by John Boyne
He sat up now and looked around. The room was quite small – smaller even than the one he had slept in at home in Paris – and contained nothing more than the bed he was lying in, a chest of drawers with a bowl and jug on top and a wardrobe in the corner. He lifted the sheets, looked down, and was surprised to see that he was wearing a long nightshirt with nothing underneath it. Someone must have undressed him, and the idea of this made his face grow red because whoever it was would have seen everything.
Pierrot climbed out of bed and walked over to the wardrobe, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor below, but his clothes were not inside. He opened the drawers of the chest, but they were empty too. The jug was full of water, however, so he drank a little and swirled it around in his mouth, and then poured a little into the bowl so he could wash his face. Walking over to the single window, he pulled the curtain back to look outside, but the glass was frosted over and he could only make out an indistinct blend of green and white beyond that suggested a field working hard to break through the snow. He felt a twist of anxiety build in his stomach.
Where am I? he wondered.
Turning round, he noticed a portrait on the wall of an extremely serious man with a small moustache, staring into the distance; he was wearing a yellow jacket and an iron cross on his breast pocket, one hand resting on the top of a chair, the other pressed against his hip. Behind him hung a painting of trees and a sky that was darkening with grey clouds, as if a terrible storm was brewing.
Pierrot found himself staring at the painting for a long time – there was something hypnotic about the man’s expression – and he only snapped out of it when he heard footsteps making their way along the corridor outside. Quickly he jumped back into bed and pulled the sheets up to his chin. When the door handle turned, a rather portly girl of about eighteen years of age with red hair and an even redder face looked inside.
‘You’re awake then,’ she said in an accusatory tone.
Pierrot said nothing, simply nodded his head.
‘You’re to come with me,’ she said.
‘Where to?’
‘Where I take you, that’s where. Come on. Hurry up. I’m busy enough as it is without having to answer a lot of daft questions.’
Pierrot climbed out of bed and walked towards her, looking down at his feet instead of directly at her. ‘Where are my clothes?’ he asked.
‘Gone into the incinerator,’ she said. ‘They’ll be ashes by now.’
Pierrot gasped in dismay. The clothes he had worn for the journey were clothes that Maman had bought for him on his seventh birthday; it was the last occasion they had gone shopping together.
‘And my suitcase?’ he asked.
She shrugged but didn’t look the least bit remorseful. ‘Everything’s gone,’ she said. ‘We didn’t want those nasty, smelly things in the house.’
‘But they—’ began Pierrot.
‘You can stop that nonsense right now,’ said the girl, turning round and wagging a finger in his face. ‘They were filthy and most likely crawling with undesirables. They’re better off in the fire. And you’re lucky to be here in the Berghof—’
‘The what?’ asked Pierrot.
‘The Berghof,’ she repeated. ‘That’s what this house is called. And we don’t allow tantrums here. Now follow me. I don’t want to hear another word out of you.’
He walked along the corridor, looking left and right, trying to take everything in. The house was made almost entirely of wood, and although it felt pretty and cosy, the photographs on the wall showing groups of officers in uniforms standing to attention – some looking directly down the camera lens as if they were hoping to intimidate it into cracking – seemed a little out of place. He stood in front of one of them, mesmerized by what he saw. The men looked fierce, frightening, handsome and electrifying all at once. Pierrot wondered whether he might look as frightening as them when he was grown up; if he did, then no one would dare to knock him over in train stations or steal his sandwiches in railway carriages.
‘She takes those photos,’ said the girl, stopping when she saw what Pierrot was looking at.
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘The mistress. Now stop dawdling – the water’s getting cold.’
Pierrot didn’t know what she meant by this, but followed her as she made her way down the staircase and turned left.
‘What’s your name again?’ she asked, looking back at him. ‘I can’t get it straight in my head.’
‘Pierrot,’ said Pierrot.
‘What sort of name is that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It’s just my name.’
‘Don’t shrug,’ she said. ‘The mistress can’t abide people who shrug. She says it’s common.’
‘Do you mean my aunt?’ asked Pierrot.
The girl stopped and stared at him for a moment before throwing her head back and laughing. ‘Beatrix isn’t the mistress,’ she said. ‘She’s just the housekeeper. The mistress is . . . Well, she’s the mistress, isn’t she? She’s in charge. Your aunt takes her orders from her. We all do.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Pierrot.
‘Herta Theissen,’ said the girl. ‘I’m the second most senior of the maids here.’
‘How many are there?’
‘Two,’ she replied. ‘But the mistress says we’ll need more soon, and when the others come, I’ll still be second and they’ll answer to me.’
‘And do you live here too?’ he asked.
‘Of course I do. Do you think I just popped in for the good of my health? There’s the master and mistress when they’re here, although we haven’t seen them in a few weeks now. Sometimes they come for a weekend and sometimes for longer, and then sometimes we might not see them for a whole month. Then there’s Emma – she’s the cook, and you don’t want to get on the wrong side of her. And Ute, the senior maid. Ernst, the chauffeur, of course. You met him last night, I expect. Oh, he’s wonderful! So handsome and funny and thoughtful.’ She stopped talking for a few moments and sighed happily. ‘And there’s your aunt, of course. The housekeeper. There’s usually a couple of soldiers on the door, but they change too often for us to bother getting to know them.’
‘Where is my aunt?’ asked Pierrot, already deciding that he didn’t like Herta very much.
‘She’s gone down the mountain with Ernst to pick up a few necessities. She’ll be back soon, I expect. Although you never know with that pair. Your aunt has a terrible habit of wasting his time. I’d say something to her about it, only she has seniority over me and would probably report me to the mistress.’
Herta opened another door and Pierrot followed her in. A tin bath stood in the centre of the room, half filled with water, steam rising from the surface.
‘Is it wash day?’ he asked.
‘It is for you,’ said Herta, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Come on, get that nightshirt off and climb in so I can scrub you clean. God only knows what kind of dirt you’ve brought with you. I never met a Frenchman who wasn’t filthy.’
‘Oh no,’ said Pierrot, shaking his head and backing away, holding both palms out in the air to stop her getting anywhere near him. There was no way he was going to take his clothes off in front of a complete stranger – and especially not in front of a girl. He hadn’t even liked doing that in the orphanage, and there were only boys in the dormitory there. ‘No, no, no. Absolutely not. I’m not taking anything off. Sorry, but no.’
‘Do you think you have a choice in this?’ asked Herta, putting her hands on her hips and staring at him as if he was a member of an alien species. ‘Orders are orders, Pierre—’
‘Pierrot.’
‘You’ll learn that soon enough. Orders are given and we obey them. Every time and without question.’
‘I won’t do it,’ said Pierrot, growing red with embarrassment. ‘Even my mother stopped bathing me when I was five.’
‘Well, your mother’s dead – that’s what I heard. And your father jump
ed under a train.’
Pierrot stared at her, unable to say anything for a moment. He couldn’t quite believe that anyone would say something so cruel.
‘I’ll wash myself,’ he said finally, his voice cracking a little. ‘I know how to do it and I’ll do it right. I promise.’
Herta threw her hands in the air in defeat. ‘Fine,’ she said, picking up a square of soap and slamming it sharply into the palm of his hand. ‘But I’ll be back in fifteen minutes and I want all that soap to be used up by then, do you understand me? Otherwise I’ll take the scrubbing brush to you myself, and there’s nothing you can say that will stop me.’
Pierrot nodded and breathed a sigh of relief, waiting until she had left the bathroom before taking off the nightshirt and climbing carefully into the bath. Once he was in, he lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the unexpected luxury. It had been a long time since he’d taken a warm bath. In the orphanage they were always cold, as there were so many children who needed to use the same water. He softened the soap, and when it produced a good lather, he began to wash himself.
The bath water quickly turned murky from all the dirt that had collected on his body, and he buried his head under the surface, enjoying the way the sounds of the outside world disappeared, before massaging his scalp with the soap to wash his hair. When he’d rinsed out all the lather he sat up and scrubbed his feet and his fingernails. To his relief, the soap got smaller and smaller, but he kept washing until it disappeared entirely, relieved that when Herta returned she would have no cause to go through with her appalling threat.
When she came back in – without even knocking! – she was carrying a large towel, and held it out before him. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Out you get.’
‘Turn round,’ said Pierrot.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ said Herta with a sigh, turning her head away and closing her eyes. Pierrot climbed out of the bath and allowed himself to be enveloped in the fabric, which was softer and more sumptuous than any he had ever known. It felt so comfortable wrapped tightly around his small body that he would have been happy to stay in it for ever.
‘Right,’ said Herta. ‘I’ve left fresh clothes on your bed. They’re too big for you but they’ll have to do for now. Beatrix is going to take you down the mountain to get you kitted out, or so I’m told.’
The mountain again.
‘Why am I on a mountain?’ asked Pierrot. ‘What sort of place is this?’
‘No more questions,’ said Herta, turning away. ‘I have things to do even if you don’t. Get dressed, and when you come downstairs, you can find something to eat if you’re hungry.’
Pierrot ran back upstairs to his room still wrapped in the towel, his feet leaving small outlines on the wooden floor, and sure enough a set of clothes had been laid out neatly on his bed. He put them on, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt, turning up the cuffs on the trousers and fastening the braces as tightly as he could. There was a heavy jumper too, but it was so over-sized that when he put it on it hung down below his knees, and so he took it off again and decided to brave the weather.
Walking back downstairs, he looked around, uncertain where he was supposed to go now, but there was no one about to help him.
‘Hello?’ he said quietly, nervous of drawing too much attention to himself but hoping that someone would hear. ‘Hello?’ he repeated, walking towards the front door. He could hear voices out there – two men laughing – and turned the handle, opening it to reveal a burst of sunlight despite the cold. As he stepped outside, the men threw their half-smoked cigarettes on the ground, crushing them underfoot, standing tall and staring directly ahead. A pair of living statues wearing grey uniforms, grey peaked caps, heavy black belts around their waists and dark black boots that reached almost to their knees.
They both carried rifles slung over their shoulders.
‘Good morning,’ said Pierrot cautiously.
Neither soldier spoke, so he walked out a little further before turning round and looking from one to the other; but still neither of them said a word. A sense of their ridiculousness overtook him and he put two fingers to the corners of his mouth, stretched his lips as wide as he could and rolled his eyes, trying not to giggle too much. They didn’t react. He hopped up and down on one foot while slapping a hand back and forth against his mouth, letting out a war cry. Still nothing.
‘I am Pierrot!’ he declared. ‘King of the mountain!’
Now the head of one of the soldiers turned a little and the expression on his face, the manner in which his lip curled and his shoulder lifted slightly, causing his rifle to rise too, made Pierrot think that maybe he shouldn’t talk to them any more.
A part of him wanted to go back inside and find something to eat, like Herta had suggested, as he hadn’t eaten anything in the twenty-four hours since leaving Orleans. But for now he was too intent on looking around, trying to discover exactly where he was. He walked across the grass, which had a white frosting that crackled in a pleasing manner beneath his boots, and looked out at the view. The sight that he beheld was astonishing. He wasn’t just at the top of a mountain; he was on a mountain within a collection of other mountains, each one with huge peaks that rose into the clouds. Their snowy summits mingled with the white of the sky, and the clouds gathered between them, disguising where one ended and the next began. Pierrot had never seen anything quite like this in his life. He made his way round to the other side of the house and looked at the landscape from there.
It was beautiful. An enormous, silent world captured in tranquillity.
He heard a sound in the distance and wandered around the perimeter, staring down at the winding road that led from the front of the house through the heart of the Alps, twisting left and right in unpredictable ways before blurring into the invisible area below. How far up was he? he wondered. He breathed in and the air felt so fresh and light, filling his lungs and his spirit with an enormous sense of well-being. Looking back down at the road, he watched as a car worked its way towards him, and wondered whether he ought to go back inside before whoever was in it arrived. He wished Anshel was here; he would know what to do. They had written regularly to each other when Pierrot was in the orphanage, but the move had happened so quickly that he didn’t even have time to let his friend know. He would have to write soon, but what address would he offer?
Pierrot Fischer,
The Top of the Mountain,
Somewhere near Salzburg
That would hardly do.
The car drew closer and stopped at a checkpoint about twenty feet below. Pierrot watched as a soldier emerged from a little wooden hut before lifting the barrier and waving it forward. It was the same car that had collected him from the train station the night before, the black Volkswagen with the retractable roof, a pair of black, white and red flags blowing in the breeze at the front. When it pulled up, Ernst got out and walked round to open the back door, and Pierrot’s aunt stepped out, the two of them chatting for a moment before she glanced in the direction of the soldiers at the door, then seemed to rearrange her face into a stern expression. Ernst went back and climbed into the driver’s seat, then drove forward to park a little distance away.
Beatrix asked something of one of the soldiers, who pointed in Pierrot’s direction, and she turned and caught his eye. As her face relaxed into a smile, he thought how much like his father she was. Her expression reminded him deeply of Wilhelm, and he wished that he was back in Paris, in the good old days when his parents were both alive and had cared for him and loved him and kept him safe while D’Artagnan scratched at the door longing for a walk and Anshel was downstairs ready to teach Pierrot silent words through fingers and thumbs.
Beatrix raised a hand in the air, and he waited a moment before raising his own in reply and walking over, growing curious now as to what his new life would entail.
CHAPTER SIX
A Little Less French, a Little More German
The following morning Beatrix came into Pierrot’s be
droom to tell him that they were going to take a trip down the mountain in order to buy him some new clothes.
‘The things you brought with you from Paris were not suitable for here,’ she said, glancing round and walking over to close the door. ‘The master has very strict ideas about such things. And it will be safer for you to wear traditional German clothing anyway. Your own clothes were a little too bohemian for his tastes.’
‘Safer?’ asked Pierrot, surprised by her choice of words.
‘It wasn’t easy to persuade him to let you come here,’ she explained. ‘He’s not accustomed to children. I had to promise that you would be no trouble.’
‘Doesn’t he have any of his own?’ Pierrot had hoped that there might be another child his age who would come when the master did.
‘No. And it would be best if you didn’t do anything to upset him, in case he decides to send you back to Orleans.’
‘The orphanage wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,’ said Pierrot. ‘Simone and Adèle were very kind to me.’
‘I’m sure they were. But it’s family that matters. And you and I are family. The only family that either one of us has left. We must never let each other down.’
Pierrot nodded, but there was one thing that he had been thinking about ever since his aunt’s letter arrived. ‘Why did we never meet until now?’ he asked. ‘How come you never visited Papa, Maman and me in Paris?’
Beatrix shook her head and stood up. ‘That’s not a story for today,’ she said. ‘But we’ll talk about it another time if you like. Now come along, you must be hungry.’
After breakfast they made their way outside to where Ernst was leaning casually against the car, reading a newspaper. When he looked up and saw them, he smiled and folded it in half, placing it under his arm and opening the back door. Pierrot glanced at his uniform – how smart it looked! – and wondered whether his aunt might be persuaded to buy him something like that. He’d always liked uniforms. His father had kept one in a wardrobe in their Paris apartment – an apple-green cloth tunic with a rounded collar, six buttons running down the centre, and trousers to match – but never wore it. Once, when Papa caught Pierrot trying on the jacket, he had frozen in the doorway, unable to move, and Maman had scolded her son for rooting around in things that were not his.