The Orphan's Tale(40)

A lump forms in my throat, blocking the words I had meant to say. I could push through it, insist on telling the truth. But she squeezes my hand and there is a warmth between us that has never been there before. My will to tell her evaporates and blows away like dust. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing. That is...it’s about Peter.” I cannot bear telling her the whole truth about my past now. But in my haste to avoid my secret, I blurt out another: “He was drinking before the show.” I cringe, unsure whether I should have said this. It is not my business. But some part of me feels that she should know.

Astrid does not respond right away and I feel her stiffen with concern beside me. “Are you sure?” she asks. “He always acts strangely before a performance.” Her voice is uneasy, not wanting to acknowledge a truth she already knows.

“I’m sure. I saw him coming from the beer tent.”

“Oh.” She does not sound surprised, only sad. “I’ve tried so hard to stop him.”

Try harder, I want to say. How could a person as otherwise strong as Astrid not be able to stand up to him?

“I just feel so helpless,” she declares, her voice cracking. I expect her to cry, but she simply shudders. I move closer and she falls into my arms, Theo sandwiched between us so tightly I fear he might wake and fuss. “So helpless,” she repeats, and I know she is talking about not just Peter.

Finally, her shaking subsides and she huddles closer to me. “The show is the thing,” she adds, growing drowsy. “As long as we can keep performing, everything will be fine.”

My mind reels back to my conversation with Herr Neuhoff. I recall his troubled look when I told him about the German recognizing Astrid.

And I can’t help but wonder if I have made a terrible mistake.





10

Noa

“I’m going into town,” I say to Astrid. I hold Theo on my lap, spoon-feeding him the last of his lunch. It is a banana—a rare find by one of the kitchen workers—that I had mashed together with a bit of milk. When Theo first tasted it, his eyes widened with surprise and he gurgled at the unfamiliar richness, so different from the usual bland porridge. Good food for Theo is scarce, since I cannot register him for a ration card without raising questions. So I give him whatever I have for myself to eat that is suitable.

I set down the bowl, hoping Astrid will not protest. It is almost noon on Sunday, two days since our first show, and we have already finished four hours of rehearsing. My shoulders ache fiercely and an earthy smell rises from the dampness of my skin. “I’m going to the hotel to wash,” I add. Since there is no running water at the fairgrounds, the circus keeps two rooms at a small hotel, one for the men and one for the women, where we can go to bathe each week.

Astrid reaches into her trunk and hands me a little cake of soap. “Here,” she says and I take it from her gratefully. The soap that the circus had given us is little more than a scratchy pumice stone, but this bar is smooth and sweet smelling. “I made it from sap,” she adds. I am continually amazed by Astrid’s resourcefulness, and the things she knows how to do from growing up on the road. Then her brow wrinkles. “Be back in an hour. I want to fix your knee hang and work on the split before tomorrow’s show.”

“But it’s Sunday,” I protest. The one day we do not perform. In the backyard of the circus on Sundays, circus folk practice a bit or play cards or simply rest their weary bodies. The children run free playing tag or hoops, enjoying a day where no one corrals them back from the big top or shushes them to be quiet.

A day of rest—but not for me. Astrid has me rehearse as much as if it is any other day, with just a few hours off after lunch to feed Theo and spend time with him. Today, it seems, I am not even to have that. I know better than to argue the point. Even though I have managed my first few performances Friday and Saturday, there is still much work to be done. I have attempted only the straight pass: I swing to a great height and she catches me by my arms as I fall. But the variations we might attempt are endless: pirouettes and somersaults, the ankle-to-ankle catch. What I have learned is just a drop in the ocean of aerialist arts, miles from good enough.

“About that...” I break off. “I was thinking if I twisted at the end of the second pass, you could catch me in reverse.”

It is the first time I have dared to offer a suggestion and Astrid stares at me as though I have sprouted horns. Then she shrugs and waves her hand. “That would never work.”

“Why not?” I press. “I would be lined up for the return and it would look better than just the straight pass.”

She purses her lips in annoyance, as though I am a child pushing for sweets after having been told no. “You need to keep working on the fundamentals. Don’t get ahead of yourself.” I step back, stung. I may perform well enough for the show, but she will never consider me an equal. “Anyway, you should get started if you want to make it into town and back,” Astrid says, changing subjects. “I’ll watch Theo for you.”

“You don’t mind?” I ask, looking longingly at Theo. Though I am desperate to bathe and feel clean again, I do not want to leave him. I see so little of him on show days—by the time the last performance is over he is long since asleep. I hate to give up any of our precious Sunday afternoon together. How I’d love to bring him into town with me! He could use a proper bath, instead of the metal pail in which I pour water over him, causing him to either cry angrily or squeal with delight, depending on the temperature. But I can’t bring him into town and risk the extra attention and questions.