The Orphan's Tale

by Pam Jenoff

I stop. I have made it a point to never go near the trains, to look away when they pass by—because they are carrying Jews.

I pull back the door. “Oh!” My voice echoes dangerously through the darkness, inviting detection. There are babies, tiny bodies too many to count, lying on the hay-covered floor of the railcar, packed close and atop one another. Most do not move and I can’t tell whether they are dead or sleeping. From amid the stillness, piteous cries mix with gasps and moans like the bleating of lambs.

“There is so little one can be certain of these days,” he begins, voice wobbly. “But finding a hand to hold while we walk this path makes even the most difficult of times better and the strangest of villages home.”

“Take me,” I repeat, ignoring her. “I’m his wife—and a Jew,” I cry, heedless of the danger I am bringing, not just to myself but the entire circus.

Gasped out loud here

“We circus people see no difference between races or religions.”