Afterward some of the performers sign autographs for the crowd that has gathered at the edge of the backyard. I watch nervously as Astrid accepts praise: perhaps she should not be out here. But the German officer does not appear.
At the far end of the yard I see Peter, not signing autographs, but pacing and talking to himself as intently as he had before the beginning of the show. He is going over his performance, finding the mistakes and marking the things he will fix for next time. The circus artists are every bit as intent as a ballet dancer or concert pianist. Every tiny flaw is a gaping wound, even though it had not been noticed by anyone else at all.
When the last program has been signed, we make our way back to the train, past the workers scrubbing down and feeding the animals. “Once there might have been fireworks after the first evening show,” Astrid remarks, staring up at the darkness of the sky.
“But not anymore?” I ask.
“Too expensive,” she replies. “And no one seems to find explosions enjoyable these days.”
Weariness engulfs me then. My bones ache and my skin is chilled with dry sweat. All I want to do is return to Theo and collapse around the sweet warmth of his body. But Astrid cajoles me back to the dressing car, where we hang our costumes and remove our makeup. She rubs warm salve into my shoulders, pine scented and tingly. “I just want to sleep,” I protest, trying to shrug her off.
“Our bodies are all that we have in this business. We must take care of them. You’ll be glad tomorrow,” she promises, her fingers digging hard into my neck. My muscles burn like fire.
“You did beautifully,” Astrid continues, her voice full and sincere, offering the praise I had longed for earlier. My heart seems to skip a beat. “Of course your legs could have been a bit straighter on the second pass,” she adds, bringing me down to earth. Because Astrid will always be Astrid. “We can fix that tomorrow.” Tomorrow, I think, the days of endless practices and shows stretching out before me. “I’m proud of you,” she adds, and I can feel my cheeks flush.
We start from the dressing car toward the sleeper. Then I stop. I am worried still about the German officer who saw her and the possibility that he might realize who she is. Astrid will not tell anyone, but should I? I look in the direction of Peter’s car. He cares for her, I can tell, and would be the best person to keep her safe. If I go to him, though, he will tell Astrid. Herr Neuhoff, I think. I have spoken little to him since arriving at the circus, but he has always been kind. It is his circus. Surely he will know what to do. I see Astrid’s glowering face, hear her voice: No one can know. She will be furious if she finds out I have gone against her. But Herr Neuhoff runs the circus; he is my best hope of keeping Astrid safe.
I desperately want to get to Theo. He will be sleeping, though—and there is something else I must do first. “I forgot something,” I say, turning back in the other direction before she can answer any questions.
*
I knock at the door of Herr Neuhoff’s carriage, the last one before the caboose. “Come in,” he calls from inside, and I open the door. I’ve never been here before. Inside, it is pleasantly furnished, a curtain separating the bed and sitting areas. Herr Neuhoff sits at a desk, his girth threatening to topple the rickety chair beneath. He’s taken off the velvet jacket he wore in the ring and opened the collar of his ruffled linen dress shirt, which is now darkened with perspiration. A cigar stub in the ashtray gives off a scorched smell. He is going over the books, head bowed. Running a circus is a huge enterprise that goes beyond the ring or even the winter quarters. He is responsible for everyone’s well-being, paying not just their wages but the rent and food. I see then his weariness and age, and the heaviness of his burden.
He looks up from the ledger in front of him, brow still furrowed. “Yes?” he says, his voice brisk but not unkind.
“Am I interrupting?” I manage.
“No,” he replies, but his voice is flat, eyes more sunken than a few hours ago. “This awful business with Yeta falling. I have to file a report with the authorities.”
“Will she be all right?” I ask, half-afraid of the answer.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I will go to the hospital at first light. But first the authorities have asked for a tax to be paid tomorrow. A sin tax, they call it.” As though what we did, providing entertainment, was wrong. “I’m just figuring out where to draw the money from.” He smiles faintly. “The cost of doing business. What can I do for you?”
I waver, not wanting to add to his problems. A small radio plays in the corner of Herr Neuhoff’s carriage. They are contraband now and I hadn’t realized he had one. I notice, too, a neat box of writing paper and envelopes on his desk. Herr Neuhoff follows my gaze. “Do you want to write to your father and let him know you are well?” I have considered it any number of times, wondering what my parents thought had become of me, whether they worried or had written me off completely. What would I say—that I have joined a circus and I have a baby now, so very much like the one taken from me? No, there is nothing about this life that they would understand. And if they knew where I am, part of me would always hope they would come for me—and I would be heartbroken all over again when they did not.
“I could write for you,” he offers. I shake my head. “Then how can I help?”
Before I can explain why I have come, Herr Neuhoff wheezes, his cough deeper and more barking than it had been in the winter quarters. He reaches for a glass of water. When the coughing subsides, he swallows a pill. “Are you all right, sir?” I hope the question is not too forward.
He waves his hand, as though swatting a fly. “A family heart condition. I’ve always had it. The damp spring weather doesn’t help. Now, you needed something?” He pushes for my question, eager to return to the books.
“It’s about Astrid,” I begin hesitantly. Taking a deep breath, I tell him about the German in the front row who knew her.
His face darkens. “I feared something like this might happen sooner or later,” he says. “Thank you for letting me know.” I can tell from his tone I have been dismissed.
I turn back, daring to interrupt him one more time. “Sir, one last thing—Astrid would be very angry if she knew I told you.”
I watch the conflict on his face, wanting to agree to keep my secret, but unable to promise without lying. “I won’t say I heard it from you.” The offer is little comfort. I’m the only one who knows. Worry tugs at my stomach as I walk from the train car.
When I reach our carriage, Astrid sits on the berth in the darkness, holding Theo, who is sleeping. I fight the urge to poke him so he will open his dark eyes and look at me. “He went down a few minutes ago,” she says. Knowing that I just missed Theo being awake almost makes it worse. She strokes his cheek gently.