than seventeen. I feel so very old and tired by comparison.
The girl stirs. Her arms shoot straight out, searching for the baby in a gesture I know all too well from my own dreams. Then sensing emptiness, she begins to flail.
Watching her desperation, the words run through my head: there is no way that is her brother.
Herr Neuhoff lifts the child and places it in the young woman’s arms and instantly she calms. “Waar ben ik?” Dutch. She blinks, then repeats the question in German: Where am I? Her voice is thin, wavering.
“Darmstadt,” Herr Neuhoff replies. No recognition registers on her face. She is not from these parts. “You are with the Circus Neuhoff.”
She blinks. “A circus.” Though to us it seems quite normal—indeed for more than half of my life it was all I had known—to her it must sound like something from a fantasy tale. A freak show. I stiffen, instantly reverting to the defensive girl facing down stares on the schoolyard. Throw her back out into the snow if we aren’t good enough.
“How old are you, child?” Herr Neuhoff asks gently.
“I’ll be seventeen next month. I fled my father’s house,” she offers, her German smoother now. “I’m Noa Weil and this is my brother.” Her words come too quickly, answering questions that no one has asked.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
A moment’s hesitation. “Theo. We’re from the Dutch coast,” she says with another pause. “Things were very bad. My father drank and beat us. Mother died in childbirth. So I took my brother and we left.” What is she doing here, hundreds of miles from home? No one would flee Holland for Germany now. Her story does not make sense. I wait for Herr Neuhoff to ask if she has papers.
The girl studies the child’s face with darting eyes. “Is he all right?”
“Yes, he ate well before falling asleep,” Herr Neuhoff reassures.
The girl’s brow wrinkles. “Ate?”
“Drank, I should say,” Herr Neuhoff corrects. “Some formula our cook made from sugar and honey.” Surely the girl would know that if she had been caring for the child.
I step back toward Peter, who reclines in a chair by the door. “She’s lying,” I say in a low voice. The fool girl had probably gotten pregnant. One does not speak of such things, though.
Peter shrugs with detachment. “She must have her reasons for running. We all do.”
“You are welcome to stay,” Herr Neuhoff says. I stare at him dumbfounded: What can he be thinking? He continues, “You’ll have to work, of course, when you’re well enough.”
“Of course.” The girl sits up, spine stiffening, at the suggestion that she might expect charity. “I can clean and cook.” I scoff at her naïveté, imagining her in the cookhouse making pancakes and peeling potatoes by the hundreds.
Herr Neuhoff waves his hand. “Cooks and cleaners we have. No, with your looks that would be a waste. I want you to perform.” Peter shoots me a puzzled look. New performers are recruited from across Europe and beyond; the spots are competitive and hard fought, possible only with a lifetime of training. One does not simply find talent on the street—or in the forest. Herr Neuhoff knows that. He turns to me. “You need a new aerialist, yes?” Over his shoulder, the girl’s eyes widen.
I hesitate. Once the act might have had a dozen or more aerialists, throwing parallel passes and somersaulting past one another in midair. But we have only three now and since my return I’d been largely reduced to the corde lisse and Spanish web. “Of course, but she has never performed. I can’t simply teach her the flying trapeze. Perhaps she could ride a horse or sell programs.” There are dozens of easier jobs she can do. What is making Herr Neuhoff think that she can perform? Usually I can scout talent a mile away. Here I see nothing. He is trying to make a duck into a swan and such a plan would only be met with failure.
“We don’t have time to find another aerialist before we go on the road,” Herr Neuhoff replies. “She has the right look. We have almost six weeks until we leave for tour.” He does not meet my eyes as he says this. Six weeks is a blink of an eye compared with the lifetime of training the rest of us have endured. He is asking me to perform the impossible and he knows it.
“She’s too thick to be an aerialist,” I say, appraising her body critically. Even beneath the duvet, it is plump around the hips and thighs. She is weak, soft in the middle with an innocence that suggests she has never known hard work. She would not have survived the night in the snow if Peter had not found her. And she will not last the week here.
Hearing a shuffling sound, I turn. Herr Neuhoff’s son, Emmet, watches from the doorway, his doughy mouth curled as he takes in our disagreement. He had always been an odd child, playing mean-spirited pranks and getting in trouble. “Wouldn’t want to be upstaged, would you?” he sneers at me.
I look away, ignoring him. The girl is prettier than me, I have to admit, cataloging her looks relative to my own in that way all women do. Good looks will not carry her here, though. In the circus what matters is the talent and experience—of which she has none.
“She can’t stay,” Peter says from his chair, the forcefulness of his voice causing me to jump. Herr Neuhoff is a kind man, but it is his circus and even the star performers such as Peter do not dare to disagree with him openly. “I mean, when she’s well enough she’ll have to go,” he clarifies.
“Where?” Herr Neuhoff demands.
“I don’t know,” Peter admits. “But how can she stay? A girl with a baby, people will ask questions.” He is thinking of me, the additional scrutiny and danger their arrival might bring. Though my identity and past are quietly known among the circus folk, we’ve been able to maintain the pretense with outsiders—at least until now. “We can’t risk the attention.”
“It won’t be a problem if she is part of our act,” Herr Neuhoff counters. “Performers join circuses all of the time.”
They used to, I correct in my head. New performers had joined the circus many times over the years—once we had Serbian animal trainers, a juggler from China. Everything had grown leaner in recent years, though. These days there simply isn’t the money to bring on more acts.
“A cousin from one of the other circuses,” Herr Neuhoff suggests, his plan unfurling. Our own performers would know differently, but the story might satisfy the seasonal workers. “If she’s all ready to perform, then no one will notice,” he adds. It is true that the audience would not pay any attention; they come faithfully each year, but they do not see the people behind the performances.
“That’s very kind of you to offer me a place,” the girl interjects. She struggles to rise from the bed without letting go of the baby, but the very effort seems to wind her and she leans back once more. “But we wouldn’t want to be a burden. As soon as we’ve rested and the weather breaks, we’ll be on our way.” I can see the panic in her eyes. They have nowhere to go.
Vindicated, I turn to Herr Neuhoff. “You see, she can’t do it.”
“I didn’t say that.” The girl straightens again, lifting her chin. “I’m a hard worker and I’m sure that with enough training I can.” Suddenly she seems eager to prove herself where a minute earlier she had not even wanted to try, a kind
