The Orphan's Tale. Pam Jenoff

additional cities in France where the circus will perform. My head swims. “Not so many this time,” she finishes. “We used to go farther—Copenhagen, Lake Como. But with the war it isn’t possible.”

      I am not disappointed, though—I can hardly fathom traveling farther than Germany. “Will we perform in Paris?”

      “We?” she repeats. I realize my error too late: it is one thing for Astrid to include me in the circus’s future plans, but to do it myself is overstepping. “You have to prove yourself before you can join us.”

      “I meant, does the circus go to Paris?” I correct quickly.

      She shakes her head. “Too much competition from the French circuses there. And too expensive. But when I lived in Berlin—”

      “I thought you grew up in Darmstadt,” I interrupt.

      “I was born into my family’s circus here. But I left for a time when I was married.” She fiddles with the gold earring in her left ear. “Before Peter.” Her voice softens.

      “Peter...he was the man who was with you last night?” The somber man who sat in the corner of my room smoking had spoken little. His dark eyes burned intensely.

      “Yes,” she replies. Her eyes turn guarded, like a door snapping shut. “You should not ask so many questions,” she adds, terse once more.

      I had asked about only a few things, I want to point out in my own defense. But sometimes one question can feel like a thousand—like the previous night, when Herr Neuhoff asked about my past. There are so many other things I still want to know about Astrid, though, like where her family had gone and why she performs with Herr Neuhoff’s circus instead.

      “Peter is a clown,” Astrid says. I look across the practice hall at the handful of other performers who have come in, a juggler and a man with a monkey, but I do not see him. I picture his large Cossack features, the sloped mustache and drooping cheeks. He could not have been anything but a sad clown, so fitting for these dreary times.

      As if on cue, Peter enters the practice hall. He does not wear the makeup I would have imagined for a clown, but baggy trousers and a floppy hat. His eyes meet Astrid’s. Though there are others here, I suddenly feel like an intruder in the space between them. He does not come over, but I can feel his affection for her as he studies her face. He walks to a piano in the far corner of the hall and speaks with the man seated at it, who begins to play.

      When she faces me, Astrid’s expression is hard and businesslike once more. “Your brother,” she says, “he looks nothing like you.”

      I am caught off guard by the abrupt shift of topic. “My mother,” I feign. “She was very dark-skinned.” I bite my tongue, trying to counter my natural instinct of offering too much information. I brace for an onslaught of additional questions, but Astrid seems content to leave it alone and continues eating in silence.

      At the end of the theater, Peter is rehearsing an act, goose-stepping with legs straight out, imitating with great exaggeration the march of the German soldier. Watching him, I grow nervous. I turn to Astrid. “Surely he isn’t planning to do that for the show?” She does not answer, but stares at him, her eyes narrow with fear.

      Herr Neuhoff enters and crosses the hall with more speed than I would have thought he could manage, given his age and weight. He barrels toward Peter, face stormy. Had he seen Peter rehearsing through one of the windows or had someone told him about the routine? The music stops abruptly with a clatter. Herr Neuhoff confers with Peter. Though his voice is low, he gestures wildly with his hands. Peter shakes his head vehemently. Astrid’s brow wrinkles with concern as she watches the two men.

      A minute later Herr Neuhoff clambers toward us, red-faced. “You must talk to him,” he thunders at Astrid. “This new act mocking the Germans...”

      Astrid raises her palms plaintively upward. “I can’t stop him. That’s who he is as an artist.”

      Herr Neuhoff will not let the matter go. “We keep our heads low, stay out of the fray—that’s how I’ve been able to keep this circus going—and protect everyone.” From what? I want to ask. But I do not dare. “Tell him, Astrid,” Herr Neuhoff urges in a low voice. “He’ll listen to you. Tell him—or I’ll pull him from the show.”

      Alarm crosses Astrid’s face. “I’ll try,” she promises.

      “Would he?” I cannot help but ask after Herr Neuhoff has walked from the building. “Pull Peter from the show, I mean.”

      She shakes her head. “Peter is one of the circus’s biggest draws and his acts are what hold the whole thing together. Without him, there is no show,” she adds. But she is still upset. Her hand shakes as she puts her sandwich away, largely uneaten. “We should keep going and rehearse the next bit.”

      I take a bite, swallow hurriedly. “There’s more?”

      “You think people will pay just to see you hang there like a monkey?” Astrid laughs harshly. “You’ve only just started. It is not enough to simply swing back and forth. Anyone can do that. We need to dance in the air, do things that seem impossible. Don’t worry, I will line up your trick so that when you release and fly, I’m in place to catch you.”

      The bread I’ve just eaten sticks in my throat as I remember the way she tumbled through the air. “Fly?” I manage.

      “Yes. That’s why it is called the flying trapeze. You are the flier and you will release and come to me. I will be the catcher.” She starts for the ring.

      But I remain in place, feet planted. “Why must I be the one to let go?” I dare to ask.

      “Because I would never trust you to catch me.” Her voice is cold. “Come.”

      She heads for a ladder on the other side of the room, parallel to the one we’d climbed earlier, but with a sturdier-looking swing. I follow, but she shakes her head. “You go on that side with Gerda.” She gestures to another aerialist whom I hadn’t seen come in and who is already climbing the ladder Astrid and I had used previously. I follow her. At the top, Astrid and I stand on opposite platforms, an ocean apart from one another. “Swing just like before. And when I say, you let go. I will do the rest.”

      “And Gerda?” I ask, stalling.

      “She will send the bar back for you to catch on the return,” Astrid replies.

      I stare at her, not believing. “So I have to let go twice?”

      “Unless you have wings, yes. You have to get back somehow.” Astrid grabs the opposite bar and leaps, then swings around so she is hanging by her legs. “Now you,” she prompts.

      I jump out, kicking my toes high. “Higher, higher,” she urges, her arms extended toward me. “You have to be above me when I tell you to let go.” I force myself upward, driving with my feet. “Better. On my cue. Three, two, one—now!” But my hands remain stuck to the bar.

      “Fool!” she cries. “Everything in the circus depends upon timing, synchronicity. You must listen to me. Otherwise you will get us both killed.”

      I manage my way onto the board, then climb down the ladder and meet Astrid back on the ground. “You let go in gymnastics, surely,” she says, clearly frustrated.

      “That was different,” I reply. By about thirty-five feet, I add silently.

      She folds her arms. “There’s no act without the release.”

      “There is no way that I can do this,” I insist. We stare at each other for several seconds, neither speaking.

      “You want to go, so go. No one expected more.” Her words shoot out at me like a slap.

      “Least of all you,” I retort. She wants me to fail. She does not want me here.

      Astrid blinks, her expression somewhere between anger and surprise. “How dare you?” she asks, and I fear I have gone too far.

      “I’m