6

       Noa

      Theo lies across my chest, the way he likes to sleep, the warmth of his cheek pressed against me. “You should lay him down,” Greta, the housemaid who watches Theo while I rehearse, has scolded more than once in the two weeks we have been here. “If he doesn’t learn to soothe himself, he’ll never sleep well.” I don’t care. During the day whenever I am not practicing, I hold Theo until my arms ache. I sleep with him close each night so I can feel the beating of his heart, like one of the dolls I had as a child come to life. Sometimes it seems as if without him I cannot breathe.

      Lying now in the stillness of the women’s lodge, I watch him rise and fall atop me on the narrow bed. He stirs, lifting his head as he has just learned to do. Theo’s gaze follows me wherever I enter a room. A wise old soul, he seems to listen intently, missing nothing. Our eyes meet now and he smiles, a wide, toothless grin of contentment. For a few seconds, it is only us in the world. I wrap my arms more tightly around him. There is that moment each evening when Astrid frees me from practice, just before I enter the lodge, when joy and anticipation at seeing Theo rise in me. Part of me fears that he might have been a figment of my imagination, or have disappeared because I had been gone so long. Then I pick him up and he melts into my arms and I am home. Though it has been only a few weeks, I feel as if Theo has been mine forever.

      There could be two boys, I remind myself—if I found my child again. Could such a thing be possible? I picture the boys together at three or four. They would be like brothers close in age, almost twins. These are dangerous thoughts, the kind I have not allowed myself to have until now.

      I draw the blanket more closely around myself. I dreamed of my own family last night. My father had appeared at the edge of the winter quarters and I ran up to hug him and plead with him to bring me home. But I had awoken to the cold light of day seeping in. Going home is a dream I’ve held on to for all of my months in exile. When I arrived at the circus, I imagined staying a few weeks to get my strength back and then finding a normal job to earn enough money to go back to Holland. My parents were not able to accept me with a child of my own, though; they will never welcome me back with Theo. No, I cannot go home. I still need to get Theo out of Germany somehow, though. We cannot stay here.

      The crashing of metal stirs me from my thoughts. The sounds of the circus come early in the morning, the laughter and arguing of the performers as they go to practice, workers fixing wagons and other equipment, animals whinnying in protest. Once, if I had given it any thought, I might have imagined joining the circus to be fun. But it is an act and behind the careful choreography is hard work. Even in the winter quarters, where circus folk supposedly come to rest, they are up before dawn to help with the chores, then hours of training, at least six per day.

      Reluctantly I sit up and place Theo in his bassinet. His eyes follow me as I wash at the basin. I make the bed, running my hands along the sheets, which, though so much coarser than the fine linens in the villa, were still worlds better than anything I had slept on since leaving home. I moved to the lodge the day after I arrived. It is a long room, beds laid out dormitory-style in two rows. The lodge is nearly empty, most of the other girls already gone to practicing and chores. I dress quickly then start for the door with Theo. I do not want to appear lazy. I need to work hard to earn my place here.

      I carry Theo to the front of the lodge where a handful of toddlers play on the ground. Reluctantly I hand him to Greta, who draws him close, tickling his chin until he coos. Jealousy nags at me and I fight the urge to grab him back. I still do not like sharing him.

      I tear myself away and set out from the lodge toward the practice hall. Winter has begun to ease. There is a little less bite in the air and the snow has begun to melt, leaving the ground muddy and smelling of peat moss. The birds that hunt seeds call out merrily. If the weather permits, in the evenings before it gets too dark I walk Theo around the circus grounds, past the practice hall to the menagerie where the tiger and lions and other animals are penned, looking out of place against the snow-covered pine landscape like characters in the wrong storybook. It seems there are endless places at the circus to explore, from the work quarters where laundry is done by the truckload to the circus alley where some of the clowns rehearse.

      I near the practice hall and pause, trying to push down my dread. Though I have trained with Astrid every day, I still have not let go and flown. Each day I wait for her to give up and tell me to leave. Come back tomorrow, she simply says.

      She has not kicked me out yet. But she treats me like a nuisance, makes it clear that she would rather not have me around and is only tolerating me until I go. I puzzle over again what brings out such dislike. Is it because I am new and lack talent? And yet, she is not always mean. A few days after I arrived, she had brought me a small box. Inside were folded clothes for me and Theo. Everyone had contributed something. Lifting out the faded baby caps and socks, the blouses for me that had been darned many times over, I was touched, not only by the generosity of the circus folk, who themselves had little to spare, but by Astrid, who had thought to gather the items. Perhaps she did not want us to leave after all.

      The previous day as I neared the practice hall, though, I’d heard her and Herr Neuhoff speaking in low voices. “I’m doing all I can,” Astrid said.

      “You must do more,” Herr Neuhoff countered.

      “I cannot get her ready if she will not let go,” Astrid pressed. “We have to find someone else before it is time to go on the road.” I walked away then, not wanting to hear what would happen if the arrangement did not work out. I had originally said I would try for only two weeks. But now that time has passed, I find myself wanting to stay longer and keep trying—and not just because we have nowhere else to go.

      When I enter the training hall, I am surprised to find Astrid already atop the high board where I usually stand. Am I late? I brace for her to berate me. But she grabs the bar and leaps off.

      “Hup!” Gerda swings from the far board to catch her. A strange lump forms in my throat as I watch Astrid work with someone else. But I see how much she misses it, being the one to fly through the air. She must hate me for taking her place.

      Gerda sends Astrid flying back, then swings to her own board. Astrid soars now like a rider taming a wild beast, bending the trapeze to her own will. She spins by her ankles, by a lone knee, barely touching the bar to which I always cling fast. Gerda watches Astrid with disinterest, almost distaste. She and the other women do not like Astrid. Within days of arriving, I heard the whispers: they resent Astrid for returning and taking her spot at the top of the aerial act while they had worked for years, and for coupling up with Peter, one of the few eligible men the war had left. The girls at the home were much the same, sniping and whispering behind each other’s backs. Why are we so hard on one another? I wonder. Hadn’t the world already given us challenges enough? But if Astrid notices their coldness, she doesn’t seem to mind. Or perhaps she just doesn’t have need for any of them. She certainly doesn’t need me.

      “She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” a deep voice asks. I had not heard Peter come up behind me. We stand silently watching as Astrid swings higher. Taking her in, his eyes seem to dance with wonder. Peter’s breath catches slightly as Astrid flings herself into the air and spins not once, not twice, but three times. She circles upward, defying gravity.

      But then she starts to drop downward at great speed. Peter steps forward then stops, powerless to help her. He exhales quickly when Gerda,