The Boy at the Top of the Mountain (17 page)

‘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 again 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.

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.

‘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.