Page 77 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Michel paused at the bar to order a coffee, then took a seat nearby, Frieda next to him and Coquette under the table, her eyes watching the feet of those at the bar.

‘As you know, I am a man of peace. You have seen this. I just ask that you remember that. Understand how none of us, least of all me, want a life disturbed by friction.’

Michel saw Gehring briefly glance in his direction, then settle onto a bar stool and call for his morning coffee, sending the soldiers to the bakery for warm croissants.

‘Are you going to talk to him?’ Frieda asked.

‘Not yet. Patience.’ Michel sipped at his coffee.

Minutes ticked by on the clock that hung above the bar, smoke from cigarettes curled like grey cats’ tails to the ceiling, and the radio crackled with German voices scuttering across the air towards French ears from an approved station.

Finally, Gehring could bear it no longer and turned to them. ‘You are new.’

‘We are,’ Michel said.

‘I wasn’t asking you,’ Gehring said, and lit a cigarette, squinting as the first plume of smoke left his mouth and stung his eyes.

‘We are staying at the farm of Lucien Demotte,’ Frieda added with a smile.

‘Demotte? Good wine. Good man. And why are you there?’

Michel coughed and stood. ‘May I?’ he asked, indicating the bar stool next to Gehring.

‘If your lady friend will join us too.’ Gehring grinned at Frieda with his cigarette between his teeth.

They both sat, having dragged the stools across the floor. The Madame raised her eyebrow in annoyance at the sound as she polished glasses with a crisp white cloth.

‘May I buy you another coffee?’ Michel asked.

‘You may.’

Whilst the Madame poured fresh coffee into their cups, Gehring’s officers reappeared, brown bags in their hands, the buttery grease from the warm croissants already staining the paper a darker brown.

‘Leave them here,’ Gehring told them, slapping his hand on the bar. Then, in German, he spoke quickly, and so ferociously Michel shivered and goosebumps appeared on his arm. The soldiers left and Gehring opened a bag, tearing into one of the croissants as if it were a turkey leg.

‘You enjoy our pastries,’ Frieda noted, then nudged Michel in the ribs and gave a slight nod towards the bag of food and drink that Lucien and Isabelle had given him.

‘I do. I do,’ Gehring said, spraying crumbs.

‘Perhaps you would like some fresh bacon and bread to take home with you for this evening?’ Michel picked up the bag.

Gehring stopped eating and looked at it, then at Michel, flakes of pastry stuck to his lips. His tongue nipped out of his mouth and cleared the crumbs away. He placed the remaining pastry on the countertop, picked his smouldering cigarette out of the ashtray, and flicked off the large greying tip of ash.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I am Michel. From Paris. I am working for Werner Neumann, the ringmaster of Neumann’s circus. Perhaps you know of him?’

Gehring shook his head.

‘We are just passing through, a few of us. We thought perhaps to stay a few days, perform a few tricks?’

Gehring smoked, then gulped his coffee down and nodded at the Madame to refill it.

Michel could feel himself grow hot, and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He had made a mistake. Lucien was wrong. Gehring was not going to agree.

‘Neumann…’ he finally said.

‘He came from Austria originally – just like the Führer,’ Frieda said. ‘Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer.’