The Boy at the Top of the Mountain (13 page)

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.

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.

‘They’re accustomed to certain standards,’ said Eva, who was already in a flap over the number of arrangements that had to be made; she walked around clicking her fingers at everyone and insisting that they work faster. ‘The Führer says that they are to be treated like . . . well, like royalty.’

‘I thought our interest in royalty ended with Kaiser Wilhelm,’ muttered Emma under her breath before sitting down to compose a list of ingredients she would need to order from the farms around Berchtesgaden.

‘I’m glad I’m at school today,’ Pierrot told Katarina between classes that morning. ‘Everyone is so busy at home. Herte and Ange—’

‘Who’s Ange?’ asked Katarina, who was given a daily report of events at the Berghof by her friend.

‘The new maid,’ explained Pierrot.

‘Another maid?’ she asked, shaking her head. ‘How many does he need?’

Pierrot frowned. He liked Katarina very much but didn’t approve of her occasional mockery of the Führer. ‘She’s a replacement,’ he told her. ‘Fräulein Braun got rid of Wilhelmina.’

‘So who does the Führer chase around the Berghof now?’

‘The house was at sixes and sevens this morning,’ he continued, ignoring this comment. He regretted ever having told her the story of Hitler’s niece and Emma’s theory that the maid reminded him of that unfortunate girl. ‘Every book is being taken off the shelves and dusted, every light fitting removed from its casing and polished, every sheet washed, dried and pressed until it looks like new once again.’

‘Such a lot of drama,’ said Katarina, ‘for such silly people.’

The Führer arrived the night before their guests were due and undertook a thorough inspection of the residence, congratulating them all on the work they had done, much to Eva’s relief.

The next morning Beatrix called Pierrot into her room to check that his Deutsches Jungvolk uniform met the master’s standards.

‘Perfect,’ she said, looking him up and down approvingly. ‘You’re getting so tall that I was worried it might be too short for you again.’

There was a knock on the door and Ange poked her head in. ‘Excuse me, miss,’ she said, ‘but—’

Pierrot turned and clicked his fingers sharply at her, just like he had seen Eva do, and pointed towards the corridor. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘My aunt and I are talking.’

Ange’s mouth fell open in surprise, and she stared at him for a moment before stepping back outside and closing the door quietly behind her.

‘There’s no need to speak to her like that, Pieter,’ said Aunt Beatrix, who had been equally taken aback by Pierrot’s tone.

‘Why not?’ he asked. He felt a little surprised that he had acted so authoritatively, but he rather liked the feeling of importance it gave him. ‘We were talking. She interrupted.’

‘But it’s rude.’

Pierrot shook his head, dismissing the idea. ‘She’s just a maid,’ he said. ‘And I am a member of the Deutsches Jungvolk. Look at my uniform, Aunt Beatrix! She must show me the same respect that she would any soldier or officer.’

Beatrix stood up and walked over to the window, staring out towards the mountain tops and the white clouds passing by overhead. She placed both hands on the windowsill as if trying to steady herself in case she let her temper get the better of her.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t spend so much time with the Führer from now on,’ she said finally, turning round to look at her nephew.

‘But whyever not?’

‘He’s a very busy man.’

‘A busy man who says that he sees great potential in me,’ said Pierrot proudly. ‘Besides, we talk about interesting things. And he listens to me.’