A bell sounds and the audience returns to their seats. As I peer beyond the curtain at the crowd that waits expectantly, my legs grow heavy. I cannot possibly step out there. “Go,” Astrid growls, pushing me out roughly as the music cues us.
As the houselights dim once more, we scamper into the ring. In the winter quarters, the ladder had been bolted to the wall. But here it dangles from above, scarcely held in place at the bottom. I struggle not to fall as it wobbles. The climb takes longer than I expected and I have only just reached the board when the spotlight rises. It licks the sides of the tent, finds me. And then I am displayed before the crowd. I shiver. Why is it that the clowns can hide behind the oily greasepaint while we stand nearly naked, nothing but a thin slip of nylon separating us from hundreds of eyes?
The music slows, signaling the start of our act. Then there is silence, followed by a drumroll that grows louder, my cue to leap. “Hup!” comes Astrid’s call across the darkness. I am supposed to release right after she says it, but I do not. Astrid swings, waiting for me. In another second it will be too late and the act will be a failure.
With a deep breath, I leap from the board. Suddenly there is nothing beneath my feet but air. Though I have flown dozens of times in the winter quarters, I feel a second of sheer terror, as if it is the first time all over again. I swing higher, pushing fear away and relishing the air as it whooshes around me.
Astrid flies toward me, arms extended. I have to let go at the top of the arc for the trick to work. The catch still terrifies me, though, and more so now than ever after seeing Yeta fall. Astrid had let me fall once before, caused it. Would she do it again?
Our eyes lock. Trust me, she seems to say. I let go and soar through the air. Astrid’s hands clasp mine, swinging me below her for a split second. Relief and excitement surge through me. There is no time to celebrate, though. A second later, Astrid flings me back in the direction I need to go. I force myself to concentrate once more, spinning as she taught me. Then I reach outward, hardly daring to look. Astrid has aligned me perfectly, and the bar falls into my hands and the crowd cheers. I swing up to the board, the world righting itself beneath my feet.
We’ve done it! My heart fills with joy and I am happier than I’ve been since I can remember. The act is not over, though, and Astrid is waiting for me, her face stern, intensity unbroken. We perform the second pass, this time Astrid catching me by my feet. The applause lifts me higher now. Another pass and return, then it is over. For an instant, I am almost more sad than relieved.
I straighten as the spotlight finds me on the board. The audience cheers on and on. For me. They haven’t seen the work Astrid had done as catcher at all. I understand then how hard it was for her to have given up the limelight, the things she has sacrificed to bring me into the act.
The lights go down and Peter prepares to enter the ring once more, this time for a solo performance. Unlike other performers who appear once or twice during the show, he goes on repeatedly between larger acts, a thread tying the whole show together. Now he distracts the crowd with his routine, giving the workers time to finish positioning the lion and tiger cages, which had been brought in through the darkness beneath our act.
Astrid and I climb down and hurry out to the backyard in the semidarkness. “We did it!” I exclaim, throwing my arms around Astrid. I wait for her praise. Surely now she will be pleased with me. But she does not respond and a second later, I step back, dejected.
“You did well,” she says finally. But her tone is understated, and her face is troubled.
“I know I was late on the first pass...” I begin.
“Shh.” She shoos me away, staring into the tent. I follow her gaze to where a man sits in the front row—in an SS uniform. I am suddenly queasy. Surely I would have noticed him if he had been there during the first half of the show. He must have come in during intermission. In my nervousness, I had not seen him.
“I’m sure he is just here to see the show,” I say, wanting to reassure her. But there is no strength behind my words. What on earth is a German officer doing here? His expression is relaxed as he watches the trainer cajole the big cats into doing tricks. “Still you have to warn Peter not to do that bit in his next act...” I stop, realizing she isn’t listening, but still peering rapt through the curtain.
“I know him.” Astrid’s voice is calm, but her skin has gone pale.
“The German?” She nods. “Are you sure?” I ask over the tightening in my throat. “They all look so similar in those awful uniforms.”
“An associate of my husband’s.” Ex-husband, I want to correct, but in the moment it seems unwise.
“You can’t go out there again,” I fret. Though I am done for the show, Astrid has a second act on the Spanish web. My chest tightens. “You must tell Herr Neuhoff.”
“Never!” she spits, sounding more angry than scared now. “I don’t want him to worry about having me in the act. If I cannot perform, I have no value to the show.” And then Herr Neuhoff’s protection would be just charity. She faces me squarely. “It would be the end of me. You must swear not to tell. No one can know.”
“Let me go on for you,” I plead. Of course my offer is hollow—I have no training on the ropes or any other act beyond the trapeze.
I turn and look behind me desperately. Peter, if I can find him, might be able to persuade Astrid not to go on. “Astrid, please wait...” But it is too late—she strides into the ring, shoulders squared with determination. In that moment, I see just how brave she really is. I am awed—and petrified—for her.
Astrid climbs a different ladder from the one she had used earlier. This time she hangs from a single satin rope, seemingly suspended in midair. I hold my breath, studying the officer’s face for some sign of recognition. But he watches her, too mesmerized to suspect. She tells a story, weaves a tapestry with her moves. It holds him—and the entire audience—captivated. I remain terrified, though, unable to breathe. Astrid’s beauty and the legendary skill of her act scream like a bullhorn, threatening to betray her true identity.
“Hidden in plain sight,” Astrid muses over the thundering applause as she exits the tent. There is a note of self-satisfaction to her voice, a part of her that liked deceiving the German. But her hands tremble as she undoes her wraps.
Then it is over. The entire circus steps out for a final bow, the full panoply of spectacle unfurled for the audience to admire once more. I climb the ladder as Astrid had instructed me and we take our final bow from opposing boards, not flying but simply extending one leg high out into the air like ballerinas. Children wave furiously at the sweat-glistening performers, who bow modestly in return, like actors not breaking from their roles.