Her eyes widen as she realizes I have guessed her secret. Her hand rises to her stomach instinctively, a gesture I recognize from my earlier self. “Oh!” I exclaim and suddenly it is a year ago, the realization of my own missed periods and what it all meant coming back like it happened yesterday.
Should I offer congratulations? I proceed carefully, as though approaching a snake. There was a time not so very long ago when a child had not been happy news for me—it had been pure dread. I don’t know how Astrid feels. Watching her with Theo, I’ve long suspected how very much she wanted a child. She is older, though, and a Jew... Does she want one now? I search her face for cues as to how I should react.
It is racked with self-doubt. There is so much I want to say to comfort her. I move closer, put my arm around her. “You will be a wonderful mother. A child is a blessing.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” she replies. “Having a child now is just so hard.”
“I understand,” I say too quickly.
Her brow wrinkles. “How can you possibly? I mean, I know you care for Theo, but that is hardly the same.”
No, it isn’t, I agree silently. I love Theo as my own, but having him can never replace that feeling of holding my child in my arms for the first time. But she doesn’t know this. And she cannot really know me or understand what I am saying because of my secret. I should tell her. How can I possibly, though? The one thing that makes me who I am will surely make Astrid hate me—and want to be done with me for good.
The need to tell her wells up in me once more, too powerful to ignore. I can’t hold back any longer. “Astrid, I need to tell you something. Remember when I told you about my working at the train station?”
She nods. “Yes, after you left your family.”
“I didn’t really explain why I had to leave.”
“You said your father was unkind.” Her voice is uneasy.
“It was more than that.” I tell her then in my own words everything about the soldier and the baby whom I bore by him without trying to justify what I had done, the way I should have months earlier.
When I finish, I hold my breath, waiting for Astrid to tell me it is all right. But she does not. Her face is a thundercloud.
“You slept with a Nazi,” she says darkly. Though it had all happened so long before I had met her, my actions still seem a betrayal. It hadn’t been like that, though. To me, love had been love (or what I supposed love felt like) and I hadn’t understood that there were other things. I wait for her to scream at me, ask how I could have done it. Looking back, I’m not sure myself—but it had felt so natural at the time.
“I did,” I say finally. “Erich was a Nazi, too,” I add. Even as the words come out, I know I have overstepped.
“That was different.” Her eyes blaze. “He was my husband. And it was before.” Before the war had changed everyone, and forced us to choose sides. “You got pregnant. That’s why your family kicked you out.”
“Yes, I had no choice but to go to the girls’ home in Bensheim. I thought they would help me. Instead they took my child.” My voice breaks as I say this last bit—the first time I have spoken it aloud to anyone.
Her brows draw close. “Who did?”
“The doctor and nurse at the girls’ home. At first they told me that he would be placed with the Lebensborn program, but his hair and eyes were so dark...” I trail off. “I don’t know where they took him. I wanted to keep him, but they wouldn’t let me. Someday I will find him,” I vow. I expect her to laugh or mock my dream, or at least tell me it is impossible.
But she nods grimly. “You mustn’t lose hope. There could well be records.”
“I wanted to tell you.” Instead, I had been too cowardly.
“And the mayor’s son, does he know?”
I shake my head. “No one else knows. Only you.”
She stares at me. Several seconds of silence pass between us. Will she order me to leave the circus? It is the worst possible timing, of course; Theo is too sick to travel and I won’t go without him. “Are you mad?” I ask finally.
“I want to be. But it isn’t my place. You made a mistake, as we all do. And you paid dearly for it.” My shoulders slump with relief. She has forgiven me.
My worries bubble up again. “Just one more thing,” I say, and she braces, as though I’m about to reveal another secret, even worse. “You won’t tell the others, will you?”
“No. They cannot know,” she agrees. “Others might not be so understanding. No more secrets, though.”
I nod gratefully. “Agreed.”
“But Noa,” Astrid says, “you need to stop seeing him. I understand the mistake you made in the past. You were young and you could not help it. This thing with the mayor’s son is different, though. Surely you can see the danger you are bringing to Theo and to all of us.”
I open my mouth to protest. I want to tell her again that Luc is nothing at all like his father. But outsiders spell danger for Astrid and the others at the circus. She has forgiven my awful truth about the German. Giving up Luc is the price I am to pay in exchange.
Astrid is watching me closely, waiting for my answer. “All right,” I manage at last. I scarcely know Luc, but the notion of giving him up hurts more than it should.
“Promise?” she presses, still not satisfied.
“I swear it,” I say solemnly, though the idea of never seeing Luc again makes my insides ache.
“Good,” she says, seeming satisfied. “We should head back to the sleeper.”
“What about Theo?”
She looks toward Berta, who nods. “Now that his fever has broken, he’s well enough to go back.” Astrid stands and starts in the direction of the sleeper car. Then she stops and turns back, her face falling. “My body...” she frets, referring once more to her pregnancy. “If I can no longer fly...” It is not vanity. Performing is her means of survival and she worries that the baby will change all that.
“My body bounced right back after I had the baby.” How strange it feels to be able to say that openly, at least to her. “Yours will, too.” I take her arm. “Come, you must be exhausted. How long have you known, anyway?” I ask in a low voice as we move through the dark, still corridor.
“Just a few days. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” she adds. I nod, trying not to feel hurt. “It was just hard to accept myself, much less tell anyone else.”
“I understand,” I reply, meaning it. “Does Peter know?”
She nods. “Only him. Please, you mustn’t tell anyone,” she begs, trusting me now to keep her secret where before I had not. I nod. I would sooner die than tell.
“Having a child,” she says, “it’s terrifying.”
“How far along are you?” I fear I am asking her too many questions, but I cannot help it.
“About two months.”