The Orphan's Tale

by Pam Jenoff

  A few minutes later, the bell rings and I hurry around the big top to take my place in the backyard. I peek through the curtain. Luc is in the first row and I wonder how he has managed such a seat on short notice. His arms are folded and he takes in the ring before him without expression. I want to run to him or at least wave. But the orchestra is nearly finished tuning and the tent goes completely dark. The opening note booms to a crescendo and the show begins. I peek out once more. Luc leans forward in his chair and a light in his eyes begins to dance as he follows the performers, scantily clad girls on horseback. My jealousy grows as he takes in their elegant, barely covered bodies.

  The first half of the show, which is usually exciting and rushed, seems to take forever. To pass the time, I study the audience. In the row behind Luc sits a little girl with shiny blond curls holding a doll. She wears a pink starched dress and I can tell from the way she smooths the hem that it is her prized outfit, the one that comes out only a few times a year for special occasions. The man beside her, her father I guess, hands her a cone of freshly spun cotton candy and as she takes a bite her cheeks rise with wonder. Her eyes never leave the show.

  The ring is cleared again and the clowns tumble in. Peter steps on stage and begins to perform his political routine—the very one that Herr Neuhoff forbade. He is actually doing it. Watching, I am suddenly angry: How can he choose his art, knowing the risk it brings to Astrid, and all of us? The fact that Astrid is out of the show does not mean that she is safe. The children in the audience laugh at his antics, unaware of the subtext. But the adults remain silent, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats. A couple slips out of the back of the tent.

  The clowns finish to weak applause. It is our turn. Gerda and I start into the ring, finding our way in the darkness. “Gerda,” I whisper as I reach the base of the ladder. “I’m going to spin just before you catch me on the second pass.”

  I can feel her stiffen with surprise. “Astrid never said anything about it.” Astrid is in charge of all of the aerialists. She calls the shots. No one has changed her choreography before.

  “It will work better,” I insist. “And it changes nothing for you. The positioning will be the same. Just catch me.” Before she can say anything else, I climb up the ladder. I reach the top a second late, the spotlight already waiting for me. I wait for Gerda’s call. “Hup!”

  I leap without hesitation. When I release there is a moment’s panic: I have practiced only once with Gerda as my catcher. Will she be able to manage as Astrid had? Catching is all Gerda has ever done on the flying trapeze, though. She grasps me easily, with forearms like thick sausages. But she is not skilled and lacks Astrid’s fire. Working with someone other than Astrid feels like cheating, a betrayal. I look around the ring, searching in vain for Astrid. Is she watching somewhere, hating me for going on without her?

  I reach the board at the end of the first pass. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luc. It is one of the first rules I had learned from Astrid upon coming to the circus: do not let the audience—or anyone in it—serve as a distraction. I can’t help it, though. Luc is here, watching me with those same dancing eyes as he had when I first spied him in town. He sees only me and I am happy and suffused with fear at the same time.

  I square my shoulders. It is my act now, up to me to see this through. I nod at Gerda. I jump exactly as I had before. Only this time, right before I reach Gerda, I pivot midair so I am facing away from her. But the move takes a second longer than I planned and despite my warning, she fumbles. I am low now, almost too low for her to reach me. There is a slight gasp from the crowd. “Damn you,” Gerda swears as she catches me, fingers digging hard into my wrists to hold on as we swing back, gaining height. Applause thunders as she throws me back toward my bar.

  The show breaks to intermission. I step into the backyard, still sweaty and shaking from my near fall. From around the side of the big top, Luc walks closer, looking for me. My pulse quickens as he nears.

  “Bonsoir,” Luc says with a shy smile.

  “Noa!” a voice booms before I can respond. It is Astrid crossing the grounds and bearing down upon me, her eyes streaking with fury. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demands in German. She is even angrier than earlier when Herr Neuhoff pulled her from the show.

  Luc steps forward to protect me but Astrid moves around him as though he is not there. “I told you not to add the twist,” she continues to berate me.

  I raise my chin. “The audience loved it.” Astrid does not own the show. She does not own me.

  “You were showing off for him!” She jerks her head in Luc’s direction.

  My cheeks flush. “That isn’t true.”

  Before I can protest further, Herr Neuhoff walks into the backyard. I hold my breath, waiting for him to ask who Luc is, and what he is doing here. “Nice job, Noa,” he says instead, smiling. It is the first time he has praised my performance and I can feel myself standing straighter, vindicated. “That variation was magnificent,” he says with a smile.

  I look triumphantly in Astrid’s direction, wondering if she will now finally agree. But she seems to grow smaller. Guilt rises in me, replacing my joy. The ring had already been taken from Astrid. The control over the choreography was the one thing she still had—and I had stolen that, too. She turns and storms off.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell Luc. Then I follow after Astrid, who has started away from the backyard and toward the train. I take a deep breath as she turns back to me. “You were right about the move being foolish. It was dangerous and it didn’t add anything.”

  “That’s why I told you not to do it,” she sniffs, partially mollified. “But you were showing off for him,” she says again.

  “Him?” Though I know she means Luc, I feign ignorance, stalling for time to respond.

  She gestures toward the backyard, where Luc is waiting for me. “The mayor’s son—how do you know him?”

  The mayor’s son? I gasp with realization. I recall then what Astrid had said about the mayor, that he is collaborating with the Nazis. Does that mean Luc is helping the Germans, too? It couldn’t be.

  Astrid is still watching me, waiting for an answer. “I met him when I went into town,” I say finally. “I had no idea he was coming to the show.”

  She crosses her arms. “I thought I told you to stay away from the locals.”

  “You did, but some boys were being rude to me and Luc helped,” I finish weakly.

  “The mayor’s son just happened to rush to your rescue?” Her tone is mocking. Then she lowers her voice. “Noa, we’re an hour from Vichy headquarters. The mayor of this town is well connected to the Reich...” She stops abruptly as Luc walks over to us. As her words sink in, my blood chills. I had thought Luc was simply being nice. But is there a deeper reason for his interest? Astrid continues, “You claimed that you told Herr Neuhoff about Erich’s colleague being at the show because you were worried about my safety. And then you do this...”

  Luc, who is now close to where we stand at the edge of the backyard, interjects. “I just wanted to see the show,” he offers.

  Peter steps forward in front of Astrid, almost chest to chest with Luc. “You need to go back to your seat,” he says in French.

  “And you need to stop doing that act mocking the Germans,” Luc flares with surprising force.

  Peter jerks back, stunned that Luc is standing up to him in a way that so few ever have. “How dare you!”

  But Luc, not intimidated, squares his shoulders. “They’ll arrest you, you know.”

  “Who will, your father?” Though they had met only minutes earlier, hatred seethes between the two men.

  Herr Neuhoff reappears. “Enough!” he orders. “We can’t afford petty fights. There are officials in the audience. Gendarmes,” Herr Neuhoff adds. The fact that they are not German officers is hardly re
assuring. The French police are little more than puppets of the Reich these days. Peter and Astrid exchange uneasy looks. It seems too much of a coincidence just days after the German officer who knew Astrid sat in the audience.

  My throat tightens. “You don’t think they’ve come for you, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Astrid replies, her voice grim.

  “You need to go,” Peter says to Astrid. “Now.” But where will she go? I wonder. When I turn to ask her, she is already gone.

  The bell rings, calling the audience back to their seats from intermission. As the house lights dim, I peer into the tent. Two uniformed men stand at the back. These are not officers on leave looking for a distraction or some entertainment to relax. Their arms are folded, stance purposeful. They had not been there during the first half of the show.

  I turn back to find that Peter and Astrid have disappeared from the backyard. “What should we do?” I ask Herr Neuhoff.

  “Go on, just as we have. To do anything else would arouse suspicion.”

  From the tent comes the music of the next act, the big cats. “You should go back to your seat,” I tell Luc, who is still standing beside me. “You’re missing the show.”

  “Yes, of course.” But still he lingers, brow creased. “You’ll be all right? I mean, that woman, she seemed so angry at you.” It is not the police, but rather Astrid who worries Luc. I take him in uncertainly. He seems so sincere. But he hadn’t even told me he is the mayor’s son. Could Astrid possibly be right about him?

  “Can I see you after the show?” Luc presses. His voice is hopeful as he tips his head toward the grove of trees beyond the backyard. “Over there in the clearing, yes? I will wait behind the knotted oak.”

  “You have to go,” I say, ignoring his question. I point toward his seat before slipping away.

  The tiger cage is being wheeled from the stage and the next act, the high wire, prepared. Two gendarmes start forward toward the ring. I glance over my shoulder. Astrid is nowhere to be found. Could they possibly be coming for me? It seems impossible that anyone here could know about my taking Theo, but still... I look toward the back exit, desperate to go find him.

  But the police reach the second row of seats and stop before the man with the little girl who had cotton candy. They crouch low as they speak to him, trying not to interfere with the show. I slink closer along the edge of the big top until I am just a few meters away from the argument, close enough to hear. One of the policemen gestures toward the exit, instructing the man to go with them. “You need to come with us.” Luc twists around in his seat to see. I wait for him to say something, to intervene. He does not.

  “But the show...” the father pleads, his voice rising. The orchestra halts midsong. All eyes are watching the altercation now. “Surely it can wait until the end.” He places his hand on his daughter, as if protecting her.

  The policemen will hear none of it, though. “Now.” One reaches for the man’s shoulder, prepared to drag him from the tent. What could they want with him?

  “Come, darling,” the father says as gently as he can to the little girl. “We will come back to the show another day.” His voice breaks at the end.

  “I want to see the elephants.” The girl’s lip quivers.

  “She can stay,” the policeman says coldly. “We only want you.”

  The man stares at the police officer in disbelief. “Monsieur, she’s four. Surely you don’t mean for me to leave her alone.”

  “Then bring her with you. Now,” the officer commands.

  The father takes the girl’s wrist firmly, trying to leave before they are taken. But she resists, breaking into a wail and dropping to the ground, not noticing the mud that soils her dress. He is pleading with her now, desperate to cooperate before the officers intercede. There is a murmur around the ring. The townspeople have undoubtedly seen arrests before. But a father with an innocent child, taken from the show... One of the officers reaches for his truncheon.

  Stop! I want to cry. I have to do something. Instinctively, I go toward the ladder at the right side of the ring and climb it. At the top, I catch the eye of the conductor and nod to him. His eyes widen with surprise. This is not in the program. Then he lifts his baton. The orchestra strikes up a lively tune and the spotlight focuses on me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the police stop what they are doing to watch. Across the big top Astrid waves her arms, signaling me down.

  It is too late. I leap from the board, swinging as high as I ever have. But now what? I have no catcher and simply swinging will not hold their attention for long. Desperately, I let go of the bar. I tuck myself into a ball and somersault once then twice through the air as I catapult downward. There is nothing to catch or stop me. Just before reaching the net I lie myself out flat, as Astrid taught me to do in case of a fall, slowing myself. I angle my rear end downward so that it, and not my limbs or neck, take the brunt.

  There is a gasp as I plummet. “Mon dieu!” a high-pitched voice in the crowd cries. I hit the net and my head snaps forward and back. Pain shoots through me and white sparks erupt in my eyes as I slam against the floor once and then a second time, almost as hard. I lie still, too stunned and hurt to move.

  I keep my eyes closed. Hands are on me, lifting me and carrying me from the net as they had Yeta the night she fell. But as we reach the ground, I shrug them off and struggle to rise on my own. Somehow despite the height and speed with which I fell, I am sore but not injured. Had it worked? I curtsy elegantly, and the applause grows. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the father carrying his daughter from the tent while the police are distracted.

  “Clowns, then elephants,” I hear Herr Neuhoff instruct. He has a plan, Astrid had told me once, to curtail the show without ending it abruptly. I make my way from the tent, legs shaking so much I can barely find my footing.

  Astrid approaches then, having slipped out the far side of the big top and come around. “Are you all right?” she asks, and I study her unfamiliar expression, somewhere short of anger. Concern. She is worried about me—even after everything that I have done.

  Tears form in my eyes. She has been so furious with me, first for telling Herr Neuhoff and then for adding the move. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice breaking. I want so much to make everything between us whole. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “I know,” she says. “It’s all right.”

  “Really?” I look up.

  She nods. “Really.” The forgiveness in her eyes is complete.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, needing to say it again. I burst into tears and she draws me close, letting the wetness soak the fabric of her dress without complaint.

  A moment later, I straighten, drying my eyes. “But Noa, you must be careful,” Astrid says once I’ve collected myself. Her voice is gentle but her eyes grave. “We have so much to lose now.” She is talking, I realize, about Luc and the danger he could bring.

  Peter approaches us from the big top and I can tell from his expression that he is angry. “Fool!” he spits at me. “Now you’ve caused even more trouble for the circus. What were you thinking, inviting that boy?” I am surprised—I had expected him to berate me for what I had done on the trapeze, as Astrid had. But for everything that happened, he is still furious about the mayor’s son, maybe because Luc had the nerve to confront him about his act. He is worried, of course, about the danger to Astrid. I want to point out, as Luc had, that if Peter is so worried about her safety, maybe he shouldn’t do acts that mock the Germans.

  I do not dare. “I didn’t,” I protest instead. “He came on his own. He wanted to see the show.”

  “Of course he did,” Peter retorts, his tone mocking. “The mayor’s son comes and then the police? Pure coincidence. After everything we’ve done for you,” Peter continues, gathering steam. “Taking you in and training you. And this is how you repay the ki
ndness? We should kick you out.” Panic grows in me. What if he persuades Herr Neuhoff to do just that?

  Astrid raises a hand, as if to ward him off. “Enough.” Confusion clouds his eyes as she defends me. She puts her hand on his arm gently. “She did the right thing.” Astrid looks at me with newfound admiration. “You could have been killed, though,” she adds to me, the concern returning to her voice.

  “I didn’t think... I had to do something. That poor man...” My voice is trembling, though whether from the fall or Peter’s wrath, I cannot tell.

  “It won’t matter,” Peter says. “The police will go to the man’s house and find him.”

  I hope that the man and his daughter might have had time to flee, just as I had with Theo. I want to believe against all hope that what I had done might have made a difference. But I know that they will probably not be as lucky.

  “Now do you see why I had to tell Herr Neuhoff about the German?” I ask Astrid. “The arrest tonight—that could have been you.”

  She shakes her head stubbornly. “I would have been fine.” She considers the circus a shield of armor that somehow makes her immune to the Germans. But it simply isn’t true. “You can’t save everyone, you know.”

  “I’m not trying to save everyone,” I protest. “Just Theo.” And you, I add silently. But when I had seen the police about to take that girl, something had stirred me to act, the same as it had the night I had rescued Theo from the boxcar.

  “Then you must think more carefully before you act,” Astrid admonishes. “Inviting the mayor’s son here was foolish.”

  “I didn’t invite him,” I insist again. But I hadn’t told him not to come either. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

  “I know,” she replies, “but our actions have consequences. Good intentions won’t save us from that.”

  The music cues, signaling the final bow. As Astrid helps me to my feet, I feel a sharp pain across my back that I hope is nothing more than a bruise. Limping, I follow her back inside the big top and up the ladder to the perch. The gendarmes have gone. Worry mixes with my relief. Had they followed the girl and her father?