The Orphan's Tale(71)

“Is it about Theo? We could take him with us, raise him as ours. He would never know differently.” Luc’s voice is hopeful, and I am touched that he wants to take responsibility for Theo.

I shake my head firmly. “There’s so much more to it than that. Astrid and the circus... I owe them my life.”

“Surely she would understand. She would want you to go...” he tries again. “Noa, I want to take you and Theo away from here, to a place where you will be safe.” He wants to take care of me. How I wish I was the girl I used to be. She might have let him. But I’ve come too far. I don’t know how to do that anymore.

But I raise my finger to his lips. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

Theo begins to fuss again, tired and cold and confused by the unfamiliar surroundings.

“We have to go,” I say reluctantly, not wanting to end this perfect moment but worried that someone might hear the noise and find us. Luc stands and passes Theo to me, tucking the jacket a bit closer around him.

It is late when we start back, well after curfew. The village is dark and the woods are still. Luc follows me silently as we near the fairgrounds. The music has stopped and I wonder if I have been gone so long that it has ended and everyone is asleep. But the torches still burn in the grove. In their glow, I see Astrid, standing on the edge of the clearing. I can tell from the way that she is standing, arms crossed, that she is angry.

Dread tightens my stomach to a knot. Astrid knows that I went, I think. That I broke my promise to her not to see Luc again.

“Astrid,” I start forward around the corner of the train. “Let me explain.”

Then I freeze.

The circus folk are still gathered in the grove where the wedding celebration had taken place. They no longer dance, though, but stand motionless, like figures in a tableau.

Taking another step forward, I understand why. In the center of the grove where the wedding ceremony had taken place just hours earlier are a half-dozen gendarmes.

And their guns are pointed at Peter.





18

Astrid

I stand frozen as the police move toward Peter, guns raised. Surely this cannot be real. A prank someone is playing on our wedding night. But no one is laughing. The faces around me are twisted with shock and terror.

A minute and an eternity earlier Peter was gazing down at me, face aglow, contemplating our future together. Then a shadow passed over his eyes and the reflection of French police filled the space behind the other circus performers.

The police had come in great numbers, foreclosing any chance of resistance or escape. Their faces are familiar from the village. Once they might have tipped their hats in greeting, or at least nodded on the street. Now they stand before him wearing ominous expressions, jackbooted feet spread wide. “Peter Moskowicz...” one of the policemen, presumably the captain, says in a low, terse voice. He looks a bit older than the others, with a graying mustache and pins adorning the front of his uniform. “You’re under arrest.”

I open my mouth to protest but no sound comes out. It is the nightmare I have had a dozen times, now come true. Peter lifts his head slowly at the policeman’s summons. Fury burns in his eyes. He sits motionless, but I can see his mind working, calculating what to do. The police eye him warily, but keep their distance, as though facing a strange or dangerous animal. I hold my breath. Part of me wants Peter to fight and resist, even at this most futile of moments. But that will only make things worse.

What do they want with Peter? I wonder. Why not me?

Herr Neuhoff steps forward. “Gentlemen, s’il vous plait, what is the issue?” He mops his brow with a stained handkerchief. “I’m sure if we talk it over. Some of my best Bordeaux perhaps...?” He smiles invitingly. More than once he has dissuaded the police from searching the tents with good food and drink he kept for just such a purpose. But the police ignore him, drawing in closer to Peter.

“What is the charge?” Herr Neuhoff demands, discarding his cordial tone and summoning authority to his voice.

“Treason,” the captain replies. “Against France and the Reich.” Herr Neuhoff’s eyes shoot uneasily in my direction. He had warned Peter so many times about his act and now he will pay the price.

But they haven’t taken him yet. Struggle, fight, run, I urge him silently. I look desperately across the field in the direction of the hiding place Peter had so lovingly created for me in his cabin. He’d meant for the small space to hold me, not him. Even if he could fit, though, it is too far away and too late. There is no hiding anymore.

“Let’s go,” the captain says, but there is no anger in his voice. He is a gray-haired man, probably a year or two from retirement. He thinks he is just doing his job. Beside him, though, a younger officer taps a club against his leg angrily, just wanting the chance to use it.

Peter’s eyes travel to the club at the same time as mine. At last he unfolds himself and stands. He will not make a scene and risk the consequences for me or the others. He walks toward the police slowly but without protest, his limbs stiff with rage. Through my horror, I feel a tiny flicker of hope. Perhaps this will prove to be not so much worse than the inspections. Herr Neuhoff can bribe the police and have him home by morning.

Peter nears the police. A sound escapes my throat as one of the policemen puts Peter’s hands in cuffs, whitening his wrists as they cut into the skin and causing my own arms to ache. No one seems to hear.