Wednesday 23 May 2012

THE BIG TOP


The circus with the yellow clown - 1967 - Marc Chagall 
This post was inspired by Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 118



The fact that I have two eyes is due in no small measure to my decision, at fifteen and a half, not to run away to the circus. It was my long-haired Dachshund Seppl whose routine daily afternoon walk took me the short distance from the flat where mum and dad and I lived  - that is, if indeed they were my mum and dad, which, in spite of the large nose dad and I shared, I still doubted very much at that time; too often they declared themselves shocked by my outrageous behaviour for me to be able to own them as my parents  - via a tree-lined double avenue to Sproedental Platz, a large open area, where after the war the town's rubble had been deposited, now long cleared away.  During Advent, tree fellers brought christmas trees for sale, but most of the time the Platz was empty.  Twice a year, for three days, the Kirmes came, with its roundabouts and dodgems and Karussels and pickled herring, fried fish and sausage and potato cake stalls. The aroma of the food could make you faint with longing and if your money lasted until you had squealed in delighted horror at the mermaid, the fattest woman in the world or taken a ride through the cob-webby, smelly, dimly lit, cavernous chamber of horrors, happiness was complete. For anybody with a boyfriend the big wheel was an ideal trysting vehicle; when you were stuck at the top - and every one of the gondolas was for a short time -  a brave boy would squeeze your hand and plant a wet kiss somewhere near your mouth. It rarely happened to me, boys were always put off by the gagging noises as I fought off nausea induced by acrophobia. Besides, kissing was sex, and sex was something we giggled over nervously; things were different in those days, we believed that necking could get you pregnant and French kissing was the absolute depth of depravity. Everything was different then, the long summer holidays lasted for an eternity, until school was no more than a fading memory, French and Swedish films were our extra-curricular education, an ice cream for two cost 50 Pfennigs, blue jeans had only just become acceptable wear, and parents never got down with the kids.

In spite of the wonderful life to be had with the Kirmes I never felt the slightest desire to elope with any of the boys who jumped on to the back of the dodgem cars to take our money for the ride.

The circus was entirely different, it came to town just once a year. Placards appeared on advertising columns weeks before and two days before the big top went up, riders on horseback, and a few tumblers and clowns paraded through the streets on their way to Sproedental Platz, where these foot soldiers soon got to work  preparing the ground for the rest of the caravans, the animals and the performers and artistes, who, after the final bow after the last performance in the previous town themselves got busy dismantling and loading the big top. The Great Orlando told me that everybody at the circus could and would turn their hand to any and all jobs, even the stars of the show, the trapeze artists, the knife thrower and lion tamer, the high-wire dancers, the white faced clown as well as the ring-master were expected to muck in.

When I arrived with Seppl on the day the circus came to town, the Platz, normally empty, had become an exotic wonderland, caravans were neatly lined up, vans were being unloaded, animals exercised and fed; there were people carrying water and bales of straw, muscular  men were heaving long poles about and uncoiling vast rolls of rope; I had the impression that here was a body of work being done that had been done hundreds, perhaps thousands of times before, the organisation was perfect, as if everybody was a cog in a well-oiled machine. As I slowly walked by, people briefly looked up and smiled, saying Guten Tag, before they carried on with what they were doing.

I noticed The Great Orlando right away, he seemed remote from this controlled ballet of activity. Sitting on the steps of a white caravan he had a large, flat box on his knees, out of which he lifted a number of knives, rubbing each one down with a rag until the blades shimmered like polished silver. I stopped to watch. Looking up, he smiled, like the others, and said Guten Tag. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Ich bin der Messerwerfer," I am the knife thrower," he said, "I am taking care of my knives." 

I was talking to The Great Orlando himself, I knew it must be him because I had seen his picture on many of the placards. He took pity on me. "Is that your dog, he is very handsome," he said, "what's his name?" I was in at the birth of the circus, in the company of the knife thrower and the man wanted to talk about my dog? Where was the romance in that? I realised he was quite old, at least 30, and that I would have to take the initiative and ask questions. "Yes," he said, "I ride a horse round and round the ring and throw knives at a target. And then I get off the horse and throw knives at a target disc with a target girl pinned to it; at the end of my act the disc with the girl spins round and I throw knives all around the  body of my partner." I was envious of the girl already. "Do you ever miss", I asked hopefully. He laughed. "I hope you will come to the show, and find out", he said. Ah, yes, that would be a problem. I wasn't allowed to go out at night and I didn't have enough money to pay for a ticket anyway. "I have to work now", he said, "but come back tomorrow and we'll see what can be done." Wild horses wouldn't have kept me away even in the ordinary course of events but having been invited to return by The Great Orlando practically made me a member of the troupe.

When I returned the next morning the big top was up and all was ready for the afternoon's show,  die Kindervorstellung - the reduced show for children. I wandered about; the smell of wild animals reached me from one end of the camp, following the scent I saw an elephant lifting a beautiful young girl, sitting on his trunk, high up in the air. The lion tamer was feeding his animals large chunks of red meat and two boys were grooming horses. A boy and a girl were working with a group of monkeys.  The lion tamer waved me away. "The animals need to be quiet, they don't like strangers coming close", he said in a gruff voice. "You'll find Harry in the tent." Harry? who was Harry?

I entered the big top and The Great Orlando waved me over. "You can call me Harry," he said, "what's your name?" "I'm Eva," I said, " and I want to join the circus." Harry smiled, he had the most wonderful way of crinkling up his eyes as he did so. I had seriously fallen in love with him overnight.
"What would your parents have to say to that?"
"My parents wouldn't care, they just don' understand me and I can never get anything right for them anyway."
"Still, you'd have to have their permission. Unless you are eighteen?"


Darling, wonderful Harry, who thought I might already be eighteen!

Harry decided that I should go home again and think about joining the circus very carefully. To help me make up my mind he invited me to the afternoon show and allowed me to wander about at will, so long as I kept away from the lion tamer, who, according to Harry, was a grumpy old man and not very fond of Harry, because he liked to be jolly and have a drink after work. The others wouldn't mind me being around, provided I didn't get in the way.

The afternoon show was dominated by clowns, Pierrot and August being the main characters, surrounded by tumblers and jongleurs, children on horseback and on the high wire as well as a few trapeze acts. The Great Orlando rode his horse and threw knives at the large disc and I saw the pretty girl riding on the trunk of her elephant. It was a fun show but disappointing too, I had seen most of these acts about the camp during the day. The ringmaster in costume, cracking a very long whip, was still the jovial, slightly avuncular, slightly potbellied man he was out of costume; the show needed the romantic shadows of evening and the brilliance of artificial lights to bring the glitter and glamour to life.  Afterwards, I found Harry's caravan, knocked on the door and, when he opened it, I told him so. Harry had a glass in his hand. The sparkly costume made his face look tired.

The circus was in town for the whole week, Saturday evening being the final show of the run, a gala performance. I spent every spare minute at the camp; even the lion tamer got used to me. He took me aside once and said "Be careful, Eva, Harry is not a suitable companion for you, you are far too young and you are not the first girl to hang around and you won't be the last." I shrugged my shoulders. This was exactly the same sort of talk I got from my parents, these adults were all out to spoil my fun. Harry had been very kind and friendly, not at all threatening. The more I saw of him and the artistes and the more I was allowed to see of their daily routines, the more I realised how hard they worked, how little romance there was behind the glittering façade. I still wanted to join the circus, be part of the wonderful companionship and camaraderie born out of a need to rely on each other; each member of the troupe being 100% dependent on every other.  But perhaps it would be better if I waited a little, finished school first, as Harry suggested. The children and young people I saw had all been born into the life, had been raised to perform and trained almost from the day they took their first step. Harry gave me an address which would always reach him and promised to reply to any letter I cared to send.

When Saturday came I was very sad, Harry and the others would be on their way to the next venue a day later and Sproedental Platz would be cleared as if the big top had never stood there. Harry had a wonderful surprise for me. He had a ticket for the Saturday Gala for me, front row, the best seat in the house, opposite the entrance to the ring, within foot shuffling distance of the sawdust. I begged and pleaded with my parents, who finally gave in and allowed me to go, threatening all sorts of retribution if I didn't get home within ten minutes of the end of the performance. I sat in my seat of honour and all the performers, who could do so without interrupting their act, played to me for seconds, the clowns did a little set right in front of me, the elephant dipped its trunk and the girl winked, the tumblers pretended to fall over the railings and land on me, and the ringmaster cracked his whip almost in my face. Harry's prancing horse did a curtsey and he bowed from the saddle, lifting his hat to me. I loved them all.

Harry and I did indeed exchange a few letters. He sent me colourful postcards from places abroad, places I could only dream of; holidays for the masses were still a thing of the future. Gaps between cards became longer and one day I saw a small paragraph in the paper:  In Milano, Italy, during a  performance, a great tragedy had occurred.  The Great Orlando, famous among circus folk all over Europe, had misjudged a throw and accidentally blinded his partner, the girl on the spinning disc, in one eye. If I remember rightly, I sent a letter telling him how very sorry I was. I never heard from Harry again.



PS: there have been comments asking if this is a true story. It is. 




51 comments:

  1. What a bittersweet story... only that it is not just any story, but one that took actually place in your youth.
    Thank you for posting it here.

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  2. Time lends greater enchantment to memories. I wonder what the young girl would think if she could revisit.

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  3. I was there, i could see it all, smell it all and feel it. Brilliant, you are.

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  4. So glad you escaped such any such fate! Hehehe! Thanks for the ringside seat you gave us all...

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  5. Wonderful memory for you.

    Darryl and Ruth :)

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  6. What a brave young girl! She is the non-conformist I wished to be as a child. But, alas, I was shy and ever conscious of the unconditional and complete love of my parents. Rather than freedom, if chained me with the overwhelming desire not to disappoint them. But then, as now, I could be a brave nonconformist vicariously through the tales spun by Friko and other gifted writers.

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  7. Sorry about my garbled timeline in my previous comment, Friko. You were probably not born when I first started escaping to exciting adventures through the written word.

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  8. What a great story! I remember feeling that allure!

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  9. I loved that story. Is it a story or a memory? A little bit of both? I never liked the circus but still liked your story. My mother would offer to take me to the Cirque Medrano in Paris and I always refused – we went once and that was enough. But I can see that if it is the kind of thing one likes, the circus would be extraordinary. I just checked – I thought the Cirque Medrano was long gone and I am wrong, it is still going strong in France.

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  10. Had all the rhythm of that time and the innocence and friendliness of the people who played in small towns. Was this real? It certainly seems so.

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  11. Great story and memory. I'm glad you got to write it with both eyes intact. I thought, coming to the end, that you would say that Harry had died. Is he still alive? Must be ancient if he is. Not a fan of circuses with animals and hope they died out soon.

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  12. A wonderful story of coming of age, with a wonderful hook using the eyes. You have a fine talent. Jim

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  13. Very enjoyable story indeed :-).

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  14. A lively story and so glad you escaped with both eyes. Poor Mr. Orlando and his terribly injured assistant.

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  15. well the goo news is you have both of your eyes still...yikes...just think it could have been you...smiles...i would break up that large paragraph at the beginning a bit...

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  16. This is great. I saw a sketch and expected a sketch in words. You painted a world. And it's true! I'm waiting for that memoir....

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  17. Friko, I am amazed. You have the outline of an entire novel here. Every paragraph is at least a 3-chapter episode. Except that, in the end, you must hear from Harry again.

    You have combined several irresistible elements for me: a 15 year old, a dog, a circus, a knife thrower, and of course, Marc Chagall. (Picasso comes to mind as well, but only because of the circus theme and your opening remark about having 2 working eyes.)

    Have you read The Night Circus? It's a 1st novel by a young author, heavy on magical realism.

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  18. What a wonderful story Friko. I'm jealous of never being on the "inside" of a circus. Must have been a blast.

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  19. I wondered about your mentioning two eyes and how it related to the circus, but somehow didn't connect it to Harry/Orlando's knife-throwing until the ending. What a shock that must have been for you, after your romantic ringside dalliance. (Today's mothers would expect their daughters to be molested if they spent their spare time knocking on the knife-thrower's door, but the world was indeed a kinder, gentler place at one time.)
    I agree with Kerry. You do have all the makings of a novel here, but Harry really has to answer your condolence letter with declarations of your being the only one who ever understood him.
    K

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  20. Wow - what an amazing story. You tell it very well.

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  21. Fascinating experience. Circuses have never held much interest for me although I went once or twice as a child. Somehow, the tawdriness was always there. I felt sorry for the animals forced to do their tricks. This story brings the people behind the circus to life. And the theme of eyes running through the story adds another layer to a well-told tale.

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  22. Once I'd seen Laura Knight's circus paintings , I longed to join the circus in just the same way .
    Years later , talking to young girls who had , I was rather glad I hadn't . But thankyou for bringing that "I could , what if I did ? " moment back to life .

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  23. A beautifully told tale with a bittersweet feel and a real sting in the tale, Friko. You truly are a writer.

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  24. Eva had a lucky escape.

    There was always a Fair at the Beer Festival in the little town we lived in for a while (Lubbecke not the bigger more famous place Lubeck) but no circus ... I'm sure if there had been I would have fallen in love with Harry too!

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  25. From the opening "hook," you reeled me in. The details you chose to conjure the sights and sounds and smells of the circus are wonderful. This I loved, particularly—this no "generic" circus, but one of a specific place: "Twice a year, for three days, the Kirmes came, with its roundabouts and dodgems and Karussels and pickled herring, fried fish and sausage and potato cake stalls." (No cotton candy anywhere in sight, as we have here . . .) I was struck along the way by the proximity you had to the circus as it was set up. In the circuses of my childhood, nothing was available to view like that—we only got to see it all during performance inside the tent. In a few deft strokes, you give us a Great Orlando/Harry who has complexity and depth. In him and others, as you portray them (and this puts me in mind of your musician pieces), we see not just the glamour, but the "daily grind." A well told tale, from opening to close. I did hope this was memoir, and I'm glad you confirmed.

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  26. I love your story telling Friko! Some of the contents, like the Kirmes and the yearly Zirkus, I remember from childhood! You write beautifully and with humor - I had not for a moment doubts that those events happened! :-)

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  27. Friko, your writing has conveyed so well your time with the visiting circus and the accompanying gathering of experience and knowledge.

    When I was a small girl in a small town, a circus also arrived every year and set up a tent with rickety wooden bleacher seats from which we could view the magic ring. My favorite memory was being allowed to leave our classrooms on a particular afternoon to watch the circus parade pass by. There actually were animals in cages, clowns, etc. It is, alas, too long for me to remember exactly which animals were in those cages.

    xo

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  28. This is such an exotic topic and intriguing adventure, Friko. If you were to expand it to a novel you could add so much insight concerning post war Europe, especially from your perspective. The experience has EVERYTHING going for it. I think this is a book waiting to be published, especially since it is real!! Thanks so much for sharing this... incredible!! =D

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  29. Hi Friko .. an amazing tale - you did lead the life didn't you. Sounds like everyone was wise in that week .. and how very sad to end like that - poor chap .. I feel for him .. long gone now I suspect.

    I agree with Linda - you do have a way of telling stories and this definitely could be and should be one .. I hope you will one day write them up ...

    Cheers Hilary

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  30. A wonderfully well written experience! I feel as if I'd seen it all.

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  31. Thanks for sharing this wonderful story Friko.

    Anna :o]

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  32. I have been thinking further about what you've written. You know, it puts me in mind of Leigh Fermor, in a certain way. I've been trying to think precisely why (vs. generally), and I think it's this. What I find to be missing in so much of contemporary writing (this will amuse you, I think, given my explorations of contemporary music, which stand in contrast to what I'm about to write) is the absence of telling description. 19th C novels are so rich in it--not just description to describe, but description to evoke. I feel starved for it so often in contemporary writing. What you've written here, and in other bits of memoir you've posted, restore description to what it can and should be. I know how hard it is to make time to write something of scope, as I have been an utter failure in that regard, so I say this from that perspective: I hope you are able to carve out time. Your memoir is a valuable project. I want to read it whole.

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  33. Loved this story. Always had a fascination for the circus, and dreams of experiencing a "real" one. This story was so vivid, and satisfying. This is why I yearn to visit Europe, to experience the richness of history. I can visualize this circus, the sights and sounds e electrifyingly real. Nothing remotely like the drab and ho-hum offerings I've experienced!

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  34. Wonderful story! A girl walking her dog. . . parents had to think that was a pretty harmless activity. Just how much about that week did you tell them?

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  35. Oh how I enjoyed this story! I cannot wait until your book is finished, it will be a wonderful adventure I am sure once it is finished.

    Thank you for sharing!

    I did not get to comment on your blogging post, but I will do so here. I think that perrhaps we all blog for the same reason, to share a little of our life, our interests or our dreams. Not to mention that perhaps each of us have/had dreams of being a writer?

    I love visiting here and I smile each time I see your header...what a beautiful view.

    Have a great weekend, Elizabeth

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  36. What a wonderful story you have written, Friko! How amazed and infatuated with the circus you must have been to retain such vivid memories and make me feel like I am a participant of the festivities with your writing. Falling for the knife thrower ... isn't that every girls dream? Ha Ha!

    Well, life is very busy these days, but I have high hopes of freeing myself from this work-a-day prison called employment one of these days. I truly miss writing stories and am envious of those who have the time.

    I hope that life is treating you and your Beloved well.

    Take care,

    Jackie

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  37. My favorite line is the "kissing was sex" one--it captures an entire era...well, a whole bunch of eras, really.

    That Harry wrote back at all stuns me; I wouldn't have guessed that.

    And I quite like the ending here. Not too sentimental, with a bit of edge to it.

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  38. That is just awesome and fascinating and intriguing and lots of other words that escape me. The coolest part was that you and Harry actually wrote to each other for a time. But it was a very good thing you didn't run off and join the circus, I think. ;) What an adventure, though!!

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  39. buona giornata e felice week end...ciao

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  40. How brave you were to attempt the circus. I was a very good trapeze artist and wanted to run away with the circus but was too chicken. Dianne

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  41. All the more enjoyable knowing that it's true...

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  42. There was a real sense of a young girl here, full of her dreams and illusions and endowed with the pluck to investigate them. A real sense of character, too as you contrast the lion tamer with Harry and fill the circus space with the other players. I am looking forward to the book.

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  43. There is something incredibly special about being thought you are 18 when you're not -- sort of like being asked for ID (seriously!) by a server at the bar. This has not happened to me in a long time, but I felt pretty darned good when it did.

    It's a wonderful story and well told -- and I love it all the more, knowing it is true.

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  44. Dear Friko, years ago, in some writing book, I learned about "telling details"--the details that made a story come alive. The book stressed that an author had to choose these details carefully so as to create the atmosphere of the novel or short story or poem. Too many details and the author lost the reader; too few, and the reader didn't enter fully the world the author was trying to create.

    You must have read the same book or maybe you come by your writing ability just naturally but the details you've chosen to share with us here give us a full--an enticing--picture of the world of a circus and also of a young girl wanting to spread her wings.

    Thank you.

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  45. Beautifully written, Friko. I could see and imagine it all. And true, as well - oh, Harry! He actually sounds sweet and very nice. Imagine replying to your letters.

    This story will linger in my mind. In a way it doesn't need an illustration, because I can see it all.

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  46. What a great story, very well-told. I Love that it's true! What a colorful life you've led thus far. I so hope you complete your memoirs. I would love to read them.

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  47. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. What an incredible experience! And per usual, your recounting of it elevates the memory ten fold. There is something magical about the way you related it, like you recaptured your girlish sense of wonder; a grand short story "based on true events".

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  48. An interesting real-life story Friko, with a sad ending. You say it is a true story. It is interesting to read of other people's lives. Thanks for this story - Dave

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  49. This the best article I have never seen before…........

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