The problem had lain with Erich, I realize, smugly. Not me. His perfect Aryan body was flawed. There would be no family for him with someone else either.
But my anxiety quickly eclipses any bit of satisfaction. Pregnancy had been the furthest thing from my mind, a child a long-forgotten dream. I am too old to be starting a family. Peter, with his moods and depression, hardly seems like an ideal father. We are not that kind of a couple. And we have no home.
I could take care of it. I have heard whispers of such things more than once during my years with the circus. Even as I think it, though, I know this is not an option.
Peter walks in and it is the one time I am not glad to see him. I swipe a hand across my cheeks to make sure they are dry, then cover my stomach, as though he might see the difference. I do not want to tell him and add to the stress and exhaustion of performing and being on the road. He does not need to worry about this now. I wait for him to see that I am pale and shaking, or perhaps smell the stench that lingers about me.
But he is too distracted to notice. “Come, I want to show you something,” he says, taking my hand and leading me from the ring to his cabin. It is close to the edge of the fairgrounds, a single, solid room not much larger than a shed. I stand in the doorway uncertainly, the smell of damp wood and earth mixing with stale smoke. I have not stayed with him since coming to Thiers because he’s been rehearsing so intently I haven’t wanted to intrude. Will he try to take me in his arms? I do not think I can bear to be close to him right now. Instead he beckons me past the bed. On the other side stands a new piece of furniture, a low rectangular oak chest, about five feet long, almost like an oversize steamer trunk.
“It’s lovely,” I say and run my hand over the wood, admiring the elaborately carved lid. “Where did you get it?” And why? Peter, with his Spartan and comfortless cabin, is not one for material possessions.
“I saw it at the local market and bartered with the woodworker. Don’t worry.” He smiles. “I got a good price.” But it isn’t that; the piece is solid and permanent, so impractical and out of place for the circus. What will he do with it when we move on?
Peter is not an illogical man and I wait for the further explanation that will make sense. He opens the lid and runs his hand along the bottom. Then he lifts it up, revealing a secret compartment, maybe a foot deep—just enough for a small person, if one laid flat. “Oh!” I exclaim.
“Just in case,” he says. He means for me to hide in it, if the SS or police come again. He watches my face and I try to control my reaction to the space, suffocating and coffin-like. “We really haven’t had a suitable hiding place for you here so I thought this might do,” he explains, trying to sound matter-of-fact. But his face is grave. Seeing the police try to arrest the man at the show had shaken Peter, as well. He knows as I do that the Germans or the French police will come again. That we must be ready.
He is trying to protect me. But there is something in his eyes, more than concern or even just affection. I had seen that look once before when Erich and I were first married. I turn away, shaken. I recall then what Noa had said about Peter’s feelings for me. I had been so quick to deny it, not wanting to see or believe. When I peer back at his hopeful eyes, though, I know that she was right. How had I not seen it before? Until now it had been easy to just mark this as a relationship of convenience. Then Noa held a mirror up to my face and I can ignore it no longer. I think back over the months, Peter constantly by my side, trying to protect me. His feelings were not sudden or new. They had been there all the time. How had Noa, so young and naive, seen everything while I had missed it?
“You hate it,” he says, running his hand over the chest and sounding disappointed.
Yes, I want to say, though I had vowed after what happened in Darmstadt that I would never hide again. “Not exactly,” I reply instead, not wanting to hurt his feelings when he meant well. “It’s perfect,” I add, too quickly. In truth, it is smaller than the hiding place in Darmstadt. I could scarcely manage it now, much less when my stomach grows larger.
“Then what is it?” he asks, cupping my chin in his hand and studying my face. “You’re so pale. Are you ill? Did something happen?” His face creases with concern as he sees through my facade, sensing something wrong.
Terror seizes me then. Not at my pregnancy or the danger of being caught by the police, or even the SS. No, I am petrified of this...this thing between me and Peter. It started as two people who were lonely, drawn to each other to fill a void. And it was meant to stay that way. But at some point when I was not paying attention, it had turned into so much more—for me as well as for him.
I hesitate. Telling Peter will change everything. But I cannot worry him like this by remaining silent. And there is a part of me that desperately wants to share the news with him. Tell him, a voice more Noa’s than mine seems to say inside my head. He loves me and that will be enough.
I take a deep breath, exhale. “Peter, I’m pregnant.” I hold my breath waiting for his reaction.
He does not answer but stares at me blankly. “Peter, did you hear me?” I ask. The walls seem to draw closer and the air is suffocating. “Please, say something.”
“That’s impossible,” he says, his voice filled with disbelief.
“It’s true,” I reply weakly. What did he think we had been doing all of those nights in the winter quarters?
He stands up and begins to pace, running his hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s possible of course,” he continues, as though I had not spoken. “Just hard to believe. And with everything that is going on right now, it complicates things.”
My heart sinks. Telling him had been a mistake. “You don’t sound pleased,” I say, and my cheeks burn, as though I have been slapped. “I didn’t plan this. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”
He sits again and takes my hands. “No, darling, it isn’t that at all,” he replies, his face softer now, tone gentle. “Nothing would make me happier.”
“You mean, you want to be a father?” I ask, surprised.
“No,” he says quickly and my heart sinks. He does not want this after all. “It’s that I already am.” His voice is slow and scratchy, every word hard-fought.
“I don’t understand.” The room around me begins to spin and bile rises in my throat once more. I will myself to take short, shallow breaths. “What are you talking about?”
“I had a child.” Had. His face is more pained than I have ever seen it.