Herr Neuhoff suggested it.” Her tone is neutral, matter-of-fact. “I still don’t.”
She reaches out and takes my arm and I hold my breath, hoping for a reassuring word. Instead, she rips the tape off my wrist. I let out a yelp, my skin screaming at the burn. We stare at each other hard, neither blinking. I wait for her to tell me I will have to leave here, as well. Surely they will make us go.
“Come back tomorrow,” she relents, “and we will try it again one last time.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But Astrid...” My voice sounds pleading. “There must be something else I can do.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeats before walking away. Watching her retreat, my stomach leadens. Though grateful for the second chance, I know it is hopeless. Tomorrow or a year from tomorrow, I will never be able to let go.
6 (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Noa (#uce6a8b50-3b0b-5ba3-ad0b-6cbda78e7037)
Theo lies across my chest, the way he likes to sleep, the warmth of his cheek pressed against me. “You should lay him down,” Greta, the housemaid who watches Theo while I rehearse, has scolded more than once in the two weeks we have been here. “If he doesn’t learn to soothe himself, he’ll never sleep well.” I don’t care. During the day whenever I am not practicing, I hold Theo until my arms ache. I sleep with him close each night so I can feel the beating of his heart, like one of the dolls I had as a child come to life. Sometimes it seems as if without him I cannot breathe.
Lying now in the stillness of the women’s lodge, I watch him rise and fall atop me on the narrow bed. He stirs, lifting his head as he has just learned to do. Theo’s gaze follows me wherever I enter a room. A wise old soul, he seems to listen intently, missing nothing. Our eyes meet now and he smiles, a wide, toothless grin of contentment. For a few seconds, it is only us in the world. I wrap my arms more tightly around him. There is that moment each evening when Astrid frees me from practice, just before I enter the lodge, when joy and anticipation at seeing Theo rise in me. Part of me fears that he might have been a figment of my imagination, or have disappeared because I had been gone so long. Then I pick him up and he melts into my arms and I am home. Though it has been only a few weeks, I feel as if Theo has been mine forever.
There could be two boys, I remind myself—if I found my child again. Could such a thing be possible? I picture the boys together at three or four. They would be like brothers close in age, almost twins. These are dangerous thoughts, the kind I have not allowed myself to have until now.
I draw the blanket more closely around myself. I dreamed of my own family last night. My father had appeared at the edge of the winter quarters and I ran up to hug him and plead with him to bring me home. But I had awoken to the cold light of day seeping in. Going home is a dream I’ve held on to for all of my months in exile. When I arrived at the circus, I imagined staying a few weeks to get my strength back and then finding a normal job to earn enough money to go back to Holland. My parents were not able to accept me with a child of my own, though; they will never welcome me back with Theo. No, I cannot go home. I still need to get Theo out of Germany somehow, though. We cannot stay here.
The crashing of metal stirs me from my thoughts. The sounds of the circus come early in the morning, the laughter and arguing of the performers as they go to practice, workers fixing wagons and other equipment, animals whinnying in protest. Once, if I had given it any thought, I might have imagined joining the circus to be fun. But it is an act and behind the careful choreography is hard work. Even in the winter quarters, where circus folk supposedly come to rest, they are up before dawn to help with the chores, then hours of training, at least six per day.
Reluctantly I sit up and place Theo in his bassinet. His eyes follow me as I wash at the basin. I make the bed, running my hands along the sheets, which, though so much coarser than the fine linens in the villa, were still worlds better than anything I had slept on since leaving home. I moved to the lodge the day after I arrived. It is a long room, beds laid out dormitory-style in two rows. The lodge is nearly empty, most of the other girls already gone to practicing and chores. I dress quickly then start for the door with Theo. I do not want to appear lazy. I need to work hard to earn my place here.
I carry Theo to the front of the lodge where a handful of toddlers play on the ground. Reluctantly I hand him to Greta, who draws him close, tickling his chin until he coos. Jealousy nags at me and I fight the urge to grab him back. I still do not like sharing him.
I tear myself away and set out from the lodge toward the practice hall. Winter has begun to ease. There is a little less bite in the air and the snow has begun to melt, leaving the ground muddy and smelling of peat moss. The birds that hunt seeds call out merrily. If the weather permits, in the evenings before it gets too dark I walk Theo around the circus grounds, past the practice hall to the menagerie where the tiger and lions and other animals are penned, looking out of place against the snow-covered pine landscape like characters in the wrong storybook. It seems there are endless places at the circus to explore, from the work quarters where laundry is done by the truckload to the circus alley where some of the clowns rehearse.
I near the practice hall and pause, trying to push down my dread. Though I have trained with Astrid every day, I still have not let go and flown. Each day I wait for her to give up and tell me to leave. Come back tomorrow, she simply says.
She has not kicked me out yet. But she treats me like a nuisance, makes it clear that she would rather not have me around and is only tolerating me until I go. I puzzle over again what brings out such dislike. Is it because I am new and lack talent? And yet, she is not always mean. A few days after I arrived, she had brought me a small box. Inside were folded clothes for me and Theo. Everyone had contributed something. Lifting out the faded baby caps and socks, the blouses for me that had been darned many times over, I was touched, not only by the generosity of the circus folk, who themselves had little to spare, but by Astrid, who had thought to gather the items. Perhaps she did not want us to leave after all.
The previous day as I neared the practice hall, though, I’d heard her and Herr Neuhoff speaking in low voices. “I’m doing all I can,” Astrid said.
“You must do more,” Herr Neuhoff countered.
“I cannot get her ready if she will not let go,” Astrid pressed. “We have to find someone else before it is time to go on the road.” I walked away then, not wanting to hear what would happen if the arrangement did not work out. I had originally said I would try for only two weeks. But now that time has passed, I find myself wanting to stay longer and keep trying—and not just because we have nowhere else to go.
When I enter the training hall, I am surprised to find Astrid already atop the high board where I usually stand. Am I late? I brace for her to berate me. But she grabs the bar and leaps off.
“Hup!” Gerda swings from the far board to catch her. A strange lump forms in my throat as I watch Astrid work with someone else. But I see how much she misses it, being the one to fly through the air. She must hate me for taking her place.
Gerda sends Astrid flying back, then swings to her own board. Astrid soars now like a rider taming a wild beast, bending the trapeze to her own will. She spins by her ankles, by a lone knee, barely touching the bar to which I always cling fast. Gerda watches Astrid with disinterest, almost distaste. She and the other women do not like Astrid. Within days of arriving, I heard the whispers: they resent Astrid for returning and taking her spot at the top of the aerial act while they had worked for years, and for coupling up with Peter, one of the few eligible men the war had left. The girls at the home were much the same, sniping and whispering behind each other’s backs. Why are we so hard on one another? I wonder. Hadn’t the world already given us challenges enough? But if Astrid notices their coldness, she doesn’t seem to mind. Or perhaps she just doesn’t have need for any of them. She certainly doesn’t need me.
“She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” a deep voice asks. I had not heard Peter come up behind me. We stand silently watching as Astrid swings higher. Taking her in, his eyes seem to dance with wonder. Peter’s breath catches slightly as Astrid flings herself into the air and spins not once, not twice, but three times. She circles upward, defying gravity.
But then she starts to drop downward at great speed. Peter steps forward then stops, powerless to help her. He exhales quickly when Gerda, who has swung out, grabs her by one ankle, catching her before she catapults to the ground. “The triple somersault,” he says, recovering from his fright. “Only a few people in the world who can do that.” Though he tries to sound nonchalant, a faint sweat has broken out on his brow and his face has gone slack with relief.
“She’s amazing,” I reply, my voice full with admiration. In that moment, I do not just want to be like her—I truly want to be her.
“If only she wasn’t such a danger to herself,” Peter says, so low under his breath I’m not sure I am meant to hear.
Astrid reaches the board and climbs down the ladder to us. Her skin is coated with sweat, but her face glows. She and Peter stare at each other with a hunger that makes me embarrassed to be in the room, though they had surely been together just a few hours earlier since Astrid’s bed in the lodge had been empty all night.
“Ready?” she asks, seeming to remember that I am there, without taking her eyes off Peter.
I nod, and start up the ladder. Below a half-dozen or so other performers rehearse, twirling hoops, doing flips and walking on their hands. My schedule with Astrid is the same every day as it had been the first: training from seven until five with a brief break for a bucket lunch. I’ve gotten better, I think. Still, for all of the practice, I have not let go and actually flown. It is not for lack of trying. I swing endlessly to strengthen my arms. I hang upside down until the blood rushes to my head and I cannot think. But I cannot let go—and without that, Astrid has said over and over, there is no act.
We start with the moves we have already practiced, swinging by my hands, then the hock and ankle hangs. “Pay attention to your arms, even when they are behind your back,” Astrid commands. “This is not merely performance. Theater is two-dimensional, like a painting. There, the audience sees only the front. But in the circus the audience is all around us, like sculpture. Think graceful, like ballet. Don’t fight the air, make friends with it.”
We work all morning around the moment I had been dreading. “Ready?” Astrid asks finally after a break. I can avoid it no longer. I climb the ladder and Gerda follows, taking her place beside me on the board.
“You have to release at the height of the swing,” Astrid calls from the far board. “And then I will catch you just a second later on the way down.” It makes perfect sense, but I leap and as with all the times before, I cannot let go.
“It’s useless,” I say aloud. As I swing helplessly from the bar, I catch a glimpse of the horizon through one of the high practice hall windows. Beyond the hills, there is a way out of Germany, a route to safety and freedom. If only Theo and I could swing out of here and fly away. A thought pops into my head then: go with the circus to France. Farther from Germany, Theo and I will have a chance to flee to somewhere safe. But that will never happen unless I can learn to let go.
“You’re done, then?” Astrid asks as I swing back to the board. She tries to keep her voice neutral, as if she has been disappointed too many times to let anyone do it again. But I can hear it, that faint note of sadness buried deep. At least some part of her thought I could do it—which makes my failure even more awful.
I look out the window once more, my dream of escaping with Theo seeming to slide further from reach. The circus is our ticket out of Germany—or would be if I could manage. “No!” I blurt. “That is, I’d like to try once more.”
Astrid shrugs, as if she has already given up on me. “Suit yourself.”
As I jump, Astrid leaps from the opposite board and swings by her feet. “Hup!” she calls. I do not release on the first pass.
Astrid swings higher, drawing close to me a second time. “Do it!” she orders. I recall Astrid’s conversation with Herr Neuhoff the previous day and realize that time is running out.
It is now or never. The entire world hangs in the balance.
I lock eyes with Astrid on the opposite trapeze and in that instant my trust is complete. “Now!” she commands.
I let go of the bar. Closing my eyes, I hurtle through space. Forgetting everything Astrid has taught me, I flail my arms and legs, which only makes me drop faster. I fall in her direction, but too low. She misses me and I tumble forward. There is nothing now between me and the ground, which grows closer as I fall. In that instant, I see Theo, wonder who will care for him after I am gone. I open my mouth but before I can scream, Astrid’s hands lock around my ankles. She has caught me.
But it is not over yet. I hang upside down, helpless as a calf about to be slaughtered.
“Reach up,” she orders, as though it is simple. “I can’t help you. You have to do this part for yourself.” I use all of my force to reach up against gravity, performing the world’s largest sit-up, and grab on to her.
“Okay when I say ‘now’ I’m going to send you back with a half spin so you are facing the bar,” she instructs.
I freeze. She cannot seriously expect me to fly through the air again to the bar, miles away and moving fast. “I can’t possibly.”
“You must. Now!” She hurls me through the air and the bar finds my fingers. Clasping it tightly, I understand then that I need to do almost nothing—she can position me as surely as a marionette on strings. But it is still terrifying.
I reach the platform with shaking feet and Gerda helps steady me before climbing down the ladder. Astrid, who has come down from her own side, waits until Gerda has gone before starting up to me. “That was close,” I say when she nears me. I wait for her to praise me for finally letting go.
But she is staring at me and I wonder if she is angry and will fault me for panicking. “Your brother,” she says. Anger that she has been holding back blazes in her eyes, suddenly set free.
I am caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “I don’t understand...” She hasn’t brought up Theo since the first day we practiced. Why is she asking now?
“The thing is, I don’t believe you.” She speaks through gritted teeth, her fury unmasked. “I think you are lying. Theo’s not your brother.”
“Of course he is,” I stammer. What would make her suspect this now?
“He looks nothing like you. We’ve given you a place here and you are taking advantage of us and lying to us.”
“That’s not true,” I start to protest.
She continues, unconvinced. “I think you got into trouble. He’s your bastard child.”
I reel back, as much from the stinging slap of the word as from her discovering the near truth. “But you just said he looks nothing like me.”
“Like the father, then,” she insists.
“Theo is not my child.” I say each word slowly and deliberately. How it hurts to disavow him.
She puts her hands on her hips. “How can I work with you if I cannot trust you?” She does not wait for me to respond. “There is no way that he is your brother.”
And then she pushes me hard from the platform.
Suddenly I am falling through the air, without any restraint or bar to cling to. I open my mouth to scream, but find no air. It is almost like a flying dream, except my path is straight downward. No trapeze, no training can help me now. I brace for impact, and the pain and darkness that will inevitably follow. Surely the net wasn’t made to catch a person at such great speed.
I cascade into the net, sending it dipping within inches of the floor, so close I can smell the hay that lines it, the stench of manure not quite scrubbed away. Then I am flung upward, airborne once more, saved just barely from impact. It isn’t until the third time I land in the still-bouncing net and it does not rise again, but bobbles like a cradle, that I realize I am going to make it.
I lie still for several seconds, catching my breath and waiting for one of the other performers to come to my aid. But they have all disappeared, sensing or even seeing trouble and not wanting to become involved. Only Astrid and I remain in the practice hall now.
I clamber from the net then start toward Astrid, who has climbed down the ladder. “How could you?” I demand. It is my turn to be angry. “You almost killed me.” I know she does not like me, but I had not actually thought she would want me dead.
She smiles smugly. “Even I would have been terrified. I won’t blame you for giving up.”
I square my shoulders defiantly. “I’m not quitting.” After what just happened, I would never give her the satisfaction.
Herr Neuhoff rushes in, having heard the clatter as I fell from outside. “My dear, are you okay? Such a calamity!” Seeing I am fine, he steps back and folds his arms. “What happened? We can’t afford an accident or the questions it might bring. You know that,” he says, aiming these last words at Astrid.
I hesitate. Astrid watches me uneasily from the side. I could tell him the awful truth about what she had done. He might not believe me without solid proof, though. And what would that solve? “My hands must have slipped,” I lie.
Herr Neuhoff coughs, then reaches in his pocket and takes a pill. It is the first time I have seen him do this. “Are you ill?” Astrid asks.
He waves his hand, the question irrelevant. “You must be more careful,” he admonishes me. “Double the training time this week. Don’t risk it by trying anything before you are ready.” Then he turns to Astrid. “And don’t push her before she is ready.”
“Yes, sir,” we say, almost in unison. Herr Neuhoff stomps from the practice hall.
Something passes between Astrid and me in that moment. I had not sold her out. I wait for Astrid to say something.
But she just walks away.
I charge after her into the dressing room, my anger rising. Who does she think she is to treat me this way? “How could you?” I demand, too mad to be polite.
“So go on and leave if things are so awful,” she taunts. I consider the option: maybe I should. There is nothing keeping me here. I’m well and the weather has calmed now, so why not take Theo and make my way to the nearest town in search of ordinary work? Even being on our own with nothing would be better than staying here unwanted. I had done it once; I could do it again.
But I cannot let this go. “Why?” I demand. “What did I do to you?”
“Nothing,” Astrid concedes with a sniff. “You had to see exactly what it is to fall.”
So she had planned this. To do what exactly? Not kill me; she knew that the nets would hold. No, she wanted to scare me so I would give up. I wonder again why Astrid hates me so. Is it just because she thinks I am terrible at the trapeze and will never be able to manage the act? I had done what she wanted and let go. No, it is something more than that. I remember how her eyes blazed with fury moments earlier as she accused me of lying about Theo and my past. Her words echo back at me: How can I work with you if I cannot trust you? If I tell her the truth about my past, she might accept me. Or it could be the final straw that causes her to want me gone once and for all.
I breathe deeply. “You were right: Theo...he isn’t my brother.” A knowing smile plays about her lips. “But it isn’t what you think,” I add quickly. “He’s Jewish.”
Her smugness fades. “How did you come to have him?”
I have no reason to trust her. She hates me. But the story pours forth. “I was working at the train station in Bensheim as a cleaner.” I leave off the part about what had brought me to the station—my own pregnancy. “And one night there was this boxcar. It was full of babies, taken from their parents.” My voice cracks as I see them lying on the cold floor of the boxcar, alone in their last moments. “Theo was one of them.” I continue, explaining how I had taken him and fled.
When I finish, she stares at me for several seconds, not speaking. “So the story you told Herr Neuhoff was a lie.”
“Yes. You see now why I couldn’t say anything.” My whole body slumps with relief at having shared at least part of the story with her.
“You know, Herr Neuhoff, of all people, would understand,” she says.
“I know, but having not told him from the start... I can’t right now. Please don’t tell him.” I hear the pleading in my own voice.
“And Theo, you just grabbed him?” she asks.
“Yes.” I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction.
“That was brave,” she says finally. The compliment comes out grudgingly, almost an admission.
“I should have taken more,” I reply. The sadness that I feel whenever I think of the infants on the train wells up and threatens to burst through. “There were so many other children.” Surely they are all gone now.
“No, taking more would have attracted attention and you might not have made it as far as you did. But why didn’t you just take the baby and go home?” she asks. “Surely your family would have understood what you had done and helped you.”
I want to tell her the rest of the story and explain why my parents had been so outraged. But the words stick in my throat. “What I said about my father being awful before was true,” I manage, resorting to that part of the lie once more. “That was why I had left, why I was at the train station in the first place.”
“And your mother?”
“She is not very brave.” Another part-truth. “Also, I didn’t want to cause them trouble,” I add. Astrid eyes me evenly and I wait for her to point out that I brought my troubles instead to her and the rest of the circus. I had told her about Theo in hopes that she might be more willing to accept me. But what if the opposite is true?
Outside the practice hall there is a sudden clattering, a car of some sort screeching to a halt, followed by unfamiliar male voices. I turn to Astrid. “What on earth?” But she has turned and raced through the rear door of the dressing room, the one that leads outside.
Before I can call after her, the front door to the dressing room flies open and two uniformed men barrel in from the practice hall, followed by Peter. “Officers, I assure you...” I freeze, my legs stone. The first I have seen since coming to Darmstadt, they are not Schutzpolizei as I had seen at the station, but actual Nazi SS. Have they come for me? I had hoped that my disappearance with Theo would have been long forgotten. But it is hard to see what other business they might have with the circus.
“Fräulein...” One of the men, older and graying at the temples beneath his hat, steps closer. Let them take just me, I pray. Theo is thankfully not here, but well across the winter quarters. If they should see him, though...
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pam-jenoff/the-orphan-s-tale-the-phenomenal-international-bestseller-about/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
- Жанр: Зарубежные приключения, Историческая литература, Книги о приключениях, Современная зарубежная литература
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 360 стр. 2 иллюстрации
- ISBN: 9781474056700
- Дата выхода книги: 27 декабря 2018
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER ‘Secrets, lies, treachery, and passion… I read this novel in a headlong rush.’ – Christina Barker Kline, #1 bestselling author of Orphan TrainIn Nazi-occupied Holland, seventeen-year-old Noa snatches a baby from a train bound for the concentration camps, fleeing with him into the snowy wilderness surrounding the train tracks.Passing through the woods is a German circus, led by the heroic Herr Neuhoff. They agree to take in Noa and the baby, on one condition: to earn her keep, Noa must master the flying trapeze – under the tutorage of mysterious aerialist, Astrid.Soaring high above the crowds, Noa and Astrid must learn to trust one another…or plummet. But with the threat of war closing in, loyalty can become the most dangerous trait of all.
Как скачать книгу - "The Orphan’s Tale: The phenomenal international bestseller about courage and loyalty against the odds" в fb2, ePub, txt и других форматах?
- Нажмите на кнопку "полная версия" справа от обложки книги на версии сайта для ПК или под обложкой на мобюильной версии сайта
Полная версия книги
- Купите книгу на литресе по кнопке со скриншота
Если книга "The Orphan’s Tale: The phenomenal international bestseller about courage and loyalty against the odds" доступна в бесплатно то будет вот такая кнопка
- Выполните вход в личный кабинет на сайте ЛитРес с вашим логином и паролем.
- В правом верхнем углу сайта нажмите «Мои книги» и перейдите в подраздел «Мои».
- Нажмите на обложку книги -"The Orphan’s Tale: The phenomenal international bestseller about courage and loyalty against the odds", чтобы скачать книгу для телефона или на ПК.
В разделе «Скачать в виде файла» нажмите на нужный вам формат файла:
Для чтения на телефоне подойдут следующие форматы (при клике на формат вы можете сразу скачать бесплатно фрагмент книги "The Orphan’s Tale: The phenomenal international bestseller about courage and loyalty against the odds" для ознакомления):
- FB2 - Для телефонов, планшетов на Android, электронных книг (кроме Kindle) и других программ
- EPUB - подходит для устройств на ios (iPhone, iPad, Mac) и большинства приложений для чтения
Для чтения на компьютере подходят форматы:
- TXT - можно открыть на любом компьютере в текстовом редакторе
- RTF - также можно открыть на любом ПК
- A4 PDF - открывается в программе Adobe Reader
Другие форматы:
- Сохраните файл на свой компьютер или телефоне.
