Page 50 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Jean shrugged. ‘She was beautiful, Michel. Blonde hair streaming down her back, blue eyes, and a smile that bowled me over. She was with us in the circus for a while. A snake charmer, if you can picture it! She was my goddess. We all have one, Michel. A goddess.’

‘Not me.’

‘Are you sure?’ Jean stood and stretched his arms above his head, his hands reaching the roof of the wagon.

‘My mother was tall,’ Michel said.

‘She was?’

‘Not as tall as you, or even your shoulder, but tall. She was thin and tall; she called herself a pencil.’

Jean laughed.

‘She was a good woman. Kind, thoughtful – cared for anyone she met.’

‘How long since…?’ Jean asked.

‘Five – no, six years now. I was a teenager. A shy, stupid boy with a stutter. Monsieur Bertrand, my old neighbour, helped me – found me a job, cared for me.’

Jean sat down beside him once more, his legs dangling so far off the side that Michel was worried his feet would touch the moving earth and he would be swept away.

‘My mother died before I knew her,’ Jean said softly.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I had a father and he was a fine man. Tall too, though not as tall as me.’

‘He’s still alive?’

‘Somewhere, yes. Not in our town anymore. He moved. I’ll find him again. We always find each other.’

‘What does she see in him?’ Michel suddenly asked.

‘Who?’

‘Frieda and Werner.’

Jean shrugged. ‘You know the girl I told you about – she was killed. Well, I think she was. She was taken by the Germans at the beginning of all this mess – they came into this German town we were travelling through to get back to France. We were stopped and we handed over our papers. It was fine at first – you know Werner has his German heritage, the right papers, the right bribes. We thought we were going to be let go, but then they decided to take a better look at us and found her papers – the wrong kind.’

‘A Jew?’ Michel asked.

Jean nodded.

‘And are you?’

‘Am I what?’

‘A Jew?’

‘Perhaps once I was.’

The train reached a bend and the wheels screamed as the brakes took hold and guided them onwards.

Once the quiet tack-tack of the train had resumed, so did Jean. ‘It does not matter who we are, Michel, we are all here and we work together. That’s all that matters.’

Michel glanced quickly at Jean, then changed the subject. ‘So, the next show will be different, you think? Smaller?’

‘Smaller, definitely. You saw the workers go this morning? More will soon. You won’t really go, will you, Michel?’