Page 138 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

My dearest Michel.

Before I begin, with so much that I have to tell you, I must first offer my sincerest apologies that you have not heard from me sooner. It is not for want – that I can say, at least. It is because I have only just returned home to Paris, and I have only just now been able to read the letters which you have so dearly sent to me, and see the address to which I can reply.

I am so sorry to hear of what happened to Frieda. I cannot imagine the pain that you endured. I wish I was with you, my friend, to ease the pain. But time will heal you, Michel. It has been five years already, and I am sure that whilst the ache still lives on inside you, it has become easier for you to get out of bed each day, to eat, to smile without feeling guilt that you are here and she is not.

Be strong, my friend. We all must be.

This war has taken so much from us all, and I am amazed that I am still here. You must be wondering what happened that night you left, and here I will tell you – but prepare yourself, Michel, we have lost much.

When the car pulled away with you and dear Frieda inside, loud fireworks were set off so that the crowd would come outside the tent and watch them.

Henri took the triplets and the horses back to his house and stashed the triplets away in the attic as he promised he would.

Serge hid those soldiers well, Michel. When he told me of what he had done, I must admit I laughed – it was rather comical to me to think of those Boche all tied up with rags in their mouths!

The speed at which our performers vanished was a sight. Jean, Giordano, Hugo and Kacper were smuggled into the cheese van the next day, and driven south to a woman – a former wife (?) – of Henri’s.

Serge, Madame Rosie and I made for Paris in Henri’s car, leaving behind a small bunch of workers who were of no interest to the brigadeführer and his men.

At first, it all looked as though it had gone to plan.

It was only when we reached our street that we realised all was not well. The brigadeführer had sent two armed men who stood outside the door to the apartment block – right there on the street. Serge drove past them quickly, muttering under his breath – realising that Herr Wolff had known exactly who we all were.

We had only one place left to go. We abandoned Henri’s car on the outskirts of Paris, and walked and hitched rides to your friend Lucien. I knew his address, and we hoped we had a chance to hide there.

He welcomed us – of course he did – but we knew once we entered his farmhouse, we could not leave again, and Lucien knew the same.

We stayed there for four years, Michel. Four long years Madame Rosie and I lived in Lucien’s cellar. We left, sometimes early in the morning, to walk a little around the farm, but never for long and we dared not venture into the town. I could write a book about it, Michel – about the air raids, the Germans who came to Lucien’s house for money, for food, and how each time we resigned ourselves that this was the end. But each time, we were given a stay of execution and stayed in that cellar – no longer a prison for us, but a fortress.

Serge, as you can imagine, could not stay cooped up like that and left Lucien’s within a week. He was heading to England. Said he would swim if necessary.

We did not hear from Serge for over a year, but one day a letter arrived, with a London postmark – Serge had made it.

He was working in a pub in the East End, happily engaged to the landlord’s daughter. He said he was ready for a quiet life and I did not blame him.

He told us of Werner – that he had lasted two more days at Henri’s until Wolff found him and took him away for hiding Jews. He had no evidence, and Henri thought he would have been able to help him – but before anyone could help or harm him, he died from infection. Serge believed it was his last revenge on the Boche, for what they had taken from him – dying before they could take pleasure in killing or torturing him.

Henri left for Switzerland soon after Werner’s death, taking the triplets with him. The last postcard Serge had received from him showed a photograph of Henri and the triplets, all smiling in a field full of wildflowers. Serge thought the triplets looked the happiest he had ever seen them.

Odélie left for Paris, and no one has heard from her since. But you know her, I’m sure she is fine, she always could take care of herself.

As for Kacper, Hugo, Jean and Giordano. I can tell you that Hugo died – the drink took him in the end. Jean and Giordano – my friend, they left for the south and were taken on their way to Italy. As of now, no one knows where they are, but we fear the worst – we have heard of experiments in the camps on twins, little people and the like. Madame Rosie says we will see them again one day – she has not seen their death in the cards… and so, we hope.

Kacper is still in the south. He wrote to Madame Rosie at my address and his letter was in amongst yours when we came home. He was going to try to get to Palestine to see his family – I will write to see if he has succeeded, whether there is any word of Jean and Giordano.

Madame Rosie is in the kitchen as I write to you now, cleaning and scurrying about to make this our home. Odette saw us arrive and is feverish with rage at the sight of her competition! I wager the next few days or weeks will be full of cat fighting between the two!

That is all my news for now, Michel. I will write again soon. I will write to Henri, Serge and the others, and give them your address. We will all keep in touch with each other from now on and let each other know of any news from our missing friends.

I am so happy to know that you are not amongst the missing.

We shall speak soon, Michel.

All my love,

Bertrand

I close the letter and wipe the condensation from the window, looking out into the busy street of yellow taxis, women pushing prams, and am amazed at how the world is continuing to spin, when everything has fallen apart so badly.