by John Boyne
Pierrot skipped past her and knocked on the large oak door, waiting until a voice inside beckoned him to enter. Closing the door behind him, he marched directly to the desk, clicked his heels together as he had done a thousand times over the last twelve months and offered the one-armed salute that made him feel so important.
‘Heil Hitler!’ he roared at the top of his voice.
‘Ah, there you are, Pieter,’ said the Führer, replacing the cap on his fountain pen and coming round the desk to look at him. ‘At last.’
‘I’m sorry, mein Führer,’ said Pierrot. ‘I got delayed.’
‘How so?’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘Oh, someone was talking to me outside, that’s all.’
‘Someone? Who?’
Pierrot opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue, but he felt anxious about saying them. He didn’t want to get his aunt into trouble, but then again, it was her fault, he told himself, for not delivering the message more quickly.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Hitler after a moment. ‘You’re here now. Sit down, please.’
Pierrot sat on the edge of the sofa, perfectly straight, while the Führer sat opposite him in an armchair. A scratching sound came from outside the door, and Hitler glanced towards it. ‘You can let her in,’ he said, and Pierrot jumped up and opened the door; Blondi trotted inside, looking around for her master and coming to lie at his feet with an exhausted yawn. ‘Good girl,’ he said, reaching down to pat her. ‘You were having fun outside?’ he asked.
‘Yes, mein Führer,’ said Pierrot.
‘What were you playing?’
‘Fetch, mein Führer.’
‘You’re very good with her, Pieter. I seem to be unable to train her. I can never discipline her, that’s the problem. I am far too soft-hearted.’
‘She’s very intelligent so it’s not difficult,’ said Pierrot.
‘She belongs to an intelligent breed,’ replied Hitler. ‘Her mother was a smart dog too. Did you ever have a dog, Pieter?’
‘Yes, mein Führer,’ said Pierrot. ‘D’Artagnan.’
Hitler smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘One of Dumas’ three musketeers.’
‘No, mein Führer,’ said Pierrot.
‘No?’
‘No, mein Führer,’ he repeated. ‘The three musketeers were Athos, Porthos and Aramis. D’Artagnan was just . . . Well, he was just one of their friends. Although he had the same job.’
Hitler smiled. ‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.
‘My mother liked the book very much,’ he replied. ‘She named him when he was a puppy.’
‘And what breed was he?’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Pierrot, frowning. ‘A little bit of everything, I think.’
The Führer made a disgusted face. ‘I prefer pure breeds,’ he said. ‘Do you know’ – he almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea – ‘that one of the townspeople in Berchtesgaden once asked me whether I might allow his mongrel to sire pups from Blondi. His request was as audacious as it was repugnant. I would never allow a dog like Blondi to sully her bloodline by frolicking with such worthless creatures. Where is your dog now?’
Pierrot opened his mouth to tell the story of how D’Artagnan had gone to live with Mme Bronstein and Anshel after Maman’s death, but remembered Beatrix and Ernst’s warnings that he should never mention his friend’s name in the master’s presence.
‘He died,’ said Pierrot, looking at the floor and hoping that the lie would not be obvious on his face. He hated the idea of the Führer catching him in an untruth and losing his trust in him.
‘I adore dogs,’ continued Hitler, offering no condolences. ‘My favourite was a little black and white Jack Russell who deserted from the English army during the war and came over to the German side.’
Pierrot glanced up with a sceptical expression on his face; the idea of a canine deserter seemed unlikely to him, but the Führer smiled and wagged his finger.
‘You think I’m joking, Pieter, but I assure you that I am not. My little Jack Russell – I called him Fuchsl, or Little Fox – was a mascot for the English. They liked to keep small dogs in their trenches, you see, which was cruel of them. Some were used as messenger dogs; others as mortar detectors, for a dog can hear the sound of incoming shells much faster than a human can. Dogs have saved many a life in this way. Just as they can smell chlorine or mustard gas and alert their masters. Anyway, little Fuchsl went running out into no-man’s-land one night – this must have been . . . oh, let me think . . . 1915, I suppose – and made his way safely through the artillery fire before leaping like an acrobat into the trench where I was stationed. Can you believe it? And from the moment he fell into my arms he never left my side again for the next two years. He was more loyal and steadfast than any human I have ever known.’
Pierrot tried to imagine the little dog charging across the terrain, dodging bullets, his paws slip-sliding on the blown-off limbs and ripped-out organs of the two armies. He’d heard these stories before from his father and the idea made him feel queasy inside. ‘And what happened to him?’ he asked.
The Führer’s face grew dark. ‘He was taken from me in a despicable act of thievery,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘In August 1917, at a train station just outside Leipzig, a railway worker offered me 200 marks for Fuchsl and I said that I would never sell him, not for a thousand times that amount. But I used the bathroom before the train pulled out, and when I returned to my seat, Fuchsl, my little fox, was gone. Stolen!’ The Führer breathed heavily through his nose, his lip curling, his voice rising in fury. It was twenty years later, but it was clear that he was still angered by the theft. ‘Do you know what I would do if I ever caught up with the man who stole my little Fuchsl?’ he asked.
Pierrot shook his head and the Führer leaned forward, indicating that the boy should lean forward too. When he did, he held a hand up and whispered into his ear – three sentences, all quite short and very precise. When he was finished, he sat back, and something resembling a smile crossed his face. Pierrot sat back too but said nothing. He looked down at Blondi, who opened one eye and glanced upwards without moving a muscle. As much as Pierrot liked spending time with the Führer, who always made him feel so important, at this moment he wanted nothing more than to be outside again with Blondi, throwing a stick into the forest, running as fast as he could. For fun. For the stick. For his life.
‘But enough of this,’ said the Führer, patting the side of his armchair three times to signal that he wanted to change the subject. ‘I have a present for you.’
‘Thank you, mein Führer,’ said Pierrot, surprised.
‘It’s something that every boy your age should have.’ He pointed over to a table next to his desk where a brown paper parcel was sitting. ‘Fetch that for me, Pieter, will you?’
Blondi lifted her head at the word fetch, and the Führer laughed, patting the dog’s head and telling her to rest easy. Pierrot walked over and collected the package, which held something soft inside, and carried it carefully over with both hands before holding it out for the master.
‘No, no,’ said Hitler. ‘I already know what’s inside. It’s for you, Pieter. Open it. I think you’ll like what you find there.’
Pierrot’s fingers started to undo the string that held the package together. It had been a long time since he’d received a present and it was rather exciting to get one now.
‘This is very kind of you,’ he said.
‘Just open it,’ replied the Führer.
The strings came loose, the brown paper parted and Pierrot reached inside to remove what lay inside. Inside was a pair of black short trousers, a light brown shirt, some shoes, a dark blue tunic, a black neckerchief and a soft brown cap. A patch featuring a white bolt of lightning against a black background was sewn onto the left shirt sleeve.
Pierrot stared at the package’s contents with a mixture of anxiety and desire. He remembered the boys on the train wearing clothes similar to this
, with different designs but equal authority; how they had bullied him, and how Rottenführer Kotler had stolen his sandwiches. He wasn’t sure that this was the type of person he wanted to be. But then again, those boys had been afraid of nothing and were part of a gang – just like the musketeers themselves, he thought. Pierrot quite liked the idea of being afraid of nothing. And he also liked the idea of belonging to something.
‘These are very special clothes indeed,’ said the Führer. ‘You have heard of the Hitlerjugend, of course?’
‘Yes,’ said Pierrot. ‘When I took the train to the Obersalzberg I met some of them in a railway carriage.’
‘Then you know a little about them,’ replied Hitler. ‘Our National Socialist Party is making great strides in advancing the cause of our country. It is my destiny to lead Germany to great things around the world, and these, I promise you, will come in time. But it is never too early to join the cause. I am always impressed by how boys your age and a little older cleave to my side in support of our policies and our determination to right the wrongs that have been done in the past. You know what I am talking about, I presume?’
‘A little,’ said Pierrot. ‘My father used to talk of such things.’
‘Good,’ said the Führer. ‘So we encourage our youth to join the party as soon as possible. We begin with the Deutsches Jungvolk. You’re a little young, in truth, but I am making a special exception for you. In time, when you are older, you will become a member of the Hitlerjugend. There’s a branch for girls too, the Bund Deutscher Mädel – for do not underestimate the importance of the women who will be the mothers of our future leaders. Put your uniform on, Pieter. Let me see what you look like in it.’
Pierrot blinked and looked down at the set of clothes. ‘Now, mein Führer?’
‘Yes, why not? Go to your room and change. Come back here when you’re fully dressed.’
Pierrot went upstairs to his bedroom, where he took off his shoes, trousers, shirt and jumper and replaced them with the clothes he had been given. They were a perfect fit. He put the shoes on last and clicked his heels together: they made a much more impressive sound than his own ever had. There was a mirror on the wall, and when he turned to look at his reflection, any anxiety that he might have felt immediately vanished. He had never felt so proud in all his life. He thought of Kurt Kotler again, and realized how wonderful it would be to have such authority; to be able to take what you wanted, when you wanted, from whomever you wanted, instead of always having things taken from you.
When he returned to the Führer’s study, he was wearing a broad grin on his face. ‘Thank you, mein Führer,’ he said.
‘You are most welcome,’ replied Hitler. ‘But remember, the boy who wears this uniform must obey our rules and seek nothing more from life than the advancement of our party and our country. That is why we are here, all of us. To make Germany great again. And now there is one more thing.’ He walked over to his desk and shuffled through some papers until he found a card with some words written upon it. ‘Stand over here,’ he said, pointing towards the long Nazi banner that hung against one wall, a draping of red with the familiar white circle and hooked cross inscribed at its heart. ‘Now take this card and read aloud what it says.’
Pierrot stood where he was told and read the words slowly to himself first before looking up at the Führer nervously. He felt the most curious sensation inside. He wanted to speak the words aloud, and yet at the same time he did not want to speak them aloud.
‘Pieter,’ said Hitler quietly.
Pierrot cleared his throat and stood tall. ‘In the presence of this blood banner,’ he began, ‘which represents our Führer, I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the saviour of our country, Adolf Hitler. I am willing and ready to give up my life for him, so help me God.’
The Führer smiled and nodded, took the card back, and as he did so, Pierrot hoped he did not notice how his small hands were trembling.
‘Well done, Pieter,’ said Hitler. ‘From now on I don’t want to see you wearing anything except this uniform, do you understand? You will find three further sets in your wardrobe.’
Pierrot nodded and gave the salute once more before leaving the office and making his way down the corridor, feeling more confident and grown-up now that he was wearing a uniform. He was a member of the Deutsches Jungvolk now, he told himself. And not just any member either. An important one, for how many other boys had been given a uniform by Adolf Hitler himself?
Papa would be so proud of me, he thought.
Turning a corner, he saw Beatrix and the chauffeur, Ernst, standing in an alcove together, talking quietly. He caught only a little of their conversation.
‘Not quite yet,’ Ernst was saying. ‘But soon. If things get too far out of hand, I promise that I will act.’
‘And you know what you will do?’ asked Beatrix.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve spoken to—’
He stopped talking the moment he saw the boy.
‘Pieter,’ he said.
‘Look!’ cried Pierrot, extending his arms wide. ‘Look at me!’
Beatrix said nothing for a moment, but finally forced a smile onto her face. ‘You look wonderful,’ she said. ‘A true patriot. A true German.’
Pierrot grinned and turned to look at Ernst, who was not smiling.
‘And there was me thinking that you were French,’ Ernst said, touching the tip of his cap in Beatrix’s direction before stepping through the front door and disappearing into the bright afternoon sunshine, a shadow dissolving into the white and green landscape.
CHAPTER NINE
A Shoemaker, a Soldier and a King
By the time Pierrot was eight years old, the Führer had grown closer to him and was showing an interest in what the boy was reading, allowing him full access to his library and recommending authors and books that impressed him. He presented Pierrot with a biography of an eighteenth-century Prussian king, Frederick the Great, written by Thomas Carlyle; a volume so enormous and with such a small typeface that Pierrot doubted whether he would even be able to get past the first chapter.
‘A great warrior,’ explained Hitler, tapping the book’s jacket with his index finger. ‘A global visionary. And a patron of the arts. The perfect journey: we fight to achieve our goals, we purify the world and then we make it beautiful again.’
Pierrot even read the Führer’s own book, Mein Kampf, which was a little easier for him to comprehend than the Carlyle but still confusing. He was particularly interested in the sections relating to the Great War, for that, of course, was where his father, Wilhelm, had suffered so much. Walking Blondi one afternoon in the forest surrounding the mountain retreat, he asked the Führer about his own time as a soldier.
‘At first I was a dispatch runner on the Western Front,’ he told him, ‘passing messages between the armies stationed at the French and Belgian borders. But then I fought in the trenches at Ypres, in the Somme and at Passchendaele. Towards the end of the war I was almost blinded in a mustard-gas attack. Afterwards I sometimes thought that it would have been better to go blind than witness the indignities that the German people were made to suffer after their capitulation.’
‘My father fought in the Somme,’ said Pierrot. ‘My mother always said that although he didn’t die in the war, it was the war that killed him.’
The Führer brushed this comment away with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Your mother sounds like an ignorant person,’ he said. ‘Everyone should be proud to die for the greater glory of the Fatherland. Your father’s memory, Pieter, is one that you should honour.’
‘But when he came home,’ said Pierrot, ‘he was very ill. And he did some terrible things.’
‘Such as?’
Pierrot didn’t like to remember what his father had done, and when he began recounting some of the worst moments, he spoke quietly and looked down at the ground. The Führer listened without changing his expression, and when the boy finished he simply shook his head,
as if none of that mattered. ‘We will reclaim what is ours,’ he said. ‘Our land, our dignity and our destiny. The struggle of the German people and our ultimate victory is the story that will define our generation.’
Pierrot nodded. He had stopped thinking of himself as French and, becoming taller at last and having recently received two new Deutsches Jungvolk uniforms to accommodate his growing limbs, had begun to identify himself as German. After all, as the Führer told him, one day all Europe would belong to Germany anyway, so national identities would no longer matter. ‘We will be one,’ he said. ‘United under a common flag.’ And with this he pointed at the swastika arm band that he wore. ‘That flag.’
During that visit the Führer gave Pierrot one more book from his private library before leaving for Berlin. Pierrot read the title carefully out loud. ‘The International Jew,’ he said, sounding out each syllable carefully. ‘The World’s Foremost Problem. By Henry Ford.’
‘An American, of course,’ explained Hitler. ‘But he understands the nature of the Jew, the avarice of the Jew, the manner in which the Jew concerns himself with the accumulation of personal wealth. In my opinion, Mr Ford should stop making motorcars and run for president. He is a man with whom Germany could work. With whom I could work.’
Pierrot took the book and tried not to think about the fact that Anshel was Jewish but displayed none of the characteristics the Führer had described. For now, he put it in the drawer of the locker by his bed and returned to Emil and the Detectives, which always reminded him of home.
A few months later, as the autumn frost began to settle on the mountains and hills of the Obersalzberg, Ernst drove to Salzburg to collect Fräulein Braun, who was coming to the Berghof to prepare for the arrival of some very important guests. Emma was given a list of their favourite dishes and she shook her head in disbelief.
‘Well, they’re not particular at all, are they?’ she said sarcastically.