The Boy at the Top of the Mountain

  ‘All that is left to ask is when we begin construction?’

  ‘With your order, mein Führer, we can start work this week,’ said Himmler. ‘And if Ralf is as good as we all know he is, then the camp will be operational by October.’

  ‘You need have no worries about that, Heinrich,’ said the Obersturmbannführer with a bitter smile. ‘If the camp isn’t ready by then, you may lock me up there too as my punishment.’

  Pieter felt his hand start to grow weary with all his writing, but something in the Obersturmbannführer’s tone triggered a memory in his head and he looked up, staring at the camp commandant. He remembered now where he had seen him before. It was six years earlier, when he was hurrying towards the arrivals and departures board in Mannheim, looking for the platform for the Munich train. The man in the earth-grey uniform who had collided with him and pressed a boot onto his fingers while he lay on the ground. The man who would have broken his hand, had his wife and children not appeared to take him away.

  ‘This is very good,’ replied the Führer, smiling and rubbing his hands together. ‘A great enterprise, gentlemen; perhaps the greatest the German people have ever undertaken. Heinrich, the order is given. You may start work on the camp immediately. Ralf, you will return there immediately and oversee the operation.’

  ‘Of course, mein Führer.’

  The Obersturmbannführer saluted and walked over to Pieter, standing before him and looking down.

  ‘What?’ asked Pieter.

  ‘Your notes,’ replied the Obersturmbannführer.

  Pieter handed him the notepad, on which he had tried to scribble almost everything the four men had said, and the Obersturmbannführer glanced at it for a moment before turning away, saying goodbye to all and leaving the room.

  ‘You can leave too, Pieter,’ said the Führer. ‘Go outside and play if you like.’

  ‘I will go to my room and study, mein Führer,’ replied Pieter, seething inside at the way he’d been spoken to. One moment he was a trusted confidant who could sit in the most important seat in the land and take notes on the Führer’s special project; the next he was being treated like a child. Well, he might be young, he decided, but at least he knew there was no point in building a shower room without water.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Eva’s Party

  Katarina had started working in her father’s stationery shop in Berchtesgaden just after her fifteenth birthday. It was 1944, and as Pieter made his way down the mountain to see her he had, for once, decided not to wear the Hitlerjugend uniform of which he was so proud, but a pair of knee-length lederhosen, brown shoes, a white shirt and dark tie. He knew that Katarina, for some inexplicable reason, didn’t like uniforms, and he wanted to give her no cause to disapprove of him.

  He hovered outside for almost an hour, trying to summon up the courage to go in. Of course, he saw her every day at school, but this was different; today he had a specific question to ask – though the idea of broaching it filled him with anxiety. He had thought about asking in a corridor between classes, but there was always a chance that one of their classmates would interrupt, and so he had decided that this would be the best way.

  Entering the shop, he saw her filling a rack with leather-bound notebooks, and when she turned round he experienced the familiar blend of desire and distress that made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach. He desperately wanted her to like him but feared that he would never succeed, for the moment she saw who was standing there her smile faded and she returned silently to her work.

  ‘Good afternoon, Katarina,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Pieter,’ she replied, without turning round.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ he said. ‘Isn’t Berchtesgaden beautiful at this time of year? Of course, you’re beautiful throughout the year.’ He froze and shook his head, feeling the blush rise from his neck to his cheeks. ‘I mean, the town is beautiful throughout the year. It’s a beautiful place. Whenever I am here in Berchtesgaden, I am always struck by its . . . by its . . .’

  ‘By its beauty?’ suggested Katarina, placing the last notebook on the rack and turning to him with a certain aloofness.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling downcast. He had prepared so hard for this conversation, and already it was going terribly wrong.

  ‘Was there something you wanted, Pieter?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I need to buy some fountain pen nibs and ink, please.’

  ‘What kind?’ asked Katarina, moving behind the counter and unlocking one of the glass cabinets.

  ‘The best you have. They are to be used by the Führer himself, Adolf Hitler!’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, with as little enthusiasm as she could muster. ‘You live with the Führer at the Berghof. You should mention it more often so people don’t forget.’

  Pieter frowned. He was surprised to hear her say this as he thought he mentioned it often enough as it was. In fact, he sometimes thought that he shouldn’t talk about it quite as much.

  ‘Anyway, it’s not a question of quality,’ she continued. ‘It’s a question of nib type. Fine, medium or broad. Or, if one’s taste is a little more refined, one might try soft fine. Or Falcon. Or Sutab. Or Cors. Or—’

  ‘Medium,’ said Pieter, who didn’t like to be made to feel stupid but assumed that this was the safest option.

  She opened a wooden box and looked up at him. ‘How many?’

  ‘Half a dozen.’

  She nodded and began to count them out as Pieter leaned on the counter, attempting to appear casual.

  ‘Would you mind not putting your hands on the glass?’ she asked. ‘I only polished it a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Of course, my apologies,’ he said, standing up straight. ‘Although my hands are always clean. I am, after all, a highly valued member of the Hitlerjugend. And we pride ourselves on our good hygiene.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Katarina, stopping what she was doing and looking up at him as if he had just made a great revelation. ‘You’re a member of the Hitlerjugend? Really?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he replied, baffled. ‘I wear my uniform to school every day.’

  ‘Oh, Pieter,’ she said, shaking her head and sighing.

  ‘But you know that I’m a member of the Hitlerjugend!’ he said in frustration.

  ‘Pieter,’ she said, opening her arms wide over the array of pens and ink bottles in the glass cabinet before her, ‘you mentioned ink?’

  ‘Ink?’

  ‘Yes, you said you wanted to buy some.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Pieter. ‘Six bottles, please.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Four black, two red.’

  He looked round as a bell over the door rang and a man entered carrying three large boxes of stock, for which Katarina signed, speaking to him in a much friendlier manner than she had addressed her classmate.

  ‘More pens?’ he asked when they were alone again, struggling to make conversation. This business of talking to girls was a lot more complicated than he had anticipated.

  ‘And paper. And other things.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone else who can help you?’ he asked as she carried the boxes over to a corner and stacked them neatly.

  ‘There used to be,’ she replied calmly, looking him directly in the eye. ‘A very nice lady named Ruth once worked here. For almost twenty years, in fact. She was like a second mother to me. But she’s not here any more.’

  ‘Oh no?’ asked Pieter, feeling as if he was being led into a trap. ‘Why, what happened to her?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Katarina. ‘She was taken away. As was her husband. And her three children. And her son’s wife. And their two children. We’ve never heard from any of them since. She preferred a fountain pen with a soft fine nib. But then, she was a person of taste and sophistication. Unlike some people.’

  Pieter looked out of the window, his annoyance at being so disrespected mingling with the aching desire that he felt for her. There was a boy who sat in the seat i
n front of him at school, Franz, who had recently begun a friendship with Gretchen Baffril; the whole school was abuzz with the gossip that they had kissed during a lunch break the previous week. And another boy, Martin Rensing, had invited Lenya Halle to his older sister’s wedding a few weeks earlier, and a photograph had been circulated of them dancing together and holding hands later in the evening. How had they managed this when Katarina made things so difficult for him? And even now, as he looked out of the window, Pieter saw a boy and a girl, whom he did not recognize, but who were around the same age as he and Katarina, walking along, laughing about something. The boy fell into a squat and pretended to be an ape to entertain her, and she burst out laughing. They seemed at ease in each other’s company. He couldn’t imagine what that would be like.

  ‘Jews, I suppose,’ he said, turning back to Katarina and spitting out the word in frustration. ‘This Ruth creature and her family. Jews, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Katarina, and as she leaned forward he noticed how the top button of her blouse had almost come undone; he imagined that he could stare at it for ever, the world silent and still around him, as he waited for the slight and welcoming breeze that might separate the fabric even more.

  ‘Have you ever wanted to see the Berghof?’ he asked after a moment, trying to ignore her rudeness as he looked back up.

  She stared at him in surprise. ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘I only ask because a party is to take place there this weekend. A birthday party for Fräulein Braun, who is the Führer’s intimate friend. There will be many important people present. Perhaps you would like to take a break from your tedious life here and experience the excitement of such a grand occasion?’

  Katarina raised an eyebrow and laughed a little. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, your father can come too, if that’s the problem,’ he added. ‘For propriety’s sake.’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I simply don’t want to, that’s all. But thank you for the invitation.’

  ‘Your father can come where?’ asked Herr Holzmann, emerging from a room at the back and wiping his hands on a towel, spreading a streak of black ink the shape of Italy. He stopped when he recognized Pieter; there were few people in Berchtesgaden who did not know who he was. ‘Good afternoon,’ Herr Holzmann said, standing tall and pushing his chest out.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ roared Pieter, clicking his heels together and performing his regular salute.

  Katarina jumped in surprise and put a hand to her heart. Herr Holzmann attempted a similar salute, but it was far less professional than the boy’s.

  ‘Here are your nibs and your ink,’ said Katarina, handing him the package as he counted out his money. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Your father can come where?’ repeated Herr Holzmann, standing next to his daughter now.

  ‘Oberscharführer Fischer,’ said Katarina with a sigh, ‘has invited me – or rather us – to a party at the Berghof on Saturday. A birthday party.’

  ‘The Führer’s birthday party?’ her father asked, his eyes opening wide in surprise.

  ‘No,’ said Pieter. ‘His friend. Fräulein Braun.’

  ‘But we’d be honoured!’ cried Herr Holzmann.

  ‘Of course you would,’ replied Katarina. ‘You don’t have a mind of your own any more, do you?’

  ‘Katarina!’ he said, frowning at her before turning back to Pieter. ‘You’ll have to forgive my daughter, Oberscharführer. She speaks before she thinks.’

  ‘At least I do think,’ she said. ‘Unlike you. When did you last have an opinion of your own that wasn’t thrust at you by the—’

  ‘Katarina!’ he roared now, his face growing red. ‘You will speak with respect or you will go to your room. I’m sorry, Oberscharführer, my daughter is at a difficult age.’

  ‘He’s the same age as I am,’ she muttered, and Pieter was surprised to notice that she was trembling.

  ‘We’d be delighted to come,’ said Herr Holzmann, bowing his head a little in gratitude.

  ‘Father, we can’t. We have the shop to think about. Our customers. And you know how I feel about—’

  ‘Don’t worry about the shop,’ said her father, raising his voice. ‘Or the customers. Or anything else. Katarina, this is a great honour that the Oberscharführer has bestowed upon us.’ He looked back at Pieter. ‘What time should we arrive?’

  ‘Any time after four,’ said Pieter, a little disappointed that he was coming at all. He would have preferred it if Katarina had come alone.

  ‘We’ll be there. And here, please – take your money back. You may present your items to the Führer as my gift.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pieter, smiling. ‘I’ll see you both then. I’m looking forward to it. Goodbye, Katarina.’

  Stepping outside, he breathed a sigh of relief that the encounter was over and pocketed the money that Herr Holzmann had returned to him; after all, no one need ever know that he had been given the stationery supplies for free.

  On the day of the party the Berghof was filled with some of the most important members of the Reich, most of whom seemed more intent on keeping out of the Führer’s way than celebrating with Eva. Hitler had spent much of the morning locked in his office with Reichsführer Himmler and the Minister for Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, and from the loud shouting coming through the door Pieter could tell that he was not happy. He knew from the newspapers that the war was not going well. Italy had switched sides. The Scharnhorst, one of the most important vessels in the Kriegsmarine, had been sunk off the North Cape. And over the last few weeks the British had been bombing Berlin constantly. Now, as the party got started, the officers seemed relieved to be outside socializing, instead of having to defend themselves to an angry Führer.

  Himmler was peering at the other guests through small round glasses, taking little nibbles from his food like a rat. He watched everyone, particularly those who were talking to the Führer, as if convinced that each conversation was about him. Goebbels sat on a deckchair on the veranda wearing a pair of dark glasses and turning his head to the sun. To Pieter, he looked like a skeleton with skin attached. Herr Speer, who had come to the Berghof several times in the past with designs for a remodelled post-war Berlin, looked as if he would rather be anywhere in the world than here. The atmosphere was strained, and whenever Pieter glanced towards Hitler he saw a trembling man on the verge of losing his temper.

  Throughout all this he kept a close eye on the road that cut through the mountain, hoping that Katarina would show up as promised, but as four o’clock came and went there was still no sign of her. He had put on a fresh uniform and was wearing aftershave that he’d stolen from Kempka’s room, hoping this would be enough to impress her.

  Eva was moving from group to group anxiously, accepting congratulations and gifts and, as usual, mostly ignoring Pieter, who had presented her with a copy of The Magic Mountain, bought with his meagre savings. ‘How thoughtful,’ she had said, placing it on a side table before moving on, and he imagined that Herta would probably pick it up at some point later and put it on one of the shelves in the library, unread.

  Between staring down the mountain and observing the party, the thing that interested Pieter most was a woman walking around with a cine-camera in her hands, pointing it in the direction of the guests and asking them to say a few words. However chatty they had all been with each other before, when she appeared they grew self-conscious and seemed unwilling to be filmed, turning away or covering their faces with their hands. Occasionally she would take shots of the house or the mountain, and Pieter found himself intrigued by her. At one point she stepped into the centre of a conversation between Goebbels and Himmler, and they stopped talking immediately, turning to stare at her without a word; she walked off in the opposite direction. Spotting the boy standing on his own, looking down the mountainside, she came over to join him.

  ‘Not thinking of jumping, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Piete
r. ‘Why would I even contemplate such a thing?’

  ‘I was joking,’ she replied. ‘You look very smart in your costume.’

  ‘It’s not a costume,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s a uniform.’

  ‘I’m just teasing,’ she said. ‘What’s your name anyway?’

  ‘Pieter,’ he said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Leni.’

  ‘What are you doing with that?’ he asked, pointing at the camera.

  ‘Making a film.’

  ‘For who?’

  ‘For whoever wants to watch it.’

  ‘I presume you’re married to one of them?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the officers.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘None of them are interested in anyone but themselves.’

  Pieter frowned. ‘So where’s your husband?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t have one. Why, are you proposing?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’re a little young for me anyway – what are you, fourteen?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ he said angrily. ‘And I wasn’t proposing, I was simply asking a question, that’s all.’

  ‘As it happens, I’m getting married later this month.’

  Pieter said nothing and turned away, looking down.

  ‘What’s so interesting down there?’ asked Leni, looking over now too. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Who would I be waiting for? Everyone who matters is already here.’

  ‘So will you let me film you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m a soldier,’ he said. ‘Not an actor.’

  ‘Well, you’re neither at the moment,’ she said. ‘You’re just a boy wearing a uniform. But you’re handsome, that’s for sure. You’ll look good on film.’

  Pieter stared at her. He wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to like this and didn’t care for it. Didn’t she understand how important he was? He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so, he noticed a car turning the corner at the top of the road and heading in his direction. He watched it and started to smile when he saw who was sitting in it, before composing his features again.

  ‘Now I see what you were waiting for,’ said Leni, holding the camera up and filming the car as it drove along. ‘Or rather, who you were waiting for.’