“Performing with a gun to the head,” I say. “Where is the joy in that?” It is not about joy now, though, but survival. And Noa is right: lying here will not change things or bring Peter back. The circus, my act, they are the only things I have. “Fine,” I say, standing up. She takes Theo to the cabin where Elsie is staying as I find my practice leotard and hold it up to the light, remembering the last time I had worn it, feeling Peter’s touch against the fabric. My throat grows scratchy. Perhaps I cannot do this after all. But I put on the leotard. When Noa returns, I let her lead me from the cabin.
We cross the fairgrounds. The workers have done their best to assemble everything, from the beer tent to the carousel, exactly as they had been in Thiers. But the grounds here are abysmal—a dirt field at the edge of an abandoned stone quarry, uneven and pockmarked from fighting that had passed this way earlier in the war.
As we near the big top, I glimpse the trapeze through the open flap. Then I stop. How can I ever fly again, knowing that Peter will not be there to see me?
Noa takes my hand. “Astrid, please.”
“I can do it,” I say, shaking her off.
Inside, I can see that nothing is right. The tent has been shoddily erected with the grounds not properly prepared and with less than half the workers, most local and inexperienced. What would Herr Neuhoff have thought of his grand circus, now in tatters? The will had stipulated that the circus go on, but there are a thousand little details it could not account for, about wages and living conditions and working hours and such. It would be easy to blame Emmet. The downfall of the circus had not begun with him, though; the cracks had been months or years in coming; only now, in this godforsaken village with no one to lead us, the weaknesses have been exposed, their full depth revealed.
Enough. I steel myself. With the circus in such a state, Noa and the others need me more than ever. I start forward with new determination, pull back the flap of the big top, then lift my head to appraise the state of the trapeze apparatus. Above, a dark unfamiliar object catches my eye. For a second, I think it is one of the other aerialists rehearsing. I step back, not ready to face anyone else yet.
The person in the air does not move with any force, though, but rather hangs limply. “What on earth?” I move closer for a better look.
From the Spanish web, where I had once performed, hangs the lifeless body of Metz, the clockmaker.
“Astrid, what is it?” Noa asks as I sink to the ground. It is almost impossible to hear her over the buzzing in my ears, growing louder. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks. Her gaze is focused downward on me, not seeing the horror of what I see above. “This was a mistake. Let me help you back to bed...”
“Call for the workers,” I command, but even as I say this, I know it is too late. “Go now.” I want her to leave the tent to spare her from the sight. But her eyes follow my gaze upward and she lets out a bloodcurdling scream.
I grab Noa by the shoulders and force her from the big top. “The laborers,” I order again, more firmly now. “Go!” Alone now, I stare up at Metz. I had seen Herr Neuhoff die just days earlier. But this is different. Metz died because he was a Jew—and because he thought all hope was gone. That could have been me. I stand silently, touching my coat where the star should have been, a moment of solidarity.
“In the big top!” I hear Noa calling outside. “Please hurry.”
Two workers rush into the tent. I stand alone, watching as the laborers climb the ladder, then try to reach out with the long pole we use to pull in the trapeze bar in order to retrieve Metz.
I turn away, sickened and not wanting to see anymore. Noa hurries back in, Emmet close behind. “Damn it,” he swears.
“Should we call the police?” Noa asks.
“No, of course not,” Emmet snaps. “We can’t afford to attract attention from the police.”
“But if someone killed him, we have to report it,” she protests with more force than I imagined she might show against Emmet. He does not answer, but storms from the tent.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Noa, no one killed him. He killed himself.”
“What?” I watch her expression as she grapples with the idea.
“Surely you’ve heard of suicide.”
“Yes, of course. But how can you be sure?”
“There are no signs of a struggle,” I explain. “I just wish I knew why.”
Noa’s face crumples. “He must have found out.”
“Found out what?” I demand.
She hesitates, and I can tell she has been keeping something from me. “Emmet said he was letting the workers go.”
“What?” I am stunned by the notion. Metz must have somehow learned of Emmet’s plan. With his family gone and no chance of sanctuary, he had given up, taken his life instead of letting it be taken. He had not seen another way out.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Noa says quickly. “Emmet threatened me if I said anything. And I didn’t want to worry you...” Not listening to the rest of her explanation, I walk from the tent.
Word has spread quickly through the fairgrounds and workers and performers have clustered outside the big top. I circle the gathering and find Emmet on the far side, standing uneasy and separate from the others. “How could you?” I demand. “We need these people.”
His eyes widen. “You’ve been lying around for days, and now you want to tell me how to run the show?” he snarls. “You’ve got some nerve.”
“It’s you who’s got the nerve, Emmet.” Noa’s voice comes from behind me. “If you had told them before we left Thiers, that man might have had a chance.”
“This is none of your concern,” he counters.
“Are you going to tell them or am I?” He is caught off guard by Noa’s defiance.
The others draw closer now, having overheard. “Tell us what?” one of the acrobats demands.
Emmet shifts uncomfortably, then turns to the crowd that has assembled. “I’m sorry to tell you that the circus is nearly out of money. We will be letting all of the workers go.”
“Except for the foremen,” I interject quickly. I am overstepping my place, but I do not care. I continue quickly before Emmet can protest, “And those who have been with the circus for more than five years.” If everyone left at once there would be no one to run the show.
“Goddammit!” one of the workers swears. “You can’t do this!”
“There’s no other choice,” Emmet replies coldly.
“You will each receive two weeks’ pay and a train ticket home,” I add. “Isn’t that right, Emmet?”
Emmet glares at me. Clearly he had not been planning that. “Yes, yes, of course. If you go peacefully. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.” He slinks away, keeping his eyes on us as if afraid to turn his back. When he has gone, the workers begin to dissipate, still grumbling. The performers, spared for now, go more quietly to rehearse.
At last only Noa and I remain outside the big top. Behind us, there is a clattering noise and I turn in time to see the two workers who had gotten Metz down carry his body from the big top. “Oh!” Noa says, covering her mouth with her hand. “Astrid, I still don’t understand it. Even if things were so bad, to just give up like that...”
“Don’t judge,” I say, the rebuke in my voice sharper than I intended. “Sometimes the running just gets to be too much.”
22