We move painstakingly through town, wagons inching forward. Boys wave and catcall at us from the crowd. Beside me, Noa stiffens in response to the adulation, clutching Theo more tightly. I pat her arm reassuringly. To me this is normal, but she must feel so naked and exposed. “Smile,” I say through my clenched teeth. It is a show from the very moment we step out.
On a wrought-iron second-story balcony, I notice a boy, or a man perhaps, nineteen or twenty at most. He does not join in the cheering and waving, but watches us with a mix of disinterest and amusement, arms folded. He is handsome, though, with wavy charcoal hair and a chiseled jaw. I imagine that his eyes, were I close enough to see their color, would be cobalt. Something on our wagon catches his gaze. I start to do my best show wave. It is not me he is watching, though, but Noa. For a second I consider pointing him out to her, but I do not want to make her even more nervous. A second later, he is gone.
The cobblestone street narrows so that the parade presses close to the onlookers. Hands shoot out, small children eager to touch us, the spectacle, in ways that simply would have been rude with anyone else. They cannot reach us, though, and for that I am grateful. The faces in the crowd are different this year, eyes weary from the war, skin drawn more tightly across the cheekbones. But we are changed, too. Closer one might see the cracks, the animals a bit too skinny, performers using a bit of extra rouge to cover fatigue.
The spectators follow the parade down the winding lane toward the market square, then onto another road that leads out of town once more. Though the incline is gentler than it had been on our ascent, the road is bumpy and uneven, marred with ruts and potholes. I put a hand across Noa and Theo as we are jostled so they do not fall from the bench. I might have suggested that she leave Theo with Elsie or one of the other workers; a baby has no place in a parade. But I knew that Noa would be nervous and draw comfort from having him with her. I study the child. He does not seem scared by the noise and crowd. Instead he leans comfortably against Noa with his head cocked, seeming entertained by the commotion.
A few kilometers farther, the pavement gives way to dirt. Noa takes in the crowd that runs behind. “They’re still following us,” she says. “I thought they might have lost interest.”
“Never,” I reply. The onlookers keep up tirelessly. Women jostle babies and children pedal alongside on their bikes, their Sunday suits turning brown with dirt kicked up from the road. Even barking dogs join the melee, becoming a part of the parade themselves.
A few minutes later the road ends at a wide, flat grass field, broken only by a cluster of trees at one end. The wagon halts with an unceremonious bump. I climb down first, then reach out to help Noa. But she looks past me, eyes wide. The raising of the big top is almost as much of an attraction as the circus show itself, and not only because it is free. An army of workers with tents and metal poles and rope have fanned out over the field. The circus needs more hands than we can possibly bring with us, which is good news for the local men who are looking for work. They stand, bare-armed and perspiring, at the periphery of the flattened tarp, which covers the entire field, tied to stakes that surround it.
“I feel useless just standing here,” Noa says after climbing down from the wagon. “Should we be helping or something?”
I shake my head. “Let them do their job.” We can no more help raise the tent than the workers can swing from the trapeze.
All of the prep work is done but the real show has been saved for the crowd. Elephants, which had not been part of the procession but brought here directly by the train, are harnessed. On command, they start walking away from the center, heaving the hauptmast to its full height. Then the horses are led outward, pulling the shorter poles into place, and the whole thing seems to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, a tent the size of the massive gymnasium at Darmstadt where seconds ago there had been nothing. Though they have undoubtedly seen it year after year, the crowd lets out a stunned gasp and applauds heartily. Noa watches silently, awed by seeing the big top go up for the first time. Theo, who had been chewing on his fingers, squeals with approval.
The crowd begins to dissipate as the workers move to secure the poles. “Come,” I say, starting in the direction of the big top. “We need to practice.”
Noa does not move, but looks hesitantly from me to the child and back again. “We’ve been on the road for almost two days,” she complains.
“I’m aware,” I reply, growing impatient. “But we only have a few hours before we get ready for the first show. You have to rehearse at least once in the big top before then.”
“Theo needs to be fed and I’m exhausted.” Her voice rises to almost a whine and I am reminded yet again of just how young she is. I remember just for a second what it was like to want to do something else, to look through the window of the practice hall and see girls skipping rope in the valley and wish that I could join them.
“All right,” I relent. “Take fifteen minutes. Go get him settled with Elsie. I’ll meet you in the big top.”
I expect her to protest again but she does not. Her face breaks into a wide smile of gratitude, as though given a great gift. “Thank you,” she says, and as she carries Theo in the direction of the train, I look back over my shoulder toward the big top. Acquiescing was not entirely for Noa’s benefit. The workers are still tightening the poles; the trapeze is not quite ready. And she will rehearse better if she can concentrate on flying, instead of worrying about Theo.
As Noa disappears into the train, my doubts rise anew. Since she first let go and flew last month, she has grown stronger in her training. But she is still so inexperienced. Will she hold up day after day in front of the lights and the scrutiny of the crowd?
I walk into the big top, inhaling the moist earth and damp wood. This is one of my favorite moments each season, when everything at the circus is fresh and new. Other performers, jugglers and a few contortionists, have trickled in, working on their own acts. Peter is not here and I wonder if he is rehearsing privately, out of view, so as not to be rebuked for the political act Herr Neuhoff forbade him from performing.
Peter had mentioned it a few days earlier. “Herr Neuhoff is trying to persuade me to water down the act, bury it.”
“I know,” I replied. “He spoke to me about it, as well.”
“What do you think?” Peter was normally so self-assured. But his face was troubled and I could see he really did not know what to do.