The Orphan's Tale(33)

The others scatter to rehearse. “Come, let’s go get ready for the show,” I say, taking her hand and leading her from the big top.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Noa says when we are outside. Though we are well out of earshot of the others, her voice is barely a whisper. “You have to think of your own safety.”

“Nonsense.” I wave my hand dismissively, though in fact she is right. “You must harden yourself to the impressions of others.”

“And what do you think?” Her voice is breathy. Despite what I have just told her, I can tell she cares about my opinion more than just about anything. “Do you think I am ready?”

I hesitate. I think she needs another year of training. I think that, even then, she might not be able to do it, because the lights and a thousand eyes upon you change everything.

I think that we do not have a choice. “Yes,” I lie, unable to look at the brightness of her smile. And together we go prepare to perform.





9

Noa

I follow Astrid away from the big top. Outside, spectators still mingle, buying tickets at a hastily erected kiosk and watching the workers put up the smaller tents. Crew bosses shout orders, their hoarse voices mixed with the clanging of hammers driving metal spikes into hard earth.

“Thank you,” I say, referring once more to what had just happened with the other performers. Once I thought Astrid would never accept me. But she stuck up for me—and she thinks I can do this.

She waves her hand dismissively. “We can’t worry about any of that now. We must prepare for the show. It starts in an hour.”

“So soon?” I ask.

“It’s after four.” I had not realized it had gotten that late, or that the parade and tent raising had taken so long. “We begin at six. Earlier than we otherwise would have because of the curfew. We need to get ready.”

“I thought we already did.” I look down at the dress she had loaned me an hour earlier on the train, so tight that my parents would have a fit if they saw me in it.

Ignoring my last remark, Astrid leads me across the crowded field to where the train has come to a rest at the end of the tracks. “The fairgrounds were built close to the tracks so we can sleep in the railway cars,” Astrid explains. She gestures in the opposite direction toward some trees. “There are a few cabins and tents we could use if it was warmer. This isn’t a great village for us,” she adds in a low voice. “The mayor has become very close to the Germans.”

“He’s collaborating?” I ask.

She nods. “Of course we didn’t know that last year when we booked the dates.” And canceling surely would have aroused too much suspicion. Because, above all else right now, it is essential to maintain the pretense of normalcy. “We’ll stay in Thiers for nearly three weeks, though, because it’s centrally located and people will come from all over Auvergne for the show.”

At the train, Astrid steers me to a carriage where I have not been before. The railcar is warm and crowded with women changing into costumes and patting on heavy makeup. I pause to watch one of the acrobats paint her legs a darker shade of tan. “She does that because her tights are too ripped to repair,” Astrid explains, noticing my curiosity. “There simply aren’t more to be had. Come.” She chooses a costume from the rack against the wall of the train car and holds it up against me. Then she hands it to one of the dressing girls and disappears. I am thrust from one set of arms to the next like a bundle of laundry, embarrassed of my own stale smell from too many hours on the train without washing. Someone pulls the dress Astrid has chosen over my head, another declares it too loose and begins to pin. Am I really to wear it? It is smaller even than a swimming costume, no more than a bra and a bottom. My stomach, tighter than when I came to Darmstadt from all of the training but still far from perfect, spills over the elastic top of the briefs. The costume is ornate, scarlet silk with gold trim. It carries a faint odor of smoke and coffee that makes me wonder who had worn it previously.

Astrid reappears and I gasp. Her two-piece, scarcely a few handkerchiefs woven together, makes my costume look modest. But Astrid is born to wear it—her body is chiseled from granite, like a nude goddess statue in a museum.

“You want I should try to flip in a hoop skirt?” she asks, noticing my reaction. To her the immodesty of the outfit doesn’t matter. She does not wear it to entice, but to perform well.

Astrid gestures for me to sit on an upturned crate. She takes rouge and dots my cheeks and slashes my mouth with cherry red like a clown. Other than the times I had stolen a bit of Mama’s powder to look older for the German, it is the first time I have worn makeup. I stare at the stranger in the cracked mirror someone has placed on top of a steamer trunk. How have I come to be here?

Astrid, seemingly satisfied, turns away and begins applying her own makeup, which with her unblemished skin and long eyelashes hardly seems necessary. “Do I have a few minutes?” I ask. “I want to go check on Theo.”

Astrid nods. “Only just. Don’t be gone too long.” I start down the narrow corridor in the direction of the sleeper car, hoping that the sight of me in strange makeup will not scare Theo. But as I begin to pass through the next carriage, I stop, hearing voices.

“They want a show of our allegiance as part of the performance.” I crane my neck to hear better. It is Herr Neuhoff, his voice low and terse. “Perhaps a rendition of ‘Maréchal, nous voilà’...”