Page 73 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Late that afternoon, as tents were pitched, fires lit, food sought, Michel left the troupe and walked towards the river he had left months before. In his pocket he took with him Bertrand’s replies to his letters. He wanted peace and quiet to read them.

He found a dry enough log under a canopy of leaves and watched the swollen river, now a dirty brown from the mud that had been churned up by the recent rains.

He pulled the cream envelopes from his pocket and smiled to himself at Bertrand’s familiar scrawl. He held one to his nose and believed he could smell home.

He opened the letter dated July, and read:

Michel, my friend,

I received your letter today, and I was so heartened by it – to hear that you are well, alive, and in a circus no less?

I am glad, in a way, that you found a home for yourself amongst the players and the artists; when Amélie was alive, she loved the circus – the music, the costumes, the acts. She always told me I would have made a fine clown. I think she was probably right.

You talked of cherishing a young lady. My dear Michel, how wonderful for you to have found that feeling, but alas as you say, it is complicated. Love is complicated, even when it seems not to be. All I can advise you is to be her friend. You say you cannot have her, cannot be with her. Why is this? Is she married?

The best you can be, to anyone, is a friend. And I can say from my personal experience that you are one of the best friends a person could have. In this way, you can still cherish her.

You see, I have surprised you with my response, have I not? I have not told you to ignore your feelings. But then, I am an old romantic at heart and believe love can and will conquer all.

I have a confession to make. I now regret not leaving with you. Things have changed so quickly. Monsieur Freidman had his shoe shop taken from him. He is still here, living in his apartment above me as always, yet he is now under surveillance because his son – you remember him – is, or rather was, a lawyer, and he has been fired, along with all Jews in official roles.

Monsieur Lippmann, the journalist, was arrested. No one knows quite what he did. Although it does not really matter now, does it?

The rationing has begun in earnest and crowds flock out of doors. I am glad I kept so much cognac – I hope it will see me through to the end of the war, or my death, whichever comes first.

You must forgive me for being so maudlin. It is just that life – the colour, the hope – is gone now, and I fear it will become worse.

We have curfews now – lights out, drawn curtains, no going out after 9 p.m.

Madame Odette is faring well – she is a wily old bag, always was. She has made the acquaintance of a lieutenant who enjoys her company, the café and a drink, so she seems to be doing quite a bit of trade these evenings. I, of course, do not and cannot go there at night. But I do go and see her in the day, for a coffee, a chat with whoever is left.

I think I must stop now, Michel. I feel myself spiralling further down into a pit of despair.

I pray you are well; I pray you still see some colour in your life.

Your friend,

Bertrand

Michel folded the letter and placed it back into its envelope. He felt a tightening in his throat at the thought of Bertrand alone; at the fear that was clear in his letter.

He lit a cigarette and waited until it had burned itself out before he opened the next letter, his hands cold, the lump in his throat still there.

My Dear Michel,

Another letter has arrived! You cannot know the absolute joy I felt when I received it. I did not open it straight away, but saved it all day in my pocket, ready to savour this evening when the curtains are drawn, and I am a prisoner in my own home.

You are indeed correct that I write this now from my desk. My latest reply to you.

There is not much to tell you about this life; the only thing I can say is that because the Boche enjoy our fair city so much, they have not destroyed it. The only bombs we had were in June, and since then it has been relatively quiet. I say quiet, but what I mean is I have not heard that dreaded thud and smash as the bombs fall. We have those damned sirens that whine almost every night, and some of us have stopped bothering to go to the air raid shelter. There seems little point to me – let them bomb me in my sleep!

Food is the biggest problem we face now – the shortages are fraying everyone’s nerves. I manage with what I can get my hands on and Odette seems to get her hands on much – and will sell it to us for a price! I think I may have to pawn my father’s pocket watch – it will give me a few more francs to manage on. I was sad when I first thought of it, but then, if he was here, he would tell me to stop being so stupid and sell it to buy food.

I am sorry to hear of your friend Felix. It seems as though anyone can disappear these days. Odette’s cousin’s husband was arrested for fighting with a solider in the street. When she went to the prison to visit him, they said he was not there. I do not think we will hear of him again.

Now, enough of my miserable life here. Let me talk of important matters – those of the heart.

First, your lady friend, Odélie – or rather your previous lady friend. I am sure that her heart has healed and that you did not treat her as badly as you thought. If it still weighs on you, Michel, then perhaps apologise to her, explain to her that your feelings are not strong enough for her and she deserves to be loved in the best way possible. That, I am sure, will bring you peace of mind and it will mean much to her.