by John Boyne
When they arrived in Berchtesgaden, the crowds were out on the streets, waving their swastikas and cheering loudly. Despite the cold weather, Hitler had told Ernst to keep the top down so the people could see him, and they roared their approval as he drove by. He saluted them all, a stern expression on his face, while Eva smiled and waved. When Ernst came to a halt outside the town hall, the mayor emerged to greet them, bowing obsequiously as the Führer shook his hand, then saluting, then bowing some more, then growing so confused that it was only when Hitler placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him that he moved out of the way to let them enter.
‘Aren’t you coming inside, Ernst?’ asked Pierrot, noticing that the chauffeur was holding back.
‘No, I must stay with the car,’ he said. ‘But you go in. I’ll be here when you all come out again.’
Pierrot nodded and decided to wait until the rest of the crowd had entered; he liked the idea of striding down the aisle in his Deutsches Jungvolk uniform and taking his seat next to the Führer with the eyes of the townspeople upon him – but just as he was about to go inside, he noticed Ernst’s car keys lying on the ground next to his feet. The chauffeur must have dropped them in the rush of the crowd.
‘Ernst,’ he cried, looking down the road towards where the car was parked. He sighed in frustration, glancing back at the hall, but there were still so many people trying to find seats that he decided he had enough time, and ran down the road, expecting to see the chauffeur patting down his pockets as he searched for his keys.
The car was there, but to his surprise Ernst was nowhere to be seen.
Pierrot frowned and looked around. Hadn’t Ernst said that he was going to stay with the car? He began to walk back, looking up and down the side streets, and just as he was about to give up and return to the town hall, he spotted the chauffeur knocking on a door up ahead.
‘Ernst,’ he cried, but his voice didn’t carry far enough, and as he watched, the door of a small, nondescript cottage opened and Ernst disappeared inside. Pierrot held back until the street was quiet again, then went up to the window and put his face to the glass.
There was no one in the front room, which was filled with books and records, but beyond the parlour door Pierrot saw Ernst standing with a man he had never seen before. They were deep in conversation, and Pierrot watched as the man opened a cupboard and removed what looked like a bottle of medicine and a syringe. He pierced the lid with the needle, extracted some of the liquid inside, and injected a cake that stood on the table next to him before spreading his arms wide, as if to say, It’s that simple. Nodding, Ernst took the bottle and syringe and placed them in the pocket of his overcoat, while the man picked up the cake and threw it in the bin. When the chauffeur turned to make his way back to the front door, Pierrot ran quickly round the corner but stayed to hear whatever they might say.
‘Good luck,’ said the stranger.
‘Good luck to all of us,’ replied Ernst.
Pierrot headed back towards the hall, stopping only to place the keys in the ignition of the car as he passed by, and took a seat near the front as he listened to the end of the Führer’s speech. He was saying that the next year, 1941, was going to be a great year for Germany; that the world would finally recognize their resolve as victory grew closer. Despite the festive atmosphere, he roared out his lines as if he was admonishing the audience, and they shouted back in delight, whipped into a frenzy by his almost manic enthusiasm. He banged the podium a few times, making Eva close her eyes and jump, and the more he banged, the more the crowd cheered and raised their arms in the air as one, as if they were a single body connected by a single mind, shouting ‘Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!’ with Pierrot at their heart, his voice as loud as anyone’s, his passion as deep, his belief as strong.
On Christmas Eve the Führer hosted a small party for the staff at the Berghof, thanking them for their service throughout the year. Although he did not give any personal gifts, he had asked Pierrot a few days earlier whether there was anything special that he would like, but the boy, not wanting to seem like a child among adults, declined the offer.
Emma had excelled herself with a buffet feast consisting of turkey, duck and goose, each filled with a wonderful spiced apple and cranberry stuffing; three types of potato; sauerkraut; and a range of vegetable dishes for the Führer. The group ate together cheerfully, Hitler making his way from person to person, talking politics still, and no matter what he said, everyone nodded their heads and told him that he was absolutely right. He might have said that the moon was made of cheese, and they would have said, Of course it is, mein Führer. Limburger.
Pierrot watched his aunt, who seemed more nervous than usual this evening, and kept a close eye on Ernst, who appeared remarkably calm.
‘Take a drink, Ernst,’ said the Führer loudly, pouring a glass of wine for the driver. ‘Your services will not be required tonight. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. Enjoy yourself.’
‘Thank you, mein Führer,’ said the chauffeur, accepting the glass and raising it in a toast to their leader, who accepted their applause with a polite nod of the head and a rare smile.
‘Oh, the pudding!’ cried Emma when the plates on the table were almost empty. ‘I almost forgot the pudding!’
Pierrot watched as she carried a beautiful stollen in from the kitchen and placed it on the table, the scent of fruit, marzipan and spices filling the air. She had done her best to fashion the cake into the shape of the Berghof itself, with icing sugar sprinkled liberally over the top to represent the snow, although it would have been a generous critic who complimented her skills as a sculptor. Beatrix stared at it, her face pale, and turned to look at Ernst, who was resolutely not looking in her direction. Pierrot watched nervously as Emma took a knife from the pocket of her apron and began to slice it.
‘It looks wonderful, Emma,’ said Eva, beaming in delight.
‘The first slice for the Führer,’ said Beatrix, her voice raised but with a slight tremble to it.
‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Ernst. ‘You must tell us if it is as good as it looks.’
‘Sadly I don’t think I can eat another thing,’ declared Hitler, patting his stomach. ‘I’m ready to burst as it is.’
‘Oh, but you must, mein Führer!’ cried Ernst immediately. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly, noticing everyone’s look of surprise at his enthusiasm. ‘I only meant that you must reward yourself. You have done so much for us this year. One slice, please. To celebrate the festive season. And afterwards we can all enjoy some.’
Emma cut a generous portion and put it on a plate with a small fork before handing it across, and the Führer looked at it for a moment uncertainly before laughing and accepting.
‘Of course you’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s not Christmas without stollen.’ He used the side of his fork to cut a section of the cake and brought it to his lips.
‘Wait!’ cried Pierrot, jumping forward. ‘Stop!’
All heads turned in astonishment as the boy ran over to the Führer’s side.
‘What is it, Pieter?’ he asked. ‘Do you want the first slice? I thought you had more manners than that.’
‘Put the cake down,’ said Pierrot.
There was perfect silence for a few moments. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Führer finally, his tone cold.
‘Put the cake down, mein Führer,’ repeated Pierrot. ‘I don’t think you should eat it.’
No one said a word as Hitler stared from the boy to the cake and back to Pierrot again.
‘Whyever not?’ he asked, baffled.
‘I think there might be something wrong with it,’ he said, his voice trembling as badly as his aunt’s had a few moments before. Perhaps he was wrong in what he suspected. Perhaps he was making a fool of himself and the Führer would never forgive his outburst.
‘Something wrong with my stollen?’ cried Emma, breaking the silence. ‘I’ll have you know, young man, that I’ve been making that cake for more than twenty years and
have never received a word of complaint!’
‘Pieter, you’re tired,’ said Beatrix, stepping forward and placing her hands on his shoulders, trying to steer him away. ‘Forgive him, mein Führer. It’s all the excitement of Christmas. You know what children are like.’
‘Get off me!’ shouted Pierrot, pulling away from her, and she stepped back, one hand pressed across her mouth in horror. ‘Don’t you ever put your hands on me again, do you hear? You’re a traitor!’
‘Pieter,’ said the Führer. ‘What are you—?’
‘You asked me earlier whether I would like anything for Christmas,’ he said, interrupting his master.
‘I did, yes. What of it?’
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. I do want something. Something very simple.’
The Führer looked around the room, a half-smile on his face, as if he hoped that someone would explain all this to him soon. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What is it? Tell me.’
‘I want Ernst to eat the first slice,’ he said.
No one spoke. No one moved. The Führer tapped his finger against the side of the plate as he considered this, before slowly, very slowly, turning to look at his driver.
‘You want Ernst to eat the first slice,’ he repeated quietly.
‘No, mein Führer,’ insisted the chauffeur, shaking his head, the words cracking as he said them. ‘I couldn’t. It would be wrong. The honour of the first slice belongs to you. You have done . . .’ His words started to trail off in his fear. ‘So much . . . for us all . . .’
‘But it’s Christmas,’ said the Führer, walking towards him, and both Herta and Ange stepped out of the way to let him pass. ‘And young people should get what they want for Christmas, if they have been good. And Pieter has been very, very good.’
He held out the plate, looking directly into Ernst’s eyes. ‘Eat it,’ he said. ‘Eat it all. Tell me how good it tastes.’
He took a step back as Ernst lifted the fork to his mouth, staring at it for a few moments before suddenly throwing the entire thing at the Führer and running from the room, the plate crashing to the floor and breaking as Eva let out a scream.
‘Ernst!’ cried Beatrix, but the guards ran after him quickly, and Pierrot could hear shouting from outside as they struggled with him before dragging him to the ground. He was shouting at them to leave him alone, to let him be, while Beatrix, Emma and the maids watched in fear and shock.
‘What is it?’ asked Eva, staring around in confusion. ‘What’s going on? Why wouldn’t he eat it?’
‘He has tried to poison me,’ said the Führer in a sad voice. ‘How very disappointing.’
And with that he turned away, walked down the corridor and into his office, closing the door behind him. A moment later he opened it again and roared out Pierrot’s name.
It took a long time for Pierrot to fall asleep that night, and not because he was excited about the arrival of Christmas morning. Interrogated by the Führer for more than an hour, he had willingly revealed everything he had seen and heard since his arrival at the Berghof: the suspicions he had felt towards Ernst, and his great disappointment in his aunt for betraying the Fatherland in the way she had. Hitler remained silent throughout much of what the boy said, asking only a few questions from time to time, querying whether Emma, Herta, Ange or any of his guards had been involved in the plan, but it seemed that they had been as ignorant of what Ernst and Beatrix had been planning as the Führer himself.
‘And you, Pieter?’ he asked before letting him go. ‘Why did you never think to bring your concerns to me before?’
‘I didn’t understand what they were doing until tonight,’ he replied, his face growing red with anxiety that he too would be implicated in what had happened and sent away from the Obersalzberg. ‘I wasn’t even sure that it was you Ernst was talking about. I only realized at the last moment, when he insisted that you eat the stollen.’
The Führer accepted this and sent him to bed, where he lay, tossing and turning, until sleep somehow overtook him. Fretful images of both his parents came to him in his dream: the chessboard downstairs in M. Abrahams’ restaurant; the streets around the Avenue du Charles Floquet. He dreamed of D’Artagnan and Anshel, and the stories his friend used to send him. And then, just as his dreams became more confused, he woke with a start, sitting up in bed with perspiration running down his face.
He sat there, one hand pressed against his chest, struggling to get enough air into his lungs, and heard the sound of low voices and crunching boots outside on the gravel. Jumping out of bed, he went to the window and parted the curtains, looking onto the gardens that were spread out towards the rear of the Berghof. The soldiers had brought two cars round – Ernst’s and one other – and they were parked on opposite sides, headlights turned on, providing a ghostly spotlight in the centre of the lawn. Three soldiers were standing with their backs to the house, and as Pierrot watched he saw two more leading Ernst out to stand at the point where the beams of light intersected, giving him a rather ghostly appearance. His shirt had been ripped off and he had been badly beaten; one eye was sealed shut, and blood ran down his face from a deep wound at his hairline. A dark bruise had formed on his abdomen. His hands were tied behind his back, and although his legs threatened to give way beneath him, he stood tall, like a man.
A moment later the Führer himself appeared wearing his overcoat and hat, and stood to the right of the soldiers, saying not a word but simply nodding at them as they raised their rifles.
‘Death to the Nazis!’ cried Ernst as the bullets rang out, and Pierrot gripped the windowsill in horror as he saw the chauffeur’s body fall to the ground; then one of the guards who had delivered him to his place of death marched over, took a pistol from his holster and discharged a single bullet into the dead man’s head. Hitler nodded once again, and they reached down, dragging Ernst’s body away by his feet.
Pierrot pressed a hand to his mouth to prevent himself from screaming out loud, and fell to the floor, his back against the wall. He had never seen anything like this before; he felt as if he might be sick.
You did this, said a voice in his head. You killed him.
‘But he was a traitor,’ he said aloud in reply. ‘He betrayed the Fatherland! He betrayed the Führer himself!’
He stayed where he was, trying to compose himself, ignoring the perspiration that ran down his pyjama top, and finally, when he felt strong enough, he stood up and dared to look outside.
Immediately he heard the crunching noise of the guards’ footsteps once again, and then the sound of women’s voices crying out hysterically. Looking down, he saw that Emma and Herta had emerged from the house and were standing next to the Führer, pleading with him, the former practically on her knees in an attitude of supplication, and Pierrot frowned, unable to understand what was happening now. Ernst was dead, after all. It was too late to plead for his life.
And then he saw her.
His aunt Beatrix being led to the spot where Ernst himself had fallen a few minutes earlier.
Unlike the chauffeur, her hands were not tied behind her back, but her face had been beaten just as badly and her blouse torn down the centre. She didn’t speak, but looked across at the women for a moment with a grateful expression before turning away. The Führer let out an almighty roar at the cook and the maid, and now Eva appeared, dragging the weeping women back inside the house.
Pierrot looked towards his aunt, and his blood froze as he saw that she was looking up at his window, staring directly at him. Their eyes met and he swallowed, uncertain what to do or say, but before he could decide, the shots rang out like an insult to the tranquillity of the mountains, and her body fell to the ground. Pierrot simply stared, unable to move. And then, once again, the sound of a single additional bullet cut through the night.
But you are safe, he told himself. And she was a traitor, just like Ernst. Traitors must be punished.
He closed his eyes as her body was dragged away, and when he finally opened them a
gain he expected the area to be empty – but there was one man left standing in the centre of the garden, looking up at him just like Beatrix had a few moments before.
Pierrot stayed very still as his eyes met the eyes of Adolf Hitler. He knew what he had to do. Clicking his heels together, he shot his right arm forward, his fingertips grazing the glass, and offered the salute that had become so much a part of him.
It was Pierrot who had climbed out of bed that morning, but it was Pieter who returned to it now before falling soundly asleep.
PART 3
1942–1945
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Special Project
The meeting had been going on for almost an hour when the two men finally arrived. Pieter watched from the study as Kempka, the new chauffeur, pulled up to the front door, and he ran outside quickly, ready to greet the officers as they stepped out of the car.
‘Heil Hitler!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, standing to attention as he saluted, and Herr Bischoff, the shorter, more portly of the pair, put a hand to his heart in surprise.
‘Must he shout so loudly?’ he asked, turning to the driver, who glanced towards the boy with a disdainful expression. ‘Who is he anyway?’
‘My name is Scharführer Fischer,’ declared Pieter, tapping the gorget patches on his shoulders to indicate the two white lightning bolts set against a black background. ‘Kempka, bring the bags inside.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said the driver, acting upon the boy’s words without hesitation.
The other man, an Obersturmbannführer by his insignia, whose right arm was in a cast, stepped forward and examined the insignia that Pieter wore before looking into the boy’s eyes without even a hint of warmth or friendliness. There was something about his face that was familiar to Pieter but he couldn’t quite place him. He was sure that he hadn’t seen him at the Berghof before, as he kept a careful log of all the senior officers who visited, but somewhere at the back of his mind he felt certain that their paths had already crossed.
