by John Boyne
The flat was not far away, but Pieter made his way there slowly, worried about the reception that he might receive. He didn’t know whether Anshel would be able to listen to the story of his life, whether he would be able to stomach it, but he knew that he had to try. After all, it was he who had stopped responding to Ashel’s letters, telling him that they were no longer friends and that he should stop writing to him. Knocking on the door, he didn’t even know whether Anshel would remember him.
But, of course, I knew him immediately.
Usually, I don’t like it when someone comes to my door while I’m working. It’s not easy to write a novel. It takes time and patience, and to be distracted even for a moment can lead to the loss of an entire day’s work. And that afternoon, I was writing an important scene and was irritated by the interruption, but it did not take more than a moment for me to recognize the man standing at my door, trembling slightly as he looked at me. The years had passed – they had not been kind to either of us – but I would have known him anywhere.
Pierrot, I signed, using my fingers to make the symbol of the dog, kind and loyal, with which I had christened him as a boy.
Anshel, he signed in reply, making the symbol of the fox.
We stood staring at each other for what felt like a very long time, and then I stood back, opening the door to invite him inside. He sat down opposite me in my study and looked around at the photographs on the walls. The picture of my mother, from whom I had hidden when the soldiers rounded up the Jews on our street and whom I had last seen being bundled into a truck with so many of our neighbours. The picture of D’Artagnan, his dog, my dog; the dog that had tried to attack one of the Nazis as he captured her and been shot for his bravery. The picture of the family who had taken me in and hidden me, claiming me as their own despite the trouble it had caused them.
He said nothing for a long time, and I decided to wait until he was ready. And then finally he said that he had a story to tell; a story of a boy who had started out with love and decency in his heart but had found himself corrupted by power. The story of a boy who had committed crimes with which he would have to live for ever; a boy who had hurt people who loved him and been a party to the deaths of those who only ever showed him kindness; who had sacrificed his right to his own name and would have to spend a lifetime trying to earn it back again. The story of a man who wanted to find some way to make amends for his actions and would always remember the words of a maid named Herta, who had told him never to pretend that he hadn’t known what was going on; that such a lie would be the worst crime of all.
Do you remember when we were children? he asked me. Like you, I had stories to tell but could never get the words down on the page. I would have an idea, but only you could find the words. You told me that even though you might have written it, it was still my story.
I remember, I said.
Could we be children again, do you think?
I shook my head and smiled. Too much has happened for that to be possible, I told him. But you can tell me what happened after you left Paris, of course. And after that, we shall see.
‘This story will take some time to tell,’ Pierrot told me, ‘and when you hear it you might despise me, you might even want to kill me, but I am going to tell you and you can do with it what you will. Perhaps you will write about it. Or perhaps you think it would be better forgotten.’
I went over to my desk and set my novel aside. It was a trivial thing, after all, compared to this, and I could return to it one day, when I had heard everything he had to say. And then, taking a fresh notebook and fountain pen from my cabinet, I turned back to my old friend and used the only voice I have ever had – my hands – to sign three simple words that I knew he would understand.
Let us begin.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Every novel I write is improved immeasurably by the advice and support of wonderful friends and colleagues around the world. Many thanks to my agents, Simon Trewin, Eric Simonoff, Annemarie Blumenhagen and all at WME; my editors Annie Eaton and Natalie Doherty at Random House Children’s Publishers in the UK, Laura Godwin at Henry Holt in the USA, Kristin Cochrane, Martha Leonard and the wonderful team at Random House Canada, and all those who publish my novels around the world.
Thanks too to my husband and best friend Con.
The final sections of this novel were written at my alma mater, the University of East Anglia, Norwich, during autumn 2014 where I was teaching on the Creative Writing MA. For reminding me how wonderful it is to be a writer and forcing me to think about fiction in different ways, big thanks to some great writers of the future: Anna Pook, Bikram Sharma, Emma Miller, Graham Rushe, Molly Morris, Rowan Whiteside, Tatiana Strauss and Zakia Uddin.
About the Author
John Boyne was born in Ireland in 1971. He is the author of nine novels for adults and four for younger readers, including the international bestsellers The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, which has sold more than six million copies worldwide, The Absolutist and, most recently, Stay Where You Are and Then Leave. His novels are published in over forty-five languages. He is married and lives in Dublin.
Also by John Boyne
Novels:
The Thief of Time
The Congress of Rough Riders
Crippen
Next of Kin
Mutiny on the Bounty
The House of Special Purpose
The Absolutist
This House is Haunted
A History of Loneliness
Novels for Younger Readers:
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas
Noah Barleywater Runs Away
The Terrible Thing That Happened to Barnaby Brocket
Stay Where You Are and Then Leave
Short Stories:
Beneath the Earth & Other Stories
THE BOY AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 19682 1
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
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This ebook edition published 2015
Text copyright © John Boyne, 2015
First Published in Great Britain by Doubleday, 2015
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