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  But also in that same year Helen Kreis replaced Martha, both on the high wire and in bed. Helen was young, beautiful, and talented. She, Karl, and Herman traveled to Cuba where the Wallendas were booked for three months. Meanwhile, back in Germany, in 1927 a daughter was born to Karl and Martha—Jenny Wallenda, my maternal grandmother.

  In 1928, John Ringling, famed owner of the Ringling Brothers Circus, invited Karl Wallenda and his troupe to perform in America. Hoping to win his love back, Martha took infant Jenny to the United States to rejoin the troupe. Karl allowed this. According to my grandmother, her dad embraced her and said, “Jenny, one day we will perform together.”

  But Ringling Brothers, a mammoth operation with nearly two thousand workers, proved daunting for Martha. She took Jenny back to Germany, leaving her daughter in the care of her mother so that she—Martha—could return to Karl in America.

  “Mine was a disruptive childhood,” says Jenny. “Yet I recall all these disruptions clearly. When I was three I came to America. I was told the move was permanent. In Sarasota, where all the circus performers lived during the winter, my father had one house with my mother Martha and another right next door with Helen. It was confusing. My mother acted as though he were still her husband—and he was, until 1934 when a telegram came from Mexico telling Martha that Karl had divorced her and married Helen. But that still wasn’t enough to get my mother to leave the troupe. She sent me back to Germany under the care of my grandparents.

  “When I was eleven, I visited my parents in Blackpool, England. Daddy had taken a leave from Ringling Brothers to tour Europe. I was finally reunited with my family. I was sure I would be with them forever. But then everything changed. The war was coming. And because Daddy, Helen, and my mother, Martha, had German passports, they saw themselves on the wrong side. They wanted to get back to America where Daddy saw his future. Europe was about to explode. Through Ambassador Joseph Kennedy, the future president’s father, Daddy was able to get on one of the last boats. Three days later war broke out. But I didn’t leave with them. By then I was back in Berlin with my grandparents.

  “I remained in Berlin where I became a youth leader during the Nazi regime. I had no political feelings. I was simply a superb athlete, a young lady who did as I was told. I had no view of the larger world. By then my mother had married again, but that didn’t last for more than a year. Six years—the war years—passed without a word from my parents. When Germany fell and the Red Army invaded Berlin, young girls were raped. I was among them. But not all the soldiers were brutes. Some were kind and compassionate. I fell in love with such a soldier. We were going to marry and then escape to America where I would finally join my parents. But his commanding officer discovered that he was involved with a German girl and he was sent to Siberia. I never saw him again. But I did, thank God, learn that my parents were alive and well. Daddy went to great lengths to secure my passage from Germany to join him and my mother, Martha, in Sarasota. I arrived in 1947, at age nineteen. Martha was still living next door to Karl and Helen. That strange triangle was still intact.”

  The world might have been falling apart around him, but during the war years in America Karl stayed focused. His artistry became more daring. He never stopped pushing the envelope. He began his decade-long plan to execute a seven-person pyramid, a stunt he saw as the most spectacular in circus history. His reputation grew and his troupe was called the Flying Wallendas. Ironically, he was quoted as saying that he never liked the name because, in his mind, it suggested that he and his troupe were flying off the wire in some disastrous fall, the fate that had befallen his brother Willy in Sweden. Willy’s death was another reason Karl would not work with a safety net. Riding a bike across the wire, Willy fell, bounced from the net, and fractured his skull.

  My great-grandmother Martha married for the third time. Her new husband, introduced to her by Karl, was J. Y. Henderson, the most celebrated veterinarian in the history of the circus. At the height of his career, he was in charge of Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey’s seven hundred animals—wildcats, bears, zebras, giraffes, antelopes, elephants, donkeys, buffalo, ponies, and horses. Not only did he devise innovative treatments to save the lives of hundreds of animals, he became a proficient wire-walker himself—a Renaissance man in the world of the circus.

  In 1942, thirty-six of Doc Henderson’s beloved animals died in a fire at the Ringling Brothers’ circus in Cleveland.

  In 1944, Karl and his troupe were on the high wire in Hartford when an even more terrifying fire broke out. They slid down the ropes and escaped through the animal chutes. In one of the most horrific events in circus history, 168 people died from asphyxiation.

  Grandmother Jenny joined the troupe in 1947, the year she arrived in Sarasota. She became part of her father’s treacherous and sensational seven-person pyramid, a high-wire stunt in which three ascending tiers of performers walked the wire, each linked by shoulder bars and poles. On the very top a woman sat in a chair carried by the two performers below her. Eventually Jenny became the woman in the chair.

  She married Alberto Zoppe, a brilliant Italian bareback rider who had earned fabled status for his work with Circo Italia, Circus Europa, and his own Circus Zoppe. In 1950 she gave birth to a son, Tino.

  Meanwhile, Jenny had taken up her husband’s specialty. She became so skilled that in Cecil B. DeMille’s Academy Award–winning film, The Greatest Show on Earth, my grandmother was a featured bareback rider.

  The same year the movie appeared—1952—Jenny’s second child was born. This was Delilah, my beloved mother.

  “For all his artistic genius,” Jenny says of my grandfather Zoppe, “he was a violent and abusive man. There were times when I thought he would actually murder me. I had no choice but to divorce him. By then my father, Karl, had left Ringling Brothers and formed a troupe of his own. He was playing South America and asked me to join him. Whenever Daddy called me, I ran. I left Delilah in the care of my mother.”

  “My grandmother Martha,” says my mother, “was the great religious influence in my life. I adored her. She had the heart and soul of a true Christian. Doc Henderson, her husband, was also a good and kind man, but it was my grandmother who demonstrated the love of God. She read me the Bible every night—not in a matter-of-fact way, but with great enthusiasm and passion. She took the time to explain the stories. She was careful to make sure that I knew that God cared for me, that God loved me, and that God would never leave me—no matter what.

  “Those lessons were important because, while my mother was in South America, a man came to claim me whom I barely knew. This was my father, Alberto Zoppe. My brother Tino and I went to live with him. I was desperately unhappy. He was a man extremely interested in his son Tino. Tino’s future as a performer meant the world to him. But this father had virtually no interest in his daughter. I felt terribly alone and afraid that my mother had abandoned me forever to a man who cared little for me.”

  Jenny returned from Karl’s extended tour with a new husband, Dick Faughnan, a younger man whom Karl had trained to walk the wire. The raging battle between Jenny and Zoppe over their children continued. For long periods of time Jenny and Dick left my mother with relatives as they worked with Karl in circuses the world over. They became permanent parts of his seven-person pyramid—Jenny the slender woman on top. For my mother growing up was a time of uncertainty and confusion—and also excitement. She adored her grandfather Karl.

  “It’s difficult to describe the joy that he brought to people,” my mother says. “He was born to entertain not only fans of the circus but his own family. He was a warm and loving man who kept us in stitches with practical jokes and silly pranks. He loved playing the clown and making children laugh. He loved life to the fullest. And while that family was fractured in so many ways, Karl had this amazing ability to bring us all together.

  “At Christmas, I really could get myself to believe that we were one big happy family—my grandmother Martha, whom Karl had left for Helen; H
elen and Carla, the daughter Helen had with Karl; Carla’s son Ricky and daughter Rietta; Martha’s husband Doc Henderson; Daddy’s brother Herman; Herman’s wife Edith and their son Gunther. There was also Marga, Karl’s mistress. When Helen once left Karl, he took up with Marga. Helen returned, but Marga remained. Karl cared for Marga for the rest of her life and she became a part of the family.

  “I know all this defies reason, but the Wallendas could hardly be described as reasonable. It might not have been reasonable for my mother and Carla to treat each other as full-blooded sisters, but they did. It might not have been reasonable for me to feel so much grandmotherly love for Helen, but I did.

  “I was happiest when we were all together. During the holidays the old pains and betrayals were forgotten. There was a sense of solidarity. On any given evening, with the family gathered together, Karl could make us feel that everything was in order and the world was right.”

  My father, who became one of Karl’s protégés, says, “He was a man who not only loved young people, but was a natural-born mentor. He was a phenomenal teacher. He had a passion for sharing the great skills he had developed over the years, and he did so with unusual patience.

  “When it came to his competitors, however, he was unyielding. He would simply not be outdone. There were stories about him being on the road with various circuses and devising new stunts. He’d wake up in the middle of the night and practice on the high wire at 4:00 a.m. That way none of the other aerialists could get a glimpse of what he was doing. The man had an iron will and a fierce determination. He would not accept second place or second billing. He was also always looking to garner more attention by upping the ante. Above all, he was a competitive athlete.”

  “When I began performing as a young child,” says my mother, “that Wallenda competitive spirit entered into me. In the arena, there was this powerful sense of family solidarity. Like my mother and grandfather, I was becoming a wire-walker, and I loved every minute of it. I experience it on a very spiritual level. Not only was I walking in the literal footsteps of my elders, I was entering into that special place of quietude and serenity where I could feel the presence of God. To this day I cherish that place, just as I cherish God.”

  In 1962, the Wallendas were working for the Shrine Circus at the State Fair Coliseum in Detroit. My grandmother Jenny was about to be positioned on the top of the seven-person pyramid when her cousin Jana insisted that she take her place.

  “My mother had a niece and nephew in East Berlin—Dieter and Jana—who managed to escape to America,” says Jenny. “My father, who loved family, no matter how distant the relatives might be, took them in and trained them. I didn’t think they were ready, but Daddy did. Jana wanted to take my place that night. I resented that. We had a big fight about it. She said, ‘If you don’t give me a chance tonight, I’ll never get to do it.’ I didn’t want to, but I finally relented. I stayed on the platform as I watched the pyramid take form. Dieter, who was young and strong but looked unsure of himself, was the front man. The front man is the anchor. Daddy, his brother Herman, Herman’s son Gunther, my husband Dick, and Daddy’s adopted son Mario took their positions and began to move out on the wire. I wasn’t worried about anything. Daddy had been performing this stunt since the forties and could do it in his sleep. I was still fuming that I wasn’t part of it.

  “As the three tiers of the pyramid took form with Jana seated in the chair on top, something suddenly went wrong. Dieter was losing control of the balance pole. I heard him cry out, ‘I can’t hold it any longer.’ And right then, inches from where I stood, the pyramid collapsed. I watched it fall. It was the most horrible moment of my life. Dieter, Dick, and Mario were the first to fall. Daddy and Herman tumbled from the second tier but held on to the wire. Miraculously, Daddy grabbed Jana as she fell and held her hand until an emergency crew had time to run in with a net. Gunther was the only one who kept his balance and did his best to help Daddy and Herman. When it was over, my husband was dead. Dieter died as well. Mario was paralyzed for life. Daddy suffered a cracked pelvis and double hernia. The impossible had happened, the inconceivable, the worst thing in the history of the Wallendas.”

  The fall made headlines around the world. My mother, an eleven-year-old girl, was in Sarasota with Martha when someone called with the terrible news. Mom witnessed the women crying hysterically. Between sobs, they explained to her what had happened. Like her mother, she was incredulous. It couldn’t be. The fall, the deaths.

  Some called this the end of the Wallenda legacy. But on the very next night, at the same State Fair Coliseum in Detroit where the pyramid collapsed, Herman and Gunther were back on the high wire. Even more remarkably, Karl snuck out of the hospital and, despite his near-crippling injuries, hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to the circus. He changed into his costume and walked into the arena. A buzz went through the crowd.

  Was this the man whose nephew and son-in-law were killed and whose son was paralyzed only twenty-four hours earlier, the same man who nearly lost his own life in the fatal fall?

  He was announced over the public address system. “This is the great Karl Wallenda!” The ovation was thunderous. Despite the excruciating pain in his limbs, he climbed the rope, made it to the platform, and, his balancing pole firmly in hand, walked the wire.

  His grief could not have been deeper, but his spirit was indomitable. His mantra remained unchanged: “Life is on the wire. Everything else is waiting.”

  To appease those family members who had been traumatized by the fall, he said that he would wait a very long while before deciding whether to perform the seven-person pyramid again. But the wait was no longer than a year. In 1963, at a circus in New Jersey, he did just that. He set the stunt back in motion.

  In 1964, my teenaged mother became a full-fledged member of Karl’s troupe, eventually sitting in the chair atop the pyramid.

  In 1969, at age sixty-seven, Karl traveled to Georgia where he executed a spectacular walk across the Tallulah Gorge, a 750-foot-deep chasm covered with rugged boulders. In the middle of the wire, he stopped twice to do two handstands, a salute to the American soldiers risking their lives in Vietnam.

  Over the years Mom was emotionally torn. Her mother was distant. Her mother was working. Her mother was moody, obsessed with her own career, struggling with the same uncertainty that had preoccupied the Wallendas from the very beginning—financial survival in the precarious and brutally competitive world of circus entertainment.

  By the time my mother met my father that world was on a dramatic decline. But they were kids and eager to meet all challenges. When they met in the early seventies Delilah Wallenda was twenty and Terry Troffer seventeen. Terry was still in high school. During the summers in Sarasota, he studied at Sailor’s Circus, a training school where kids, hoping to become performers, learned the mechanics of putting up a tent and rigging the various stunts. He became a flying trapeze catcher. Fascinated with mechanics, a man of many talents, Dad showed unusual aptitude for the technical side of the circus. He also had gumption.

  He knew that Karl Wallenda was among the world’s most famous aerial performers and wondered what it would be like to work with the great man. The idea haunted him. But why would Karl Wallenda have any interest in a kid like Terry Troffer? Didn’t matter. And besides, how do you get in touch with a Karl Wallenda? You look up his name in the phone book—which is just what my dad did.

  “He was surprisingly accessible,” says my father. “He liked training young people. He knew that if the circus had a future it was the hands of the young. He saw that I was eager and energetic. He hired me and a couple of other kids to work as flunkies on the road. We had to drive a truck and trailer to where he was performing in Clarksburg, Virginia. That’s where I met Delilah. That’s where my life changed.”

  My father broke his family’s mold. His dad, a self-made man, began as an arborist whose passion was trimming trees. A savvy entrepreneur, he later began the Southern Waterproofing Co
mpany, which sealed, washed, and painted high-rises. While Terry ran off to join the circus, Terry’s brothers became engineers with advanced degrees.

  In 1974, Terry married Delilah.

  “I trained him to walk the wire,” says Mom. “Because I had been trained by the best—my grandfather and my mother—I understood that the key was overtraining. As a child of taskmasters, I became a tough taskmaster myself. The fact that my student was my husband made it doubly important that his training be uncompromised. If our dream were to come true—an act in which we would perform on the wire as a duo—then our lives would depend on each other.

  “That meant Terry would have to be more than a competent performer. He would have to be superlative. He would have to be a Wallenda. I saw his other great talent was building and rigging. Like his dad and brothers, he has a supersharp scientific mind. But it was up to me to help him develop his talent as a performer. And he did.”

  The Delilah-Wallenda duo took shape. Mom and Dad became linked to the fate of her family. (When I began to perform as a child, I also adopted my mother’s maiden name, knowing that “Wallenda” had both deep history and great mystique.) Karl hired them as members of his troupe. Terry rode a bike on the wire while Delilah, dangling from a strap attached from her neck to the bottom of the bike, was carried along.

  “Karl was always happy to help family members hone their skills and develop their acts,” said Dad. “There were two reasons. To begin with, that would mean that the family members were less dependent on him for support. He also understood the notion of expanding his brand. The more Wallendas out there, the better for the Wallenda name. That became especially important at a time when business had begun its steep downward curve.”