The Boy at the Top of the Mountain (3 page)

The sisters grew up in a large mansion about eighty miles to the south of Paris in the city of Orleans, where, five hundred years before, Joan of Arc had famously lifted the city’s siege. When they were very young they believed that they belonged to the largest family in France, for there were almost fifty other children, aged from just a few weeks old to seventeen, living in the dormitories on the third, fourth and fifth floors of their house. Some were friendly, some were angry, some were shy and some were bullies, but they all had one thing in common: they were orphans. Their voices and footsteps were audible from the family quarters on the first floor below as they talked before bedtime or ran around in the morning, shrieking as their bare feet skittered along the cold marble floors. But although Simone and Adèle shared a home with them, they felt separated from the other children in a way that they did not fully understand until they were older.

M. and Mme Durand, the girls’ parents, had set up the orphanage after they married and run it until their deaths with some very strict policies about who could be admitted and who could not. When they were gone the sisters took over, devoting themselves entirely to the care of children who had been left on their own in the world; and changing some of those policies in important ways.

‘Every child who is on their own will be welcome,’ they declared. ‘Colour, race or creed mean nothing to us.’

Simone and Adèle were exceptionally close, walking around the grounds together every day as they examined the flower beds and gave instructions to the gardener. Apart from their physical appearance, the thing that truly distinguished the sisters was that Adèle could scarcely seem to stop talking from the moment she woke in the morning until the minute she fell asleep at night, while Simone rarely spoke at all, and when she did it was in brief sentences, as if each breath might cost her energy that she could scarcely afford to waste.

Pierrot met the Durand sisters almost a month after his mother’s death, when he boarded a train at the Gare d’Austerlitz, wearing his best clothes and a brand-new scarf that Mme Bronstein had purchased for him in the Galeries Lafayette as a parting gift the afternoon before. She, Anshel and D’Artagnan had come to the station to see him off, and with every step he took Pierrot felt his heart sinking a little deeper inside his chest. He was frightened and lonely, filled with grief for Maman, and wished that he and his dog could move in with his best friend. In fact, he had stayed with Anshel in the weeks following the funeral, and had watched as Mme Bronstein and her son went to temple together on the Sabbath, even asking whether he could go with them; but she had said that wasn’t a good idea right now and that he should take D’Artagnan out for a walk in the Champ de Mars instead. The days went on, and Mme Bronstein returned one afternoon with one of her friends, and he overheard the visitor saying that she had a cousin who had adopted a Gentile child and he’d quickly become part of the family.

‘The problem isn’t that he’s a Gentile, Ruth,’ said Mme Bronstein. ‘The problem is that I simply don’t have enough money to keep him. I don’t have much, that’s the truth of it. Levi left me with very little. Oh, I put on a good show, or try to, but it’s not easy for a widow on her own. And what I have I need for Anshel.’

‘You have to look after your own first, of course you do,’ said the lady. ‘But isn’t there anyone who could—’

‘I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve spoken to everyone I can think of. I don’t suppose you’d . . .’

‘No, I’m sorry. Times are hard, you’ve said so yourself. And besides, life isn’t getting any easier for Jews in Paris, is it? The boy might be better off in a family more like his own.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t even have asked.’

‘Of course you should. You’re doing your best for the boy. That’s who you are. That’s who
we
are. But when it’s not possible, it’s not possible. So when will you tell him?’

‘Tonight, I think. It’s not going to be easy.’

Pierrot went back to Anshel’s room and puzzled over this conversation, before looking up the word
Gentile
in a dictionary and wondering what that had to do with anything anyway. He sat there for a long time, tossing Anshel’s yarmulke, which hung from the back of a chair, between his hands; later, when Mme Bronstein came in to speak to him, he was wearing it on his head.

‘Take that off,’ she snapped, reaching forward and grabbing it before putting it back where he had found it. It was the first time in his life she’d ever spoken to him harshly. ‘You don’t play with something like this. It’s not a toy, it’s sacred.’

Pierrot said nothing, but felt a mixture of embarrassment and distress. He wasn’t allowed to go to temple, he wasn’t allowed to wear his best friend’s cap; it was obvious to him that he wasn’t wanted there. And when she told him where he was being sent, there was simply no doubt about it.

‘I’m so sorry, Pierrot,’ said Mme Bronstein after she’d finished explaining things to him. ‘But I have heard only good things about this orphanage. I’m sure you’ll be happy there. And perhaps a wonderful family will adopt you soon.’

‘But what about D’Artagnan?’ asked Pierrot, looking down at the little dog, who was snoozing on the floor.

‘We can look after him,’ said Mme Bronstein. ‘He likes bones, doesn’t he?’

‘He loves bones.’

‘Well, they’re free, thanks to M. Abrahams. He said he’d let me have a few every day for nothing because he and his wife cared for your mother so deeply.’

Pierrot said nothing; he was sure that if things were different Maman would have taken Anshel in. Despite what Mme Bronstein had said, it must have had something to do with the fact that he was a Gentile. For now, he was simply frightened by the idea of being alone in the world, and felt sad that Anshel and D’Artagnan would have each other while he would have no one at all.

I hope I don’t forget how to do this
, signed Pierrot as he waited with his friend on the station concourse that morning while Mme Bronstein purchased his one-way ticket.

You just said that you hope you won’t become an eagle
, signed Anshel, laughing and showing his friend the signs that he should have made.

See?
signed Pierrot, wishing that he could throw all the different shapes in the air and let them fall back into his fingers in the proper order.
I’m already forgetting.

No you’re not. You’re still learning, that’s all.

You’re so much better at it than I am.

Anshel smiled.
I have to be.

Pierrot turned as he heard the sound of the steam escaping from the valves of the train’s smoke box and the harsh blast of the conductor’s whistle, a furious call-to-platform that made his stomach turn over in anxiety. There was a part of him, of course, that was a little excited about this bit of his journey, for he’d never been on a train before, but he just wished that the trip would never come to an end because he was scared of what might be waiting for him at the other end.

We can write to each other, Anshel
, signed Pierrot.
We must never lose touch.

Every week.

Pierrot made the sign of the fox, Anshel made the sign of the dog, and they held the two symbols in the air to represent their eternal friendship. They wanted to give each other a hug, but there were so many people around that they felt a little embarrassed and so shook hands instead as Pierrot took his leave of them.

‘Goodbye, Pierrot,’ said Mme Bronstein, leaning down to give him a kiss, and the noise of the train was so loud now, and the bustle of the crowds so overwhelming, that it was almost impossible to hear her.

‘It’s because I’m not a Jew, isn’t it?’ said Pierrot, looking directly at her. ‘You don’t like Gentiles and you don’t want one to live with you.’

‘What?’ she asked, standing up straight and looking shocked. ‘Pierrot, whatever gave you that idea? That was the last thing on my mind! Anyway, you’re a smart boy. Surely you can see how attitudes towards Jews are changing here – the names we get called, the resentment people seem to feel towards us.’

‘But if I was a Jew you’d find a way to keep me with you, I know you would.’

‘You’re wrong, Pierrot. I’m just thinking about your safety and—’

‘All aboard!’ cried the conductor loudly. ‘Last call! All aboard!’

‘Goodbye, Anshel,’ Pierrot said, turning away from her and making his way up the step into the carriage.

‘Pierrot!’ cried Mme Bronstein. ‘Come back, please! Let me explain – you have it all wrong!’

But he didn’t turn round. His time in Paris was over, he knew that now. He closed the door behind him, took a deep breath, and stepped forward to begin his new life.

Within an hour and a half the conductor was tapping Pierrot on the shoulder and pointing towards the church steeples that were just coming into sight. ‘Now then,’ he said, pointing to the piece of paper that Mme Bronstein had pinned to his lapel and on which she had written his name –
PIERROT FISCHER
– and his destination –
ORLEANS
– in big black letters. ‘This is your stop.’

Pierrot swallowed hard, took his small suitcase out from under the seat and made his way to the door just as the train pulled in. As he stepped onto the platform, he waited for the steam from the engines to clear to see whether anyone was waiting for him. A momentary panic left him wondering what he would do if no one showed up. Who would take care of him? He was only seven years old, after all, and he had no money for a ticket back to Paris. How would he eat? Where would he sleep? What would become of him?

He felt someone tap him on the shoulder, and when he turned round a red-faced man reached down to rip the note from his collar, holding it close to his eyes before crumpling it up and throwing it away.

‘You’re with me,’ he said, making his way towards a horse and cart while Pierrot gazed at him, rooted to the spot. ‘Get a move on,’ he added, turning round and staring at him. ‘My time’s precious even if yours isn’t.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Pierrot, refusing to follow him in case he was simply being taken into servitude by some farmer who needed extra help with his harvest. Anshel had once written a story about just such a boy and it had ended badly for everyone involved.

‘Who am I?’ asked the man, laughing at the audacity of the boy’s question. ‘I’m the fellow who’s going to tan your hide if you don’t hop to it.’

Pierrot’s eyes opened wide. He hadn’t been in Orleans for more than a couple of minutes and he was already being threatened with violence. He shook his head defiantly and sat down on his suitcase. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.’

‘Don’t worry, we won’t be strangers for long,’ said the man, his face softening a little as he smiled. He was about fifty years old and looked a little like M. Abrahams from the restaurant, except for the fact that he hadn’t shaved in a few days and was wearing scruffy old clothes that didn’t match very well. ‘You’re Pierrot Fischer, aren’t you? It said so on your lapel anyway. The Durand sisters sent me to get you. My name’s Houper. I do a few odd jobs for them now and then. And sometimes I come to collect the orphans from the train station. The ones who travel on their own, that is.’

‘Oh,’ said Pierrot, standing up now. ‘I thought they would come to fetch me themselves.’

‘And leave all those little monsters with the run of the place? Not likely. The place would be in ruins by the time they got back.’ The man stepped forward and his tone changed as he lifted Pierrot’s suitcase. ‘Look, there’s nothing to be frightened of,’ he said. ‘It’s a good place. They’re very kind, the pair of them. So what do you think – will you come with me?’

Pierrot glanced around. The train had moved on now, and from where he was standing there was nothing to be seen for miles except fields. He knew that he had no choice.

‘All right,’ he said.

Within the hour, Pierrot found himself seated in a neat and orderly office with two enormous windows looking over a well-tended garden. The Durand sisters looked him up and down as if he was something they were considering buying at a fair.

‘How old are you?’ asked Simone, holding up a pair of spectacles to examine him before letting them fall and hang loose around her neck.

‘I’m seven,’ said Pierrot.

‘You can’t be seven, you’re far too small.’

‘I’ve always been small,’ replied Pierrot. ‘But I plan on getting bigger one day.’

‘Do you indeed?’ said Simone doubtfully.

‘Such a lovely age, seven,’ said Adèle, clapping her hands together and smiling. ‘Children are always so happy then, and so full of wonder about the world.’

‘My dear,’ interrupted Simone, laying a hand on her sister’s arm. ‘The boy’s mother has just died. I doubt that he is feeling particularly jovial.’

‘Oh, of course, of course,’ said Adèle, her face growing serious now. ‘You must still be grieving. It’s a terrible thing, the loss of a loved one. A terrible thing. My sister and I understand that only too well. I only meant that boys of your age are rather charming, I think. You only start to turn nasty when you hit thirteen or fourteen. Not that you will go that way, I’m sure. I dare say you will be one of the good ones.’

‘My dear,’ repeated Simone quietly.

‘I’m sorry,’ replied Adèle. ‘I’m prattling on, amn’t I? Let me say this then.’ She cleared her throat as if she was about to address a room full of unruly factory workers. ‘We are very happy to have you here with us, Pierrot. I have no doubt that you will be a tremendous asset to what we like to think of as our little family here at the orphanage. And my goodness, aren’t you a handsome little fellow! You have the most extraordinary blue eyes. I used to own a spaniel with eyes just like yours. Not that I’m comparing you to a dog, of course. That would be terribly rude. I only meant that you put me in mind of him, that’s all. Simone, don’t Pierrot’s eyes remind you of Casper’s?’

Simone raised an eyebrow and glanced at the boy for a moment before shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Oh, but they do, they really do!’ declared Adèle with so much delight that Pierrot began to wonder whether she thought her dead dog had come back to life in human form. ‘Now, first things first.’ And here her expression turned quite serious. ‘We were both so sorry to hear about what happened with your dear mother. So young and such a wonderful provider, from what we’ve been told. And after all she’d been through in her life too. It seems terribly cruel that someone with so much to live for should be taken away from you just when you need her the most. And I dare say she loved you very much. Don’t you agree, Simone? Don’t you think that Mme Fischer must have loved Pierrot very much?’