Page 63 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Tonight will be a good performance, I’m sure of it. Beau has mastered some more tricks,’ Michel said, seeing Jean’s discomfort and trying to change the subject.

But Giordano continued: ‘He was there. We were sitting, our backs against that grave. You remember? Pour me more, Jean. One more for the nerves. Pour me one more, I said! I’m small but not weak! Thank you, Jean, thank you. Where was I? Yes, the grave. We had our backs to it, and we ate bread and cheese. Then Werner came and said, “I hear you play tricks?”

‘We told him we did, and he asked us if we wanted a job. See, Jean? See? I told the story as it was. No more, no less. We got a job; it got us away from that mouldy apartment, got us back in the circus.’

Before Michel could ask more, voices outside, deep and authoritative, shouted in muddled French with thick clipped accents. Madame Geneviève screamed out that her jewels were being taken.

Michel ran from the tent to be greeted by the sight of armed, uniformed soldiers, black swastikas on their sleeves like menacing spider legs, their shining boots too clean and too bright in the autumnal dusk.

The soldiers threw belongings from Madame Geneviève’s caravan, then moved on swiftly; they pulled Anton out of his tent and kept searching.

Dissatisfied, one solider kicked Anton in the stomach, then laughed as he howled and curled up on the ground.

Michel made to move towards the man, but felt Jean place a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t move,’ Jean whispered.

One by one, the performers were dragged from their caravans and tents, and made to stand outside as their belongings were thrown to the ground. Michel saw shadows in his own tent; then his beloved book was tossed onto the grass, the pages open and fluttering in the wind.

A man in a long grey overcoat smoked a cigarette nearby, his thin moustache twitching as he smiled at his soldiers’ handiwork.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Werner appeared, his top hat askew, his bow-tie half fastened.

‘Papers, Monsieur,’ the man with the twitching moustache replied. ‘Papers. Do you have a permit for this…’ The man gesticulated to the few tents, a stall or two. ‘This thing?’

‘It’s a circus,’ Werner replied, drawing himself up to his full height, and righting his top hat to give him those few extra inches.

‘Quite. Well. Perhaps it once was…’

‘I have a permit. I obtained it today from the mayor. He said one night only.’

The moustached man took the papers from Werner and scrutinised them.

‘The mayor? Unfortunately, he is no longer mayor now. I am. I am mayor, policeman, judge and jury. Have you asked my permission?’

Werner shook his head with confusion.

Before the moustached man could speak again, Frieda appeared from behind Werner with a smile on her face that Michel had never seen before. He held his breath.

‘Herr Captain,’ Frieda said. ‘Welcome. I’m sorry – I do not know your name?’ She stepped forward and curtsied.

The German’s wide eyes followed her every move.

‘Madame,’ he said, and took her hand in his, gently kissing the soft skin just above her wrist. Michel felt a ball of anger rise in the pit of his stomach; he clenched his fists and saw that both Werner and Serge had done the same.

‘You must join us this evening, as our honoured guests.’

‘I am no captain,’ the moustached man said, his voice softer now, a slight pink glow on his cheeks. ‘I am merely an oberleutnant. And my name… Yes. You can call me Herr Köhler.’

‘And you may call me Frieda.’

He nodded and did not let go. She gently stepped back so that her hand finally fell away from his grasp.

Herr Köhler waited until his soldiers had finished their task, but they found only a bottle of Hugo’s génépy as a prize. ‘This is illegal, you know,’ he said, and smiled.

‘It is medicinal,’ Frieda said, her voice purring. ‘Just to help with the nerves when I perform. It is scary to perform in front of so many – especially when they are handsome.’

Herr Köhler’s eyes strayed from Frieda’s face as he examined her from head to foot. ‘You have one evening,’ he finally said.

‘Thank you.’