Of course, the city is packed with refugees like themselves. Rumor has it there are no beds in the shelters. The train station is already full and a new regulation decrees that the ration cards of nonresidents will not be filled. But the women are not deterred. There are still National Socialist Welfare groups doling out soup, and when was the last time either of them received rations anyway?

Ania waits with the children in one of the city parks as the other Ania tries to find them a place to sleep. The boys play for the first time in a long while, skipping pebbles off a tree trunk, and even Pietre, so spindly and weak, hurls the small stones with unusual energy.

When the other Ania returns, she is smiling, flushed with exertion. She has found them a place to stay—Quakers have opened a hundred cots in a church basement—and she has secured three, one for herself and Pietre, one for Wolfgang and Anselm, and one for Ania. And, even better, she has a real birthday present for Ania: tickets to the Sarrasani Circus. A famous show of tightrope walkers, dancing Lipizzaner horses, tigers who leap through rings of fire. Incredibly, it has continued its shows throughout the war. They will go tonight and sit in an audience of two thousand. The boys are beside themselves with delight! The other Ania’s plain face is made beautiful by happiness, and Ania feels the stiff and rusty mechanism of her own heart crack and swell.

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, a time when they would usually feel half dead with exhaustion, the women find themselves drinking warm glasses of Glühwein and tucked into a row of balcony seats. Ania will remember this in years to come as, perversely, one of the happiest hours of her life: the glittering lights, the smell of animals and unwashed human beings, incense and candles. And the show! The troupe of acrobats walks the ring with their balancing poles, forming a delicate pattern, the trapezist swoops through the smoky air in a cloud of silk and feathers, the horses—such magnificent creatures!—are white and blond with long, decadent manes, the twitching of their tails finely tuned to the music of the band. There is a promise to it all—a reminder of possibilities beyond mere survival. A reminder of music, fantasy, and art. Beside her, in a moment of pure childish pleasure, Wolfgang reaches out and clasps her hand.

And then the first siren blares, followed by moments of confusion: the Lady Lindstrom on her high wire looks down, hesitates, foot extended. Some conferring, and then with a nod from the conductor, the music, which has faltered, resumes and the show continues. The audience sighs with relief, the triumph of art over reality is confirmed. The Germans are used to deferring to authority, and, for once, the authorities have come down on the side of beauty.

The refugees from the east are less certain though, stirring and glancing about for the exits, even though few actually leave. Everyone is focused on the acrobat in the spotlight, taking her delicate, improbable steps. When she reaches the other side, the applause is tremendous.