Page 104 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Frieda also said the doctor had been again – that your temperature has dropped. That’s a good sign?’

Werner closed his eyes.

‘I’ll let you sleep.’ Michel made to stand, but Werner’s hand grabbed his.

Werner did not speak, but he did not let go of Michel’s hand, so he sat down once more and held his hand until his breathing was quiet and even, his grip relaxed.

By four o’clock the following afternoon, nerves were frayed, and the troupe met in Henri’s living room, much to the annoyance of his servant.

‘You should go to Paris, Michel, you said you would,’ Madame Rosie said.

Michel looked to Frieda whose eyes were wide and frightened like a rabbit’s.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Jean said.

‘Ha! No, you will not,’ Giordano retorted. ‘You, a tall Jew. In Paris. Are you mad or just a fool?’

‘Both?’ Jean suggested.

‘I would offer to go…’ Hugo began. ‘But I’ve found some ingredients for génépy, and with the war and everything, I think my service is better put to use doing that.’

Eliáš stood and cleared his throat. ‘I will go.’

‘No!’ his sister Eliška cried, her face still so like a child’s.

Edita coughed and everyone turned to look at her. She was as quiet as the others, yet a foot taller, wider too, her face always set as if she were busy figuring out complicated mathematical equations.

‘Michel will go,’ she said, her voice soft yet firm like a teacher’s. ‘He is not Jewish, and he lived in Paris. He should go, it will be safer for him. If he needs someone to go with him, then Giordano is right, it should be him. He knows where Serge and Henri would go – who they may speak to. He has the right identification. None of the rest of us can risk it. Remember Anton?’

The group nodded.

‘And Felix,’ she added. ‘No. It must be this way. Michel and Giordano. If they cannot find them, we wait here a little longer.’

‘And then?’ Hugo asked.

‘And then we decide what to do next.’

Sometime after four in the morning, Michel packed a small bag and together with Giordano set out for Paris.

They picked their way down a rutted track towards the town, where Henri’s servant told him to see Monsieur Gardinier who would be taking his deliveries into the city.

‘You really think we can find them?’ Giordano walked quickly, clutching a small carpet bag to his chest.

‘We can only try.’ Michel felt in his pocket once more for the address of Werner’s apartment, which Serge had access to, and names of bars Frieda thought they might visit.

‘They would have called the house if they were going to stay,’ Giordano told the early morning air. ‘They would have called. We are doing the right thing.’

‘We are.’

For a few francs, Monsieur Gardinier grunted at them to sit in the back of his truck with the delivery.

‘He did not tell us it was cheese.’ Giordano sat opposite Michel, both leaning on crates that emitted the rich, cloying scent of camembert.

‘They all claim Normandy camembert is the best, but mark my words, mine is better!’ Monsieur Gardinier shouted over the engine, which rattled and choked as he changed gears.

‘He is crazy,’ Giordano whispered, as Gardinier continued his tale of how the cheese was made, and how perfect the milk was.

Michel nodded then closed his eyes, allowing the movement of the truck to soothe his nerves. We will find them. Nothing is wrong—