The Boy at the Top of the Mountain

by John Boyne

  ‘Scharführer Fischer,’ said the man quietly. ‘You are a member of the Hitlerjugend?’

  ‘Yes, mein Obersturmbannführer.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Thirteen, mein Obersturmbannführer. The Führer advanced me into my position a year ahead of other boys following a great service that I provided to him and to the Fatherland.’

  ‘I see. But surely a squadron leader needs a squad?’

  ‘Yes, mein Obersturmbannführer,’ replied Pieter, looking straight ahead.

  ‘So where is it?’

  ‘Mein Obersturmbannführer?’

  ‘Your squad. How many members of the Hitlerjugend are under your authority? A dozen? Twenty? Fifty?’

  ‘There are no members of the Hitlerjugend present on the Obersalzberg,’ replied Pieter.

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘No, mein Obersturmbannführer,’ said Pieter, embarrassed. While he was proud of his designation, it was a source of shame to him that he had never trained, lived or spent any time with other members of the organization, and although the Führer occasionally offered him a new title, a promotion of sorts, it was obvious that these were largely honorary.

  ‘A squadron leader without a squad,’ said the man, turning round and smiling at Herr Bischoff. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

  Pieter felt his face grow red and wished that he had not come out here at all. They were jealous of him, that was all, he told himself. He would make them pay some day when real power was his.

  ‘Karl! Ralf!’ cried the Führer, emerging from the house and marching down the steps to shake the two men’s hands. He was in uncommonly good humour. ‘At last – what kept you?’

  ‘My apologies, mein Führer,’ said Kempka, the heels of his boots clicking together sharply as he saluted. ‘The train from Munich to Salzburg was delayed.’

  ‘Then why are you apologizing?’ asked Hitler, who did not enjoy the same amicable relationship with his driver as he had with his predecessor – although, as Eva had pointed out one evening when he mentioned this, at least Kempka had never tried to kill him. ‘You didn’t delay it, did you? Come in, gentlemen. Heinrich is inside. I’ll be with you in a few minutes. Pieter will show you the way to my study.’

  The two officers followed the boy down the corridor, and when he opened the door to where Himmler was waiting, the Reichsführer forced himself to smile as he shook the men’s hands. Pieter noticed that, although he was friendly towards Bischoff, he seemed a little more hostile towards his companion.

  Leaving the men alone and making his way back through the house, he saw the Führer standing by one of the windows, reading a letter.

  ‘Mein Führer,’ he said, walking up to him.

  ‘What is it, Pieter? I’m busy,’ he replied, putting the letter in his pocket and looking at the boy.

  ‘I hope I have proved my worth to you, mein Führer,’ said Pieter, standing to attention.

  ‘Yes, of course you have. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s something that the Obersturmbannführer said. About my having a rank without any responsibilities.’

  ‘You have many responsibilities, Pieter. You’re part of life here on the Obersalzberg. And you have your studies, of course.’

  ‘I thought that perhaps I could be of more assistance to you in our struggle.’

  ‘Assistance in what way?’

  ‘I would like to fight. I’m strong, I’m healthy, I’m—’

  ‘Thirteen,’ interrupted the Führer, a half-smile crossing his face. ‘Pieter, you’re only thirteen. And the army isn’t a place for a child.’

  Pieter felt his face grow red with frustration. ‘I’m not a child, mein Führer,’ he said. ‘My father fought for the Fatherland. I wish to fight too. To make you proud of me and to regain honour for my family name, which has been tarnished so badly.’

  The Führer breathed heavily through his nose as he considered this. ‘Do you ever wonder why I kept you on here?’ he asked finally.

  Pieter shook his head. ‘Mein Führer?’ he asked.

  ‘When that treasonous woman, whose name I shall not mention, asked me whether you could come to live with her at the Berghof, I was initially sceptical. I have no experience of children. As you know, I have none of my own. I wasn’t sure that I wanted one running around here, getting under my feet. But I have always been soft-hearted, and so I acquiesced, and you have never made me regret my decision, for you proved to be a quiet, studious presence. After her crimes were discovered, there were many who said that you should be sent away or even meet the same fate as her.’

  Pieter’s eyes opened wide. Someone had suggested that he be shot for the misadventures of Beatrix and Ernst? Who had it been? One of the soldiers, perhaps? Herta or Ange? Emma? They hated his authority at the Berghof. Had they wanted him to die for it?

  ‘But I said no,’ continued the Führer, clicking his fingers as Blondi passed; the dog came over and nuzzled into his hand. ‘I said that Pieter is my friend, that Pieter looks after my welfare, that Pieter will never let me down. Despite his heritage. Despite his despicable family. Despite it all. I said that I would keep you here until you were a man. But you are not a man yet, little Pieter.’

  The boy blanched at the adjective, feeling the frustration build within him.

  ‘When you are older, perhaps there will be something that we can do for you. But of course the war will be long over by then. We will achieve victory in the next year or so, that much is obvious. In the meantime you must continue with your studies – that’s what is most important. And a few years from now there will be an important position waiting for you within the Reich. Of that I am sure.’

  Pieter nodded, disappointed, but he knew better than to question the Führer or try to persuade him to change his mind. He had seen on more than one occasion how quickly he could lose his temper and switch from benign to angry. He clicked his heels together, offered the traditional salute and stepped back outside, where Kempka was standing against the car, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Stand up straight,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t slouch.’

  And the driver immediately stood up straight.

  And stopped slouching.

  Alone in the kitchen, Pieter opened biscuit tins and cupboards in search of something to eat. He was always hungry these days, and no matter how much he ate he never seemed to be satisfied, which Herta said was typical of teenagers. Lifting the lid off a cake stand, he smiled when he saw a fresh chocolate sponge waiting for him, and was about to cut into it when Emma walked through the door.

  ‘If you so much as touch that cake, Pieter Fischer, I’ll have you over my knee with the wooden spoon before you know what’s hit you.’

  Pieter turned round and stared at her coldly; he had been insulted enough for one day. ‘Don’t you think I’m a little old for these threats of yours?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said, pushing him out of the way and replacing the glass cloche over the cake. ‘When you’re in my kitchen, you play by my rules. I don’t care how important you think you are. If you’re hungry, there’s some leftover chicken in the fridge. You can make yourself a sandwich.’

  He opened the fridge door and glanced inside. Sure enough, a plate of chicken was sitting on one of the shelves, along with a bowl of stuffing and a fresh bowl of mayonnaise.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said, clapping his hands together in delight. ‘That looks delicious. You can make it for me. I’ll have something sweet afterwards.’

  He sat down at the table, and Emma stared at him with her hands on her hips. ‘I’m not your bloody servant,’ she said. ‘If you want a sandwich, you can make it yourself. You have arms, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re the cook,’ he said quietly. ‘And I am a hungry Scharführer. You will make me a sandwich.’ Emma didn’t move, but he could see that she was uncertain how to respond. All it needed was a little persistence on his part. ‘Now!’ he roared, slamming his fist down on the table, and she jump
ed to attention, muttering under her breath as she took the ingredients from the fridge and opened the bread bin to cut two thick slices. When it was ready and she placed it before him, he looked up and smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Emma,’ he said calmly. ‘It looks delicious.’

  She held his gaze for a long time. ‘It must be a family trait,’ she said. ‘Your aunt Beatrix always loved a chicken sandwich too. Although she knew how to make one herself.’

  Pieter set his jaw firmly and felt a fury build inside him. He didn’t have an aunt Beatrix, he told himself. That was another boy entirely. A boy named Pierrot.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, reaching into the pocket of her apron. ‘This arrived for you earlier.’

  She handed him an envelope, and he glanced at the familiar handwriting for a moment before giving it back to her, unopened.

  ‘Burn it,’ he said. ‘And any others like it that I receive.’

  ‘It’s from that old friend of yours in Paris, isn’t it?’ she asked, holding it up to the light as if she might be able to see right through the paper to the words inside.

  ‘I said burn it,’ he snapped. ‘I have no friends in Paris. And certainly not this Jew who insists on writing to tell me how terrible his life is now. He should be glad that Paris has fallen to the Germans. He’s lucky to be permitted to live there still.’

  ‘I remember when you first came here,’ said Emma quietly. ‘You sat over there, on that stool, and told me about little Anshel and how he was taking care of your dog for you, and how you and he had a special sign language that only you understood. He was the fox and you were the dog and—’

  Pieter didn’t allow her to finish her sentence, jumping off his seat and grabbing the envelope from her hands with such force that she slipped backwards and fell to the floor. She cried out, even though she could not have hurt herself very badly.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he hissed. ‘Why must you always treat me with such disrespect? Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘No,’ she cried, her voice filled with emotion. ‘No, I don’t. But I know who you used to be.’

  Pieter felt his hands clench into fists, but before he could say anything more the Führer opened the door and looked in.

  ‘Pieter!’ he said. ‘Come with me, will you? I need your assistance.’

  He glanced down at Emma, but seemed indifferent to the fact that she was lying on the kitchen floor. Pieter threw the letter in the fire and looked down at the cook.

  ‘I don’t want to receive any more of these letters, do you understand me? If any come, throw them away. If you bring another one to me, I will make you regret it.’ He picked up the uneaten sandwich from the table and walked over to the bin, throwing it inside. ‘You can make me a fresh one later,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know when I require it.’

  ‘As you can see, Pieter,’ said the Führer when he stepped into the room, ‘the Obersturmbannführer here has injured himself. Some business with a thug on the street who attacked him.’

  ‘He broke my arm,’ remarked the man calmly, as if it barely mattered. ‘So I broke his neck.’

  Himmler and Herr Bischoff looked up from the table in the centre of the room, which contained photographs and many pages of diagrams, and laughed.

  ‘Anyway, he can’t write for the time being so he needs a note-taker. Sit down, stay quiet, and write down what we say. No interruptions.’

  ‘Of course, mein Führer,’ said Pieter, remembering how frightened he had been almost five years earlier when the Duke of Windsor had sat in this same room and he had spoken out of turn.

  Pieter was reluctant at first to sit at the Führer’s desk, but the four men were gathered around the table so he had no choice. He sat down and pressed his hands flat against the wood, feeling an enormous sense of power as he glanced around the room, the flags of the German state and the Nazi party standing on either side of him. It was hard not to imagine what it would be like to sit here as the one in charge.

  ‘Pieter, are you paying attention?’ snapped Hitler, turning to look at him, and the boy sat up straight, pulled a notepad towards him, unscrewed a fountain pen from the desk and began to write down what was said.

  ‘Now here, of course, is the proposed site,’ said Herr Bischoff, pointing down at a series of schematics. ‘As you know, mein Führer, the sixteen buildings that were here originally have been converted for our use, but there is simply not enough room there for the number of prisoners that are being sent.’

  ‘How many are there at present?’ asked the Führer.

  ‘More than ten thousand,’ said Himmler. ‘Most of them Poles.’

  ‘And here,’ continued Herr Bischoff, indicating a large area around the camp, ‘is what I call “the zone of interest”. About forty square kilometres of land that would be perfect for our needs.’

  ‘And all this is empty at the moment?’ asked Hitler, running a finger along the map.

  ‘No, mein Führer,’ replied Herr Bischoff, shaking his head. ‘It is occupied by landowners and farmers. I imagine we would have to consider buying the land from them.’

  ‘It can be confiscated,’ said the Obersturmbannführer with an indifferent shrug. ‘The land will be requisitioned for the use of the Reich. The residents will simply have to understand.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please continue, Herr Bischoff,’ said the Führer. ‘Ralf is correct. The land will be confiscated.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, and Pieter could see that the man was starting to perspire noticeably around his bald head. ‘Then here are the plans that I have designed for the second camp.’

  ‘And how large will it be?’

  ‘Around four hundred and twenty-five acres.’

  ‘That big?’ said the Führer, looking up, clearly impressed.

  ‘I have been there myself, mein Führer,’ said Himmler, a proud expression on his face. ‘When I looked across at it, I knew that it would serve our needs.’

  ‘My good and loyal Heinrich,’ said Hitler with a smile, resting his hand on the other man’s shoulder for a moment as he looked down at the plans. Himmler beamed with pleasure at the compliment.

  ‘I’ve designed it to hold three hundred buildings,’ continued Herr Bischoff. ‘It will be the largest camp of its type anywhere in Europe. As you can see, I have used quite a formal pattern, but it will make it easier for the guards—’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said the Führer. ‘But how many prisoners will three hundred buildings hold? That does not sound like very much to me.’

  ‘But, mein Führer,’ said Herr Bischoff, opening his arms wide, ‘they are not small. Each one can hold anywhere between six and seven hundred people.’

  Hitler looked up and closed one eye as he tried to calculate. ‘And that would mean . . .’

  ‘Two hundred thousand,’ said Pieter from behind the desk; once again he had spoken without meaning to, but this time the Führer did not look at him angrily but with pleasure.

  Turning back to the officers, he shook his head in amazement.

  ‘Can that be right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, mein Führer,’ said Himmler. ‘Approximately.’

  ‘Extraordinary. Ralf, do you think you can oversee two hundred thousand prisoners?’

  The Obersturmbannführer nodded without hesitation. ‘I will take great pride in doing so,’ he said.

  ‘This is very good, gentlemen,’ said the Führer, nodding approvingly. ‘Now, how about security?’

  ‘I propose dividing the camp into nine sections,’ said Herr Bischoff. ‘You can see here on my plans the separate areas. Over here, for example, the women’s barracks. Over here, the men’s. Each one will be surrounded by a wire fence—’

  ‘An electrified wire fence,’ added Himmler.

  ‘Yes, mein Reichsführer, of course. An electrified wire fence. It will be impossible for anyone to escape their particular section. But should the impossible happen, the entire camp will be surrounded by a second
electrified wire fence. To try to escape will be suicide. And of course, there will be guard towers everywhere. Soldiers can be placed there, ready to shoot anyone who tries to run.’

  ‘And here?’ asked the Führer, pointing to a place at the top of the map. ‘What is this? It says Sauna.’

  ‘I propose to create the steam chambers here,’ said Herr Bischoff. ‘In order to disinfect the clothes of the prisoners. By the time they arrive they will be covered in lice and other pests. We do not want disease to spread around the camp. We have our brave German soldiers to think of.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hitler, his eyes wandering over the complex design as if he was in search of something in particular.

  ‘Each will be designed to look like a shower room,’ said Himmler. ‘Only there will not be water coming from the ceiling.’

  Pieter looked up from his notepad and frowned. ‘Excuse me, mein Reichsführer,’ he said.

  ‘What is it, Pieter?’ asked Hitler, turning round with a sigh.

  ‘Forgive me, I think I must have misheard,’ said Pieter. ‘I thought you said that there would be no water coming from the showers.’

  All four men stared at the boy, and for a few moments no one spoke.

  ‘No more interruptions, please, Pieter,’ said the Führer quietly, turning away.

  ‘My apologies, mein Führer. Only I don’t want to make an error in my transcript for the Obersturmbannführer.’

  ‘You have made no error. Now, Ralf, you were saying . . . The capacity?’

  ‘To start with, about fifteen hundred per day. Within twelve months we can double that number.’

  ‘Very good. The important thing is that we are consistent in our turnover of prisoners. By the time we have won the war, we need to be sure that the world we inherit is pure for our purposes. You have created a thing of beauty, Karl.’

  The architect looked relieved and bowed his head. ‘Thank you, mein Führer.’