Inside the tent, the lights are lowered and the whole house thrown into darkness. A spotlight comes on, creating a pool of gold on the floor at the center of the ring. The orchestra strikes a stirring chord. Herr Neuhoff appears, majestic in his bow tie and top hat. “Mesdames et Messieurs...” Herr Neuhoff booms into a microphone.
The “Thunder and Lightning Polka” begins to play and the plumed horses prance into the ring. Their riders, among the most ornately costumed of the women, have no saddle but ride bareback, hardly sitting at all as they scissor their legs from side to side. One rider stands and tumbles from a standing position backward through the air, landing neatly on a second horse. Though I have seen the act in rehearsal, I cannot help but gasp along with the crowd.
The program of the circus, Astrid explained once, is deliberately designed—a fast act, then a slow one then fast again, lions and other dangerous animals interspersed with human pantomimes. “You want the light bits after serious,” she’d said, “like cleansing the palate after each course of a meal.” But there are practicalities, too, such as the time needed to bring the animal cages in and out that makes placing them close to intermission a necessity.
Watching, I realize that the design of the big top is deliberate, too. The angles of the benches are steep to face the gaze downward. The rounded seating makes the crowd play off one another’s responses, and the unbroken circle is like a wire for the electricity that fills the tent. The audience sits motionless, mesmerized by the web of color, lights, music and artistry. Their eyes dance with the arc of the juggler’s balls and they gasp in appreciation as one of the trainers waltzes with a lion. Astrid was right: even as war rages on, the people still have to live—they shop for their foodstuffs and tend their homes—why not laugh at the circus as they had when the world was still whole?
Next comes the high wire. A girl named Yeta stands at the top of a platform, holding aloft a long pole for balance. The act terrifies me even more than the trapeze and I have thanked God several times that Herr Neuhoff had not selected me for that instead of the trapeze. There is a slow adagio in the music, a pause for dramatic value. Then as Yeta steps out on the wire, music thunders and the whole tent seems to shiver.
Yeta’s foot slips and she struggles to regain her balance. Why now, in this act she has practiced and performed dozens of times? She nearly rights herself, then wobbles again, this time too far to recover. There is a collective gasp as she falls through the air screaming, limbs flailing as if trying to swim. “No!” I cry aloud. In her descent, I see the day Astrid had pushed me all over again.
I start forward. We have to help her. But Astrid pulls me back. Yeta lands in the net, which crashes low to the ground. She lies there, not moving. The spectators seem to hold their breath, as if wondering whether to worry or if the fall is just part of the act. Workers rush forward to carry her from the ring, out of sight of the crowd. Watching Yeta’s limp body, I grow terrified. That could happen to me. Yeta is rushed outside to a Peugeot that has pulled up behind the big top. I expected an ambulance, but the workers bundle her in the back of the car and it drives away.
“An accident at the first show of the season,” a voice beside me says, spicy breath warm on my bare shoulder. Though we have never spoken, I recognize the woman with flowing silver hair as Drina, the Gypsy who reads fortunes on the midway before the show and at intermission. “A terrible omen.”
“Nonsense,” Astrid says, waving her hand dismissively. But her face is grave.
“Will Yeta be all right?” I ask, when Drina has gone.
“I don’t know,” Astrid says bluntly. “Even if she lives, she may not perform again.” She made living without the show sound almost worse than dying.
“Do you believe the fortune-teller?” I hear myself asking too many questions. “About a bad omen, I mean.”
“Bah!” Astrid waves her hand. “If she can really see the future, then what is she doing stuck here?” She has a point.
I peer into the tent where the crowd waits uncertainly. Surely the rest of the show will have to be canceled. But the performers stand close, still ready to go on. “Clowns, schnell!” Herr Neuhoff calls, signaling quickly for the next act. The clowns tumble in, pantomiming a city scene. Happy clowns with large shoes and tiny little hats. Musical clowns. Buffoons who mock everything.
Peter seems to fit into none of these. He steps into the ring last, his face white and red with great black lines, eyeing the audience as though they have kept him waiting. Not sad, but a serious clown, his wit acerbic, smiles hard-won. While the other clowns perform a skit in tandem, Peter dances on the periphery, creating a pantomime all his own. He holds the entire chapiteau captive, cajoling, teasing, sensing who is reticent to come along on the journey or perhaps weary and drawing them in. It is as if he wills the audience to please him with their response and applause, when in fact the opposite should be the case. From the darkness in the corner, Astrid watches Peter, eyes rapt.
Herr Neuhoff also watches from the edge of the ring, his face uneasy. I hold my breath, waiting for Peter to launch into the goose-stepping routine Herr Neuhoff had forbidden. Peter has not incorporated the pro-Vichy anthem Herr Neuhoff suggested earlier into his act. But he keeps his performance light, as if sensing that after Yeta’s fall, anything else would be too much.
The clowns are followed by the elephants in their jeweled headpieces, the bear and monkeys in little dresses not unlike my own. The show breaks for intermission and the house lights go up. Patrons make their way back to the midway to stretch their legs and smoke. But the break is not for us. “We’re next,” Astrid informs me. “We must get ready.”
“Astrid, wait...” A giant pit seems to open in my stomach. Until now I had just been a spectator at the show, nearly forgetting the real reason I am here. But to actually step out in front of the crowd...after what happened to Yeta, how can I possibly? “I can’t do this.” My mind is a blur and I’ve forgotten everything.
“Of course you can,” she reassures, placing a hand on my shoulder. “That’s just your nerves.”
“No, I’ve forgotten everything. I’m not ready.” My voice rises with panic. A few of the other performers turn in my direction. One of the acrobats curves her mouth smugly, as if everything she suspected about me has proved true.
Astrid leads me away and then stops, placing one hand on each of my shoulders. “Now, listen to me. You are good. Gifted even. And you have worked hard. Ignore the audience and imagine it is just the two of us back in Darmstadt. You can do this.” She kisses me firmly on each cheek, as if pressing some of her calm and strength into me. Then she turns and starts for the ring.