by John Boyne
‘Good morning, Pierrot!’ said the chauffeur cheerfully, tousling the boy’s hair. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘I had a dream last night that I was playing football for Germany,’ said Ernst. ‘I scored the winning goal against the English and everyone cheered as I was carried off the field on the shoulders of the other players.’
Pierrot nodded. He didn’t like it when people recounted their dreams. Like some of Anshel’s more complicated stories, they never really made any sense.
‘Where to, Fräulein Fischer?’ Ernst asked, bowing low before Beatrix and tipping his cap dramatically.
She laughed as she climbed into the back seat. ‘I must have received a promotion, Pierrot,’ she said. ‘Ernst never refers to me in such respectful terms. Into town, please. Pierrot needs new clothes.’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ said Ernst, taking his place in the driver’s seat and turning the ignition on. ‘Your aunt knows how highly I think of her.’
Pierrot turned to look at Beatrix, whose eyes were meeting the chauffeur’s in the rear-view mirror, and noticed the half-smile that lit up her face and the slight flush of red that appeared on her cheeks. As they drove off, he glanced round through the back window, and got a view of the house as it disappeared from sight. It was very beautiful, its blond wooden frame standing out amid the rugged snowy landscape like an unexpected charm.
‘I remember the first time I saw it,’ Beatrix said, following the direction of his eyes. ‘I couldn’t believe how tranquil it was. I felt certain that this would be a place of great serenity.’
‘It is,’ muttered Ernst under his breath, but loud enough for Pierrot to hear. ‘When he’s not around.’
‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Pierrot, turning back to his aunt.
‘Well, I was thirty-four when I first arrived, so it must be . . . oh, a little over two years now.’
Pierrot examined her carefully. She was very beautiful, that much was obvious, with long red hair that curled up a little around her shoulders, and pale unblemished skin. ‘So you’re thirty-six?’ he asked after a moment. ‘That’s so old!’
‘Ha!’ cried Beatrix, bursting out laughing.
‘Pierrot, you and I need to have a little talk,’ said Ernst. ‘If you’re ever going to find a girlfriend you need to know how to speak to one. You must never tell a woman that she looks old. Always guess five years younger than you really think.’
‘I don’t want a girlfriend,’ said Pierrot quickly, appalled by the idea.
‘You say that now. Let’s see how you feel in a few years’ time.’
Pierrot shook his head. He remembered Anshel going all silly over a new girl in their class, writing stories for her and leaving flowers on her desk. He’d had to have a serious talk with his friend about it, but there was nothing he could do to change his mind; Anshel was smitten. The whole thing had seemed utterly ridiculous to Pierrot.
‘How old are you, Ernst?’ asked Pierrot, leaning forward and moving his body into the gap between the two front seats to get a better look at the chauffeur.
‘I’m twenty-seven,’ said Ernst, glancing back at him. ‘I know, it’s impossible to believe. I look like a boy in the first flush of youth.’
‘Eyes on the road, Ernst,’ said Aunt Beatrix quietly, but her tone betrayed her amusement. ‘And sit back, Pierrot, it’s dangerous to sit like that. If we hit a bump—’
‘Are you going to marry Herta?’ asked Pierrot, interrupting her.
‘Herta? Which Herta?’
‘The maid at the house.’
‘Herta Theissen?’ asked Ernst, raising his voice in horror. ‘Good God, no. Why on earth would you think that?’
‘She said you were handsome and funny and thoughtful.’
Beatrix burst out laughing and covered her mouth with her hands. ‘Can it be true, Ernst?’ she asked, teasing him. ‘Is the mild-mannered Herta in love with you?’
‘Women are always falling in love with me,’ said Ernst with a shrug. ‘It’s a cross I have to bear. They take one look at me and that’s it. They’re lost for ever.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘It’s not easy being this handsome, you know.’
‘Or that humble,’ added Beatrix.
‘Perhaps she likes your uniform,’ suggested Pierrot.
‘Every girl likes a man in uniform,’ said Ernst.
‘Every girl, perhaps,’ remarked Beatrix. ‘But not every uniform.’
‘You know why people wear uniforms, don’t you, Pierrot?’ continued the chauffeur.
The boy shook his head.
‘Because a person who wears one believes he can do anything he likes.’
‘Ernst,’ said Beatrix quietly.
‘He can treat others in a way he never would while wearing normal clothes. Collars, trench coats or jackboots – uniforms allow us to exercise our cruelty without ever feeling guilt.’
‘Ernst, that’s enough,’ insisted Beatrix.
‘You don’t think I’m right?’
‘You know I do,’ said Beatrix. ‘But this isn’t the time for such a conversation.’
Ernst said nothing and drove on silently while Pierrot considered what he had said and tried to make sense of it. He didn’t really agree with him. He loved uniforms and wished he had one of his own. ‘Are there any children to play with here?’ he asked after a moment.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Beatrix. ‘In the town, yes, there are many. And of course you’ll start school soon so I daresay you’ll make some friends there.’
‘Will they be able to come to the mountain top to play?’
‘No, the master wouldn’t like that.’
‘We’ll have to take care of each other from now on, Pierrot,’ said Ernst from the front seat. ‘I need another man about the place. The way these women bully me is monstrous.’
‘But you’re old,’ said Pierrot.
‘I’m not that old.’
‘Twenty-seven is ancient.’
‘If he’s ancient,’ asked Beatrix, ‘what does that make me?’
Pierrot hesitated for a moment. ‘Prehistoric,’ he said, giggling, and Beatrix burst out laughing.
‘Oh my, little Pierrot,’ said Ernst. ‘You have a lot to learn about women.’
‘Did you have a lot of friends in Paris?’ Beatrix asked, and Pierrot nodded.
‘Quite a few,’ he said. ‘And one mortal enemy who called me “Le Petit” because I’m so small.’
‘You’ll grow,’ said Beatrix, and, ‘Bullies are everywhere,’ said Ernst at the same time.
‘But my very best friend, Anshel, lived downstairs from us, and he’s the one I miss the most. He’s taking care of my dog, D’Artagnan, because I wasn’t allowed to take him to the orphanage. I stayed with him for a few weeks when Maman died, but his mother didn’t want me to live with them.’
‘Why not?’ asked Ernst.
Pierrot thought about this and considered recounting the conversation he had overheard between Mme Bronstein and her friend in the kitchen that day, but decided against it. He still remembered how angry she had grown when she found him wearing Anshel’s yarmulke, and how she didn’t want him to come to temple with them.
‘Anshel and I spent most of our time together,’ he said, ignoring Ernst’s question. ‘When he wasn’t writing his stories, that is.’
‘His stories?’ asked Ernst.
‘He wants to be a writer when he grows up.’
Beatrix smiled for a moment. ‘Is that what you want to be too?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Pierrot. ‘I tried a few times but I could never get the words down sensibly. I used to make things up, though, or talk about funny things that happened at school, and then he would go away for an hour, and when he came back he’d hand me the pages. He always said that even though he had written it, it was still my story.’
Beatrix’s fingers drummed on the leather seats as she considered this. ‘Anshel . . .’ she said after a moment. ‘
It was his mother who wrote to me, of course, and who told me where I could find you. Remind me, Pierrot, what was your friend’s surname?’
‘Bronstein.’
‘Anshel Bronstein. I see.’
Once again Pierrot noticed his aunt’s eyes flicker towards Ernst’s in the rear-view mirror, and this time the chauffeur offered a slight shake of his head, his expression quite serious now.
‘It’s going to be boring here,’ said Pierrot in a defeated tone.
‘There’s always plenty to do to keep you busy when you’re not at school,’ said Beatrix. ‘And I’m sure we will find some work for you to do.’
‘Work?’ asked Pierrot, looking at her in surprise.
‘Yes, of course. Everyone in the house at the top of the mountain must work. Even you. Work will set us free – that’s what the master says.’
‘I thought I was already free,’ said Pierrot.
‘I thought that too,’ said Ernst. ‘Turns out we were both wrong.’
‘Stop it, Ernst,’ snapped Beatrix.
‘What kind of work?’ asked Pierrot.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she replied. ‘The master might have some ideas on that subject. If not, I’m sure Herta and I will come up with something. Or you might help Emma in the kitchen. Oh, don’t look so worried, Pierrot. These days, every German is obliged to contribute something to the Fatherland, no matter how young or how old.’
‘But I’m not German,’ said Pierrot. ‘I’m French.’
Beatrix turned to him quickly, and the smile faded from her face. ‘You were born in France, that’s true,’ she said. ‘And your mother was French. But your father, my older brother, was German. And that makes you German too, do you understand? From now on, it’s best that you don’t even refer to where you came from.’
‘But why?’
‘Because it will be safer that way,’ she said. ‘And there’s one other thing I wanted to discuss with you. Your name.’
‘My name?’ Pierrot asked, looking across at her and frowning.
‘Yes.’ She hesitated, as if she could scarcely believe what she was about to say. ‘I don’t think we should call you Pierrot any more.’
His mouth dropped open in surprise; he couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. ‘But I’ve always been called Pierrot,’ he said. ‘It’s . . . well, it’s my name!’
‘But it’s such a French name. I thought perhaps we might call you Pieter instead. It’s the same name, only the German version. It’s not so very different.’
‘But I’m not a Pieter,’ insisted Pierrot. ‘I’m a Pierrot.’
‘Please, Pieter—’
‘Pierrot!’
‘Can you trust me on this? In your heart you can still be Pierrot, of course. But at the top of the mountain, when other people are around – and particularly when the master and the mistress are around – you will be Pieter.’
Pierrot sighed. ‘But I don’t like it,’ he said.
‘You must understand that I only have your best interests at heart. That’s why I brought you here to live with me. I want to keep you safe. And this is the only way I knew how to do it. I need you to be obedient, Pieter, even if it seems at times that the things I ask you to do are a little odd.’
They drove on in silence for a while longer, still descending the mountain, and Pierrot wondered how much more his life was going to change before the year was out.
‘What’s the name of the town we’re going to?’ he asked finally.
‘Berchtesgaden,’ replied Beatrix. ‘It’s not too far now. We’ll be there in a few minutes.’
‘Are we still in Salzburg?’ Pierrot asked, for that was the last place name that had been tagged to his coat.
‘No, we’re about twenty miles from there,’ she replied. ‘The mountains you see around you are the Bavarian Alps. Over there’ – and here she pointed out of the left-hand window – ‘is the border with Austria. And over there’ – and here she pointed out of the right – ‘is Munich. You passed through Munich on the way here, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Pierrot. ‘And Mannheim,’ he added, remembering the soldier in the station who had stood on his fingers and seemed to enjoy the pain he was inflicting. ‘So over there,’ he added, reaching his hand out and pointing into the distance, over the mountains and into the unseen world beyond, ‘must be Paris. Over there is my home.’
Beatrix shook her head and pressed Pierrot’s hand down. ‘No, Pieter,’ she said, looking back up towards the top of the mountain. ‘Up there is your home. On the Obersalzberg. That’s where you live now. You mustn’t think of Paris any more. You may not see it again for a long time.’
Pierrot felt a great sorrow building inside him, and Maman’s face appeared in his mind, an image forming of them sitting side by side by the fireplace in the evening, while she carried on with her knitting and he read a book or did a bit of drawing in a sketchbook. He thought of D’Artagnan, and Mme Bronstein downstairs, and when he thought of Anshel, his fingers made the sign of the fox and then the sign of the dog.
I want to go home, he thought to himself, twisting his hands in ways that only Anshel would understand.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Beatrix.
‘Nothing,’ said Pierrot, placing his hands by his sides again and staring out of the window.
A few minutes later they arrived in the market town of Berchtesgaden and Ernst pulled the car into a quiet spot.
‘Will you be long?’ he asked, turning round and looking at Beatrix.
‘A little while, perhaps,’ she said. ‘He needs clothes, he needs shoes. He could do with a haircut too, don’t you think? We need to make him a little less French and a little more German.’
The chauffeur glanced at Pierrot for a moment and nodded. ‘Yes, probably,’ he said. ‘The smarter he looks, the better for all of us. He could still change his mind after all.’
‘Who could change his mind?’ asked Pierrot.
‘Shall we say two hours?’ said Aunt Beatrix, ignoring him.
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘What time are you—?’
‘Just before noon. The meeting will only take an hour or so.’
‘What meeting are you going to?’ asked Pierrot.
‘I’m not going to any meeting,’ replied Ernst.
‘But you just said—’
‘Pieter, shush,’ said Beatrix irritably. ‘Did no one ever tell you not to listen in to other people’s conversations?’
‘But I’m sitting right here!’ he protested. ‘How could I not hear you?’
‘It’s fine,’ said Ernst, turning to look at the boy and smiling. ‘Did you enjoy the drive?’ he asked.
‘I suppose so,’ said Pierrot.
‘I expect one day you would like to learn to drive a car like this?’
Pierrot nodded. ‘I would,’ he said. ‘I like cars.’
‘Well, if you’re good, then perhaps I will teach you. That will be a favour that I do for you. And in return, will you do a favour for me?’
Pierrot turned to look at his aunt, but she was silent.
‘I can try,’ he said.
‘No, I need you to do more than try,’ said Ernst. ‘I need you to promise.’
‘All right, I promise,’ agreed Pierrot. ‘What is it?’
‘Your friend, Anshel Bronstein.’
‘What about him?’ Pierrot asked, frowning.
‘Ernst . . .’ said Beatrix nervously, leaning forward.
‘Just a moment please, Beatrix,’ said the chauffeur in the most serious tone he had used that morning. ‘The favour is that I want you never to mention this boy’s name when you are in the house at the top of the mountain. Do you understand?’
Pierrot stared at him as if he had gone mad. ‘But why not?’ he asked. ‘He’s my best friend. I’ve known him since I was born. He’s practically my brother.’
‘No,’ said the chauffeur in a sharp tone. ‘He’s not your brother. Don’t say such a thing. Think it
, if you must. But don’t say it out loud.’
‘Ernst is right,’ said Beatrix. ‘It will be for the best if you don’t talk about your past at all. Keep your memories in your head, of course, but don’t speak of them.’
‘And don’t speak of this boy Anshel,’ insisted Ernst.
‘I can’t talk about my friends, I can’t use my own name,’ said Pierrot in frustration. ‘Is there anything else that I can’t do?’
‘No, that’s all,’ said Ernst, smiling at him. ‘You follow those rules, and one day I’ll teach you to drive.’
‘All right,’ Pierrot said slowly, wondering whether the chauffeur was perhaps a little funny in the head – not a good attribute in a man who had to drive a car up and down a steep mountainside several times a day.
‘Two hours then,’ said Ernst as they got out.
As Pierrot walked away he glanced back to see the chauffeur touch his aunt affectionately on the elbow, and they looked directly into each other’s eyes, not smiling so much as sharing an anxious moment.
The market town was rather busy and Aunt Beatrix said hello to a few acquaintances as they walked along, introducing Pierrot to them and telling them that he had come to live with her. There were a lot of soldiers there, four of whom were sitting outside a tavern, smoking and drinking beer, even though it was still early in the day; when they saw Beatrix approaching they threw their cigarettes away and sat up straight. One tried to place his helmet in front of his beer glass, but it was far too tall to be hidden. Pierrot’s aunt deliberately didn’t look in their direction as she passed, but the boy couldn’t help but be intrigued by the flurry of activity her arrival had provoked.
‘Do you know those soldiers?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Beatrix. ‘But they know me. They’re worried that I will report them for drinking when they should be on patrol. Whenever the master is away they become less conscientious in their duties. Now, here we are,’ she said as they arrived outside a clothes shop. ‘Don’t these look suitable?’
