The Boy at the Top of the Mountain (16 page)

‘I suppose I meant do you think that they’re patriots?’

‘How would I know?’ asked Katarina, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Although there are, of course, different ways to define patriotism. You, for example, might have the opposite view of it to me.’

‘My view is the same as the Führer’s view,’ said Pierrot.

‘Well, exactly,’ said Katarina, looking away towards a group of children who were playing hopscotch in the corner of the yard.

‘Why don’t you like me as much as you used to?’ he asked after a long silence, and she looked back at him, the expression on her face suggesting that she was surprised by his question.

‘What makes you think I don’t like you, Pieter?’ she asked.

‘You don’t talk to me like you used to. And you moved seats to sit beside Gretchen Baffril and never told me why.’

‘Well, Gretchen had no one to sit next to,’ said Katarina, ‘after Heinrich Furst left the school. I didn’t want her to be alone.’

Pierrot looked away and swallowed hard, already regretting beginning this conversation.

‘You remember Heinrich, don’t you, Pieter?’ she continued. ‘Such a nice boy. So friendly. You remember how we were all shocked when he told us the things his father had said about the Führer? And how we all promised to tell no one?’

Pierrot stood up and brushed down the seat of his trousers. ‘It’s getting cold out here,’ he said. ‘I should go back inside.’

‘You remember how we heard that his father had been taken from his bed in the middle of the night and dragged out of Berchtesgaden and no one ever heard from him again? And how Heinrich and his mother and his younger sister had to move to Leipzig to stay with her sister because they had no money any more?’

A bell rang from the doorway of the school, and Pierrot glanced at his watch. ‘Your tie,’ he said, pointing at it. ‘It’s time. You should put it on.’

‘Don’t worry, I will,’ she said as he walked away. ‘After all, we wouldn’t want poor Gretchen to be left sitting on her own again tomorrow, would we? Would we,
Pierrot
?’ she shouted after him, but he was shaking his head, pretending that she wasn’t speaking to him; and somehow, by the time he got back inside, he had removed their conversation from his memory and placed it in a different part of his mind – the part that housed the memories of Maman and Anshel; a place he rarely visited any more.

The Führer and Eva arrived at the Berghof the day before Christmas Eve while Pierrot was outside practising marching with a rifle, and after they had settled in he was summoned indoors. ‘There’s to be a party in Berchtesgaden later today,’ explained Eva. ‘A Christmas party for the children. The Führer would like you to accompany us.’

His heart jumped in excitement. He never went anywhere with the Führer, and he could only imagine the envious expressions on the faces of the townspeople when he arrived with their beloved leader. It was almost as if he was Hitler’s son.

He put on a clean uniform and instructed Ange to shine his boots until she could see her reflection in them. When she brought them to him, Pierrot barely glanced at them before saying they were not good enough, and sent her away to do them again.

‘And don’t make me ask a third time,’ he said as she made her way back to the maids’ parlour.

When he stepped out onto the gravel with Hitler and Eva that afternoon, he felt more proud than he had ever been in his life. The three sat together in the back seat of the car, and as they made their way down the mountain, Pierrot watched Ernst in the rear-view mirror, trying to decipher his intentions towards the Führer; but whenever the chauffeur glanced up to check the road behind him he seemed oblivious to the boy’s presence.
He thinks I’m just a child
, thought Pierrot.
He thinks I don’t matter at all.

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.