Page 128 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Brigadeführer Dietrich Wolff emerged from the first car, followed by his wife, her eyes wide. She clapped her hands at what she saw, and Serge announced the arrival of the birthday girl to the crowd. The band struck up a tune and she clapped her hands again with the glee of a small child. Wolff grinned.

Michel made his way through the performers, their faces painted white, their eyes ringed with kohl, and red, yellow and green spotted designs marking their skin. The women wore peasant blouses and big skirts held up tightly with wire so they could can-can and show off their stockinged legs.

The fire eater was dressed as a groom in black, his face white, his eyes dead. His bride – a contortionist – wore a bloodied bridal gown and bent herself into painful shapes.

Skeletons danced and threw sweets at the feet of their guests and Madame Rosie sat outside her tent, decaying roses in her hair and her face painted white with black tattoo designs all over her forehead.

Michel managed to find Frieda in the throng.

‘We need to talk, now,’ he whispered in her ear.

They went to her caravan and sat together on the bed whilst Michel told her of the changed plans.

‘Does everyone know?’

‘Yes. Serge has seen to it.’

‘So, we leave tonight?’

‘Yes.’

Frieda’s eyes welled with tears.

‘No, no, don’t cry, my love. Please. It will be fine. I promise you.’

‘But Papa, the others—’

‘It will be fine. Please. Hush.’ He held her to him. ‘I need you to be strong, my darling. I need you to help me get through this. I can’t do it without you.’

Frieda pulled away and wiped her eyes. ‘I should go and finish my make-up.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then I will perform.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then… and then we will leave.’

He nodded.

‘Together.’

‘Together.’ Michel kissed her deeply, then kissed her cheeks where the tears had fallen, her eyelids, the tip of her nose. ‘You feel warm.’ He placed his hand on her forehead.

‘I’m OK. Just tired.’

He looked at her face, pale and drawn. He placed his hand back on her forehead. ‘It’s hot, Frieda. You’re not well.’

She took his hand in hers. ‘I’ll be fine, Michel. We need to get through this. A little cold cannot stop me from performing.’

‘Werner always said you were bossy.’

‘He’s right. I’m the real boss around here.’ She hugged him quickly.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said.

‘You will.’