“To save all of us,” I interject, “including you. Do you know what the Germans do to those who hide people?” I step back, fearful I’ve said more than I should.
Emmet’s eyes widen. “We will keep going where we’ve been ordered for the rest of the season,” he relents. “At least as long as we can manage financially. Papa did not leave much.”
A murmur travels among the performers. We grieve Herr Neuhoff, of course, and we will do so for a long time. The hole created by his loss is vast. But there is a practical side of things, too: How would the circus go on without him? Could it?
“Surely your father had an insurance policy?” Helmut asks.
All eyes look expectantly at Emmet, who shifts uneasily. “I believe my father had to cash it out last winter. We needed the money for expenses.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Astrid says quietly. It is just as well, I think. The money would have gone to Emmet as his heir and he would not have used it for the greater good of the circus.
“There was a will, though,” Astrid continues. Jealousy registers in Emmet’s eyes—he had not known his father or his affairs as well as Astrid. “It had a provision that the circus is not to be sold.” Behind me, someone exhales. No one would buy the circus in these times, but if possible, Emmet would have sold it for the profits and run.
“That’s ridiculous!” Emmet flares. He had assumed that whatever was left would be his, that he would have free rein to do what he wanted. He had not expected this.
“And it stipulates that all of the performers are to be kept on, unless there is misconduct,” Astrid adds.
“At least I have one less performer to pay,” Emmet says coldly, crossing his arms as he delivers this final blow.
Astrid, seemingly defeated, does not reply. I motion to put my arm around her but she shrugs me off and begins to walk away. “Don’t,” she says as I start to follow. She raises an arm to ward me off.
“I’ve arranged a late breakfast for everyone,” Emmet says, sounding eager to end the discussion.
We make our way wordlessly toward the cook tent. Fresh smells of sausage and rich brewing coffee tickle my nose. Inside, the few kitchen workers who had remained behind during the funeral have laid out a breakfast bigger than I have seen since we traveled to France, eggs and even a bit of real butter—a meal designed to comfort. I inventory the menu silently, cataloging as I always do the bits I might be able to take back for Theo.
“So much food,” I remark to one of the servers, who is refilling the plate of fried potatoes. “It seems foolish to waste it all now, no?”
“We won’t have time to pack ice if we are leaving in a few hours,” the server says. “We have to eat the perishables now so they don’t spoil.”
I take a piece of toast and some eggs for myself, then sit down at an empty table. Emmet comes over carrying a heaping plate of food, his appetite seemingly unaffected by grief. He sits down without asking. I have not been alone with him since he confronted me at the wedding and I fight the urge to stand up and leave. Then I remember his sadness at the funeral. “Such a hard day,” I remark, trying to be kind.
“Things are going to get even harder,” he replies tersely. “There will be changes when we reach Alsace. We’ll have to let most of the workers go.” The laborers are part of the circus, and they come faithfully each year in exchange for steady work, a promise kept on both sides. How can he do this?
“I thought your father’s will said everyone was to stay on,” I offer.
“His will only spoke of the performers,” he snaps.
“Surely your father intended...”
“My father isn’t here anymore,” he says, cutting me off. “We can’t afford to keep everyone on. We will find help locally as we go.” Just a minute earlier I felt sorry for Emmet. Now my goodwill hardens. The wheels in his mind are turning, ready to bleed the circus of its talent penny by penny in order to draw the most benefit for the least possible work. His father’s body is not even cold and already Emmet is destroying things. He may be genuinely grieving his father, but he is also using it as an excuse for being as awful as he really wants. “We can make do with half as many if everyone pitches in,” he adds. The suggestion belies how little he knows about what we do. Even I understand the manpower and expertise that are needed.
I look over my shoulder in the direction of the train. If only Astrid was here to reason with Emmet. Then I remember her worn face and weak voice. In her present condition, she would be in no shape to manage it. “When will you tell them?” I ask.
“Not until we reach Alsace. The workers can stay with us until then.” Emmet says this benevolently, as if bestowing a great gift. But it is not for the laborers’ benefit: he wants them to tear everything down—and to go back accounted for.
“What about their contracts?” I ask.
“Contracts?” Emmet repeats mockingly. “Only the performers have those.”
I do not argue further. My eyes travel across the dining room toward the laborers’ tables, where a thin, graying handyman is clearing his plate, shoulders hunched. I recall the story about the Jewish handyman that Astrid had told me, the man Herr Neuhoff had given refuge. With Herr Neuhoff dead and Emmet dismissing the workers, the man would have no sanctuary. Neither would Astrid or any of the rest of us.
“Some of these people have no homes to go back to,” I say, staying purposefully vague.
“You mean like the old Jew?” Emmet asks harshly. I am unable to hide the surprise on my face. “I know about him,” he adds.
I instantly regret having spoken—but it is too late to turn back. “If you tell him before we go, he might have the chance to escape before we leave.”
“Escape? He has no papers.” Emmet leans in close to me, his voice low, breath hot and sour. “I’m not telling him or the other workers now. And you better not either, if you know what is good for you.” He does not bother to hide his threat. My blood chills. Emmet would not hesitate to throw a person to the wolves if it suited his purpose—including me.
Not wanting to listen any longer, I stand and pocket the napkin I used to wrap some eggs and toast for Theo. “Excuse me,” I say. I walk from the cook tent back toward the train.
As I cross the fairgrounds, I pass Drina, the fortune-teller, seated beneath a different tree, closer now than the time I had seen her before. She smiles faintly and holds her tarot deck up to me, an offering. But I shake my head. I no longer want to see the future.
*