The Orphan's Tale(83)

“Don’t judge,” I say, the rebuke in my voice sharper than I intended. “Sometimes the running just gets to be too much.”





22

Noa

The next day, Emmet blocks my way as I start from the cook tent back to our cabin after breakfast. “Where’s Astrid?” he demands, arms crossed. “She isn’t back to practicing?” he presses.

“Not yet,” I say. I shift the bowl of porridge I’ve taken for Astrid out of his view.

“Now that we are out of Thiers, there’s no reason for her not to rejoin the show. So why hasn’t she?”

“She doesn’t feel well,” I say, lying for Astrid instinctively, even though it could cost me my job if Emmet found out. In some sense it is true. “And we tried yesterday—you saw that. But then there was that business with the worker...”

He waves his hand, as though the clockmaker was of no consequence. “She needs to be back in the show by tomorrow,” Emmet says. “Everyone has to pull his weight around here. No more lollygagging for that one,” he adds. The notion of Astrid being lazy is so ridiculous I almost laugh aloud. I want to argue again that it is too soon for her to swing again after all that she has been through, that she needs a few more days to get back on her feet. But I know he will not be swayed. Taking my silence as agreement, he continues on.

I begin to walk again, pulling my coat over my head to avoid the thick spring drizzle that has begun to fall. I peer across the roadway where a thin strip of river separates us from the town of Colmar. I had crossed the bridge into town once since our arrival to see if there was anything to be had at market beyond our tiny rations. But my trip had been useless: the lone seller at what had once been a bustling town market had only some unidentifiable meat, which would have been too tough for Theo even without the foul smell. Indeed, the whole town seemed to be stripped bare by the years of war. The streets were nearly deserted at midday, except for a stray dog by the gutter and the SS, who seemed to watch from every corner. The shutters on the houses and shops were drawn. The faces of the few townsfolk I saw (all women, since the local men had been drafted against their will and sent in droves to fight in the east) were pinched by hunger and fear. We might as well have been back in Germany. I hurried from the town center, past the barbed wire and ditches that had been erected as a kind of haphazard fortification around the perimeter, and returned to the fairgrounds. I had not gone into town again since.

I head toward the cabin, recalling Emmet’s angry red face as he insisted Astrid perform.

Since we arrived in Alsace nearly a week ago, she has lain in bed, curled up like a wounded animal. Other than her one attempt to return to the big top that ended when we found the clockmaker, she hasn’t left the cabin. I’ve stayed close, doing what I can for her. It is not enough, though. Every last bit of her will seems gone. Save her, Peter’s eyes had seemed to say in those final minutes before he was taken. But how? Even if I feed her, make her drink, her spirit is gone. I can barely care for Theo and myself—under the weight of all three of us, I will break.

What will Emmet do if Astrid refuses to return to the show? I shiver at the thought. I need to get her up and moving.

As I pass the train parked and empty at the end of the line, my eyes travel wistfully to the underside of our sleeper car and the belly box where Luc and I had once left word for one another. I wonder if Luc might have followed the circus after we had left Thiers, but know that it is impossible. I walk to the box and pull it open, almost hoping that something might be there. Of course it is empty. I run my hand over the rough wood, imagining Luc doing the same.

Inside the cabin, I am surprised to find Astrid sitting up on the bed in her dressing gown. “Peter...” Astrid says as I near.

I freeze. Has she gone mad from all of her grief? “No, it’s me, Noa,” I say, stepping closer. She is not having delusions of Peter, but rather staring at a crumpled photograph. I approach Astrid carefully and get a better look at the picture. It is one I have never seen before of the two of them sitting in the backyard under a parasol on a sunny day in street clothes, not costume.

“Where was that taken?” As she passes it to me, I notice that her once-perfect manicure is gone, the nails shredded where she has chewed on them.

“A little town just outside Salzburg. It was in summer, the first season after I returned.” Before I had arrived, I think. It feels strange to imagine the circus when I was not here. “We weren’t together yet, you know, just getting to know each other.” She smiles, her eyes far away. “We would talk and play cards for hours. He was fierce at card games, gin rummy, poker. We would start with a drink in the afternoon and the next thing I knew the whole night had passed.”

I study the photograph. Even then, Peter’s eyes were somber—as though he knew what was to come. “It would have been his birthday tomorrow,” she adds, and her expression saddens once more. She speaks as though he is already dead. I fight the urge to correct her, not wanting to offer false hope.

From the other cot, Theo stirs. I pick him up, kissing the top of his head. Our one blessing. Through all of the hardship, Theo has thrived. His cheeks are still round and his hair has grown thick and curly, a dark meringue. Still holding Theo, I sit down beside Astrid gently. Everything has been taken from her—a chance at a child, the man she loves. She simply has nothing left—except us. I wrap my arms around her.