“And your mother?”
“She is not very brave.” Another part-truth. “Also, I didn’t want to cause them trouble,” I add. Astrid eyes me evenly and I wait for her to point out that I brought my troubles instead to her and the rest of the circus. I had told her about Theo in hopes that she might be more willing to accept me. But what if the opposite is true?
Outside the practice hall there is a sudden clattering, a car of some sort screeching to a halt, followed by unfamiliar male voices. I turn to Astrid. “What on earth?” But she has turned and raced through the rear door of the dressing room, the one that leads outside.
Before I can call after her, the front door to the dressing room flies open and two uniformed men barrel in from the practice hall, followed by Peter. “Officers, I assure you...” I freeze, my legs stone. The first I have seen since coming to Darmstadt, they are not Schutzpolizei as I had seen at the station, but actual Nazi SS. Have they come for me? I had hoped that my disappearance with Theo would have been long forgotten. But it is hard to see what other business they might have with the circus.
“Fr?ulein...” One of the men, older and graying at the temples beneath his hat, steps closer. Let them take just me, I pray. Theo is thankfully not here, but well across the winter quarters. If they should see him, though...
Terrified, I look over my shoulder for Astrid. She will know what to do. I start to go after her. But behind the men, Peter’s eyes flare. He is trying to signal some sort of a caution to me.
As the officer nears, I brace myself for arrest. But he simply stands too close, leering down the low-cut front of my leotard.
“We’ve received a report,” the second officer says. Younger by a good ten years, he stands back, looking uncomfortable in the close quarters of the dressing room. “Of a Jew with the circus,” he adds. Terror shoots through me like a knife to the stomach. So they know about Theo after all.
The men begin to search the dressing room, opening the armoire and peering under the tables. Do they really think we’ve hidden the child there? I prepare myself for the questions that will surely come next. But the officers storm back out to the practice hall. I lean against the dressing room table, in a cold sweat and shaking. I have to get to Theo before they do and run. I start for the door.
There is a sudden scraping sound beneath my feet. Looking down, I glimpse Astrid. She has somehow gotten below the floorboards into the crawl space. What is she doing down there? I kneel down, assaulted by the smell of sewage and manure. “Astrid, I...”
“Shh!” She is curled up into a tight ball. Hiding.
“What are you doing...?” I stop midsentence as the older officer walks in again.
I straighten, smoothing my skirt and stepping on the crack through which I’d seen Astrid. “Excuse me!” I cry, feigning modesty. “This is the women’s dressing room and I need to change.”
But the officer continues to stare at the floorboards. Had he seen her? He lifts his head, eyeing me. “Papers?”
I falter. I’d fled the train station hastily the night I found Theo, leaving my identity card behind. Herr Neuhoff would get me papers, Astrid had promised, before we went on the road, assuming I managed the act. I do not have them yet, though. “I have to go get them,” I bluff without thinking. Peter’s look is approving: yes, draw them away from here, stall for time. I start for the door from the dressing room into the practice hall.
“Follow her,” he instructs the younger officer, who lingers just outside the doorway.
My panic worsens: if the men follow me, they will see Theo and ask questions. “Really that isn’t necessary. It will just take a minute.”
“Fine,” the older man says, “but before you go, I have a few questions.” I freeze, skin prickling. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. “The woman on the trapeze.”
“I was on the trapeze,” I manage, hoping no one heard the quaver in my voice.
“Not you. A woman with dark hair.” They must have seen Astrid through the gym window. “Where is she?”
Before I can answer, Herr Neuhoff rushes in. “Gentlemen,” he says, as though greeting old friends. This must not be the first time they have come. “Heil Hitler.” His salute is so authentic that I cringe.
But the officer does not smile. “Hallo, Fritz.” He addresses Herr Neuhoff too familiarly, his voice lacking any sign of respect. “We are looking for a performer who is reportedly a Jew. Do you have anyone like that here?”
“No, of course not,” Herr Neuhoff blusters, seeming to almost take offense at the suggestion. “The Circus Neuhoff is German. Jews have been banned from performing.”
“So you are saying that there are no Jews with this circus? I know they’re good at trickery.”
“I am a German,” Herr Neuhoff replies. As if that answers everything. “The circus is Judenrein.” Cleansed of Jews. “You know that, gentlemen.”
“I don’t recall her,” the officer says, pointing his head in my direction. The ground seems to shift beneath me. Does he think I am a Jew?
“So many new performers each year,” Herr Neuhoff says airily. I hold my breath, waiting for the man to ask further. “Noa joined us this year from the Netherlands. Isn’t she wonderfully Aryan? The Führer’s own ideal.” I admire the skilled way Herr Neuhoff makes the argument, but hate that he has to do so. “Meine Herren, you’ve come so far. Join me up at the villa for some cognac.”
“We’ll finish our inspection first,” the officer says, undeterred. He flings open the armoire a second time, peers inside. Then he halts, standing just over the spot where Astrid is hiding. I hold my breath, dig my fingernails into my palms. If he looks down, he will surely see her.
“Come, come,” Herr Neuhoff soothes. “There’s nothing more here to search. Just a quick drink and then you’ll want to be on the road to get back to the city before nightfall.”
The officers storm from the dressing room, Herr Neuhoff and Peter in tow.
When they are gone, I sink down into a chair, shaking. Astrid remains silent below the floorboards, still not daring to come out.
Peter returns a few minutes later. “They’ve gone.” I follow him out the back of the dressing room. Along the edge of the practice hall, hidden behind a wheelbarrow, is the narrowest of cellar doors. He pries it open and helps Astrid from her hiding place. She is pale and covered in bits of hay and manure. “Are you all right?” I see then the way he holds her, a moment’s tenderness. I should leave them alone. But she turns away from him. Her pride is too hurt to let him close.