Page 107 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Dear Michel,

I received your letter this morning. At first I was delighted to see your familiar scrawl, yet as I read, I became fearful.

You told me of your fellow performer taken away, of your ringmaster attacked, of your escape and hiding. I sit here and do not know quite how to respond. I feel I have let you down. I should not have forced you onto that train – I did not think it would come to this.

It is worse here too. A few other familiar faces have been arrested. Monsieur Freidman and his son are gone – you remember that the Germans took his shoe shop. Madame Freidman left in the middle of the night with their daughter and her mother. She took nothing but a suitcase.

I hate to admit it, I do, but I feel safer now they have gone – not that I would wish it on anybody, but I was worried that soon they would come for me. They still could, of course.

I spoke with Arnoud the butcher the other day, and he said that he will shoot himself rather than be taken. He says he has two bullets, just in case the first does not do the trick. It is extreme, but I found myself agreeing with him. Estelle and her mother are still in the countryside, so for many months it has been just him and the dogs he feeds scraps to.

I invited him for a brandy. He said he will come, but I do not think he will. He does not leave the shop except to make what meagre deliveries he has left.

There is nothing good about this war apart from one thing, Michel, and this you need to keep hold of – you and Frieda. You must tell her you love her. Tell her before it is too late. All you have is each day, so make it as wonderful as you can. Tell her you love her every hour, every minute.

I wish I had done the same, Michel. I wish it was all different.

There are things I would love to do. Travel, perhaps – I should have done that. Fall in love again – even at my age! These are regrets that lie heavy on me now. Each day, each time I hear gunshots, those blasted planes, someone else being arrested, my regrets get heavier and heavier on my shoulders, so that I feel I will soon be unable to move.

Do not be unable to move, Michel. Find a way to keep moving.

Your friend,

Bertrand

As Michel folded the letter and placed it back inside the Bible, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked around Bertrand’s apartment and felt for the first time its hollowness, its loneliness; in the pictures of a dead wife, in the books about Africa, America, all the places he had never been and could never go.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift as he sat in the familiar surroundings, bringing his childhood memories to the fore; of his mother who cared for him, working endlessly as a cleaner, her hands red-raw and rough to touch, just so that he could live and be happy. How many parents were out there now, worrying for their children, doing everything they could to protect them?

Michel woke to the sound of Bertrand opening the front door.

‘Did I wake you?’ Bertrand closed the apartment door behind him and entered the room carrying a bag. ‘I told Arnoud you were here. He sent some beef – a little grey, I admit, but still!’

Michel stood and enveloped Bertrand in a hug.

‘Now, now, Michel. It’s only beef, don’t get too excited. Go and wake your friend.’

When the clock on the mantelpiece gently chimed six o’clock, the trio made to leave.

They walked quickly, catching the overcrowded, sweating metro to Montmartre, Michel holding on to Giordano’s shoulder as if he were a small child that could be lost in the throng.

By dark, Montmartre had transformed into a colourfully lit beast, reminding Michel of the way the circus came alive at night as if by magic.

The windmill sails of the Moulin Rouge were lit with yellow bulbs, the sign underneath in neon red. A line of uniformed men were paying their way in whilst the cabarets a few doors down churned out music and laughter that carried to the street.

‘I thought it would look different,’ Michel said. ‘I thought it would be quiet, boarded-up houses – something to make it feel as though it is not ours.’

‘They are careful to protect it, Michel. It is Herr Hitler’s prize to own Paris – full of soldiers on leave, enjoying the city as if it is their own and letting us know that we are not to partake of anything unless they permit it. Do not be fooled by the lights, Michel. They are not the real light of Paris. They are fake – all of them,’ Bertrand warned.

Giordano led the way down a side street, then another, to a rowdy bar that appeared too small to Michel to hold all the voices that came from inside.

The dwarf opened the door and pushed his way through, and before Michel had squeezed past two men with large tattooed arms, Giordano was back. ‘They were here, two days ago. No one has seen them since.’

Out into the cold: Giordano led the way once more.

‘Who were those people?’ asked Michel.

‘Performers mostly. Out of work actors, singers – you name it and you can find it in these streets.’