The Orphan's Tale(37)

The lights go down and Peter prepares to enter the ring once more, this time for a solo performance. Unlike other performers who appear once or twice during the show, he goes on repeatedly between larger acts, a thread tying the whole show together. Now he distracts the crowd with his routine, giving the workers time to finish positioning the lion and tiger cages, which had been brought in through the darkness beneath our act.

Astrid and I climb down and hurry out to the backyard in the semidarkness. “We did it!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around Astrid. I wait for her praise. Surely now she will be pleased with me. But she does not respond and a second later, I step back, dejected.

“You did well,” she says finally. But her tone is understated, and her face is troubled.

“I know I was late on the first pass...” I begin.

“Shh.” She shoos me away, staring into the tent. I follow her gaze to where a man sits in the front row—in an SS uniform. I am suddenly queasy. Surely I would have noticed him if he had been there during the first half of the show. He must have come in during intermission. In my nervousness, I had not seen him.

“I’m sure he is just here to see the show,” I say, wanting to reassure her. But there is no strength behind my words. What on earth is a German officer doing here? His expression is relaxed as he watches the trainer cajole the big cats into doing tricks. “Still you have to warn Peter not to do that bit in his next act...” I stop, realizing she isn’t listening, but still peering rapt through the curtain.

“I know him.” Astrid’s voice is calm, but her skin has gone pale.

“The German?” She nods. “Are you sure?” I ask over the tightening in my throat. “They all look so similar in those awful uniforms.”

“An associate of my husband’s.” Ex-husband, I want to correct, but in the moment it seems unwise.

“You can’t go out there again,” I fret. Though I am done for the show, Astrid has a second act on the Spanish web. My chest tightens. “You must tell Herr Neuhoff.”

“Never!” she spits, sounding more angry than scared now. “I don’t want him to worry about having me in the act. If I cannot perform, I have no value to the show.” And then Herr Neuhoff’s protection would be just charity. She faces me squarely. “It would be the end of me. You must swear not to tell. No one can know.”

“Let me go on for you,” I plead. Of course my offer is hollow—I have no training on the ropes or any other act beyond the trapeze.

I turn and look behind me desperately. Peter, if I can find him, might be able to persuade Astrid not to go on. “Astrid, please wait...” But it is too late—she strides into the ring, shoulders squared with determination. In that moment, I see just how brave she really is. I am awed—and petrified—for her.

Astrid climbs a different ladder from the one she had used earlier. This time she hangs from a single satin rope, seemingly suspended in midair. I hold my breath, studying the officer’s face for some sign of recognition. But he watches her, too mesmerized to suspect. She tells a story, weaves a tapestry with her moves. It holds him—and the entire audience—captivated. I remain terrified, though, unable to breathe. Astrid’s beauty and the legendary skill of her act scream like a bullhorn, threatening to betray her true identity.

“Hidden in plain sight,” Astrid muses over the thundering applause as she exits the tent. There is a note of self-satisfaction to her voice, a part of her that liked deceiving the German. But her hands tremble as she undoes her wraps.

Then it is over. The entire circus steps out for a final bow, the full panoply of spectacle unfurled for the audience to admire once more. I climb the ladder as Astrid had instructed me and we take our final bow from opposing boards, not flying but simply extending one leg high out into the air like ballerinas. Children wave furiously at the sweat-glistening performers, who bow modestly in return, like actors not breaking from their roles.

Afterward some of the performers sign autographs for the crowd that has gathered at the edge of the backyard. I watch nervously as Astrid accepts praise: perhaps she should not be out here. But the German officer does not appear.

At the far end of the yard I see Peter, not signing autographs, but pacing and talking to himself as intently as he had before the beginning of the show. He is going over his performance, finding the mistakes and marking the things he will fix for next time. The circus artists are every bit as intent as a ballet dancer or concert pianist. Every tiny flaw is a gaping wound, even though it had not been noticed by anyone else at all.

When the last program has been signed, we make our way back to the train, past the workers scrubbing down and feeding the animals. “Once there might have been fireworks after the first evening show,” Astrid remarks, staring up at the darkness of the sky.

“But not anymore?” I ask.

“Too expensive,” she replies. “And no one seems to find explosions enjoyable these days.”

Weariness engulfs me then. My bones ache and my skin is chilled with dry sweat. All I want to do is return to Theo and collapse around the sweet warmth of his body. But Astrid cajoles me back to the dressing car, where we hang our costumes and remove our makeup. She rubs warm salve into my shoulders, pine scented and tingly. “I just want to sleep,” I protest, trying to shrug her off.

“Our bodies are all that we have in this business. We must take care of them. You’ll be glad tomorrow,” she promises, her fingers digging hard into my neck. My muscles burn like fire.