We step outside. Earlier when we’d gone to practice, the sky above the big top had been painted in pinks and blues. But now a wreath of fog sits atop the chapiteau like a cap drawn low across the brow. We cross the backyard of the circus, the open space where tent meets train car and the circus people spend their time, away from the prying eyes of the audience. Undergarments flap shamelessly on a clothesline. Near the cookhouse, the steamy smell of boiled potatoes wafts out, signaling the menu for dinner. I hear the clanking of dishes, a half-dozen workers washing dishes from the noon meal.
As we pass the big tent, the noises from inside are a familiar symphony, a clarinetist practicing and the grunt of the strong man mixed with the clanking of swords as two clowns engage in a mock duel. Through the gap in the curtain, the arena looks sad in the harsh light of day. The velvet seat cushions are frayed and stained. The once-clean sawdust that covered the ground is now littered with candy wrappers and cigarette butts. A pool of yellow in the corner where a horse had urinated gives the air a sour smell.
At the edge of the fairgrounds beneath a just-blossoming cherry tree sits Drina, exotic purple skirt splayed around her, large knuckles bending beneath jeweled rings as she shuffles a deck of cards. She joins the circus each year, Astrid told me, appearing at the first tour stop and staying until season’s end, entertaining audiences on the midway before shows. In this strange world where almost all are accepted, Drina is still an outsider. Not just because she is Roma, a Gypsy; the circus has all kinds of races. But her act is a sort of trickery it seems, like magic. Not circus, Astrid said disdainfully. It is an expression I’ve heard often in the months since I’d joined them, used to describe performances that do not fit into the circus ideal.
Drina waves me over. I hesitate, looking to Astrid. “Can I?” I ask. “I’ll only be a minute.” She rolls her eyes and shrugs. I move closer, curious about the odd-looking deck of cards Drina spreads in front of her purposefully in a formation. “I don’t have any money to pay you,” I say.
She reaches up and grabs my hand without asking, runs her coarse fingers over the lines on my palm. “You were born under a lucky star,” she says. Lucky. How many times had I heard that before? “But you have known deep sorrow.” I shift uncomfortably. How can she possibly tell? “You will know peace,” she adds. It seems rather a bold prediction for these times. “But first there will be illness—and a break.”
“A break, like a bone?” I ask. “And who is going to get sick?” She shakes her head, saying no more. Suddenly uneasy, I stand. “Thank you,” I say hurriedly.
I start back to Astrid, who is twirling in a circle with Theo to amuse him. “What did she say?” Astrid asks, curious in spite of herself.
“Nothing important,” I reply self-consciously.
“I don’t know why you believe in such things,” she scoffs.
And I don’t know why you don’t, I want to reply. But I fear it will sound rude. “I like the promise of the unknown, of what might be out there.”
“The future will be here soon enough,” she replies.
Farther from the circus grounds, we start into a forest and cut through the trees. They are denser than they had appeared from a distance, a forest of pine and chestnut. It is not so very different from the one I’d been struggling through the night I’d taken Theo. But the snow is gone and tiny shoots of grass and weed poke out of the damp earth. Light slants through the branches, which are dotted with the earliest of green buds. Something rustles in the low brush, a fox or perhaps a hedgehog. If the weather had been mild that night as now, I might not have collapsed and found my way to the circus at all.
“I thought I might also look for some extra food for Theo in town,” I tell Astrid. “Some rice cereal or fresh milk.”
“It’s Sunday,” Astrid points out. I nod. That’s the catch: the one day that I can get away to town is the same day that most shops will be closed. “Of course there is always the black market...” I’d heard of such things from the time our village was occupied, as well as at the girls’ home and the train station, people selling goods illegally that one couldn’t get elsewhere at a higher price.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin finding that.” My shoulders slump. “Perhaps if I ask in town...”
“No!” she replies sharply. “You must not do anything to arouse suspicion. If you ask the wrong person, it could raise dangerous questions.”
Soon the forest breaks to reveal a stream. Willow trees rise from its banks then arch, not quite dipping low enough to break the glass-like surface of murky water. “There,” Astrid says, stopping and gesturing across the slight arc of a wooden footbridge that marks the edge of town.
“You aren’t coming with me?” I ask, disappointed. It would have been so much easier and more pleasant to go into town together.
She shakes her head. “Best not to be seen.” I wonder if she is talking about herself or Theo or both. Is she thinking still of the German who had come to the show that first night? But her eyes still look longingly toward the village. “Anyway, someone has to mind Theo,” she reminds me. “You have your papers, yes?”
“Yes.” I pat my pocket.
“Be careful.” Her brow furrows as she studies my face. “Speak with no one unless you absolutely must.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I say, kissing Theo on the head. He reaches out his tiny hand, as if to say: take me with you. More and more each day it is as if a veil has been lifted and he sees the world, understanding.
A tiny piece of my heart seems to break off then and there as I squeeze his fingers gently. “You should go now if you are going at all,” Astrid nudges. I kiss Theo once more then start toward the base of the hill on which Thiers is situated, and begin to climb the steep path that winds through the half-timber houses with shutters the color of ash set close to the road. Partridges call out to one another from the eaves. The main street is quiet on a Sunday afternoon, with most of the shops closed. A few old women in shawls make their way toward the Romanesque church at the top of the town square. It is the oddest sort of normal—a café with well-coiffed women sipping coffee and nibbling madeleines behind round windows, men playing boules on a grassy patch by the town square. A boy of ten or eleven sells newspapers at the corner.