The Boy at the Top of the Mountain

  ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ Hugo said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Cleverer than you, that’s for sure.’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘She is,’ said Pierrot, feeling that he’d better say something or end up looking like a coward.

  Hugo turned to him with a half-smile. ‘Standing up for your girlfriend, are you, Fischer?’ he asked. ‘You’re so in love with her, aren’t you?’ And then he made kissy noises in the air before turning and wrapping his arms round his own body while running his hands up and down his sides.

  ‘Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?’ asked Josette, and Pierrot couldn’t help but laugh, even though he knew it was not a good idea to provoke Hugo, whose face went even redder than usual at the insult.

  ‘Don’t get smart with me,’ Hugo said, reaching out and poking her shoulder sharply with the tip of one of the sticks. ‘Just you remember who’s in charge around here.’

  ‘Ha!’ cried Josette. ‘You think you’re in charge? As if anyone would ever let a filthy Jew be in charge of anything.’

  Hugo’s face fell a little and his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and disappointment. ‘Why would you say something like that?’ he asked. ‘I was only playing.’

  ‘You never play, Hugo,’ she said, waving him away. ‘But you can’t help it, can you? It’s in your nature. What should I expect from a pig but a grunt?’

  Pierrot frowned. So Hugo was a Jew too? He wanted to laugh at what Josette had said, but remembered some of the things the boys in his class had said to Anshel and how badly they had upset his friend.

  ‘You know why Hugo wears his hair so long, don’t you, Pierrot?’ asked Josette, turning to him. ‘It’s because he has horns under there. If he got it cut, we’d all see them.’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Hugo, his tone not quite as fearless as before.

  ‘I bet if you pulled his pants down he’d have a tail too.’

  ‘Stop it!’ repeated Hugo, louder this time.

  ‘Pierrot, you sleep in the same room as him. When he gets changed for bed, have you seen his tail?’

  ‘It’s really long and scaly,’ said Pierrot, feeling brave now that Josette was taking control of the conversation. ‘Like something a dragon would have.’

  ‘I don’t think you should have to share with him at all,’ she said. ‘It’s best not to mix with people like that. Everyone says so. There’s a few of them in the orphanage. They should have their own room. Or be sent away.’

  ‘Shut up!’ roared Hugo, advancing on her now, and she jumped back just as Pierrot stepped between them. The older boy’s fists lashed out, catching Pierrot directly on the nose. There was a nasty crunching sound and he fell to the ground, blood rushing down his upper lip. Josette screamed as Pierrot went ‘Uuuurgh!’ and Hugo’s mouth dropped open in surprise. A moment later he was gone, disappearing into the woods with Gérard and Marc running after him.

  Pierrot could feel a strange sensation in his face. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant; rather as if a really big sneeze was on its way. But a throbbing headache was forming behind his eyes and his mouth felt very dry. He looked up at Josette, who had both hands pressed to her cheeks in shock.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, standing up but feeling very weak on his legs as he did so. ‘It’s just a scratch.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said Josette. ‘We need to get you to the sisters right away.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ repeated Pierrot, putting a hand to his face to make sure everything was still where it was supposed to be. When he took it away again, however, his fingers were covered in blood, and he stared at them, his eyes opening wide. He remembered how Maman had taken the handkerchief away at her birthday dinner and it too had been spotted with blood. ‘That’s not good,’ he said, before the whole forest started to spin, his legs grew weaker and he fell to the ground, passing out cold.

  When he woke, Pierrot was surprised to find himself lying on the sofa in the Durand sisters’ office. Standing by the sink, Simone was holding a face cloth under running water before wringing it out. Stopping only to straighten a photograph on the wall, she came towards him and placed the cloth over the bridge of his nose.

  ‘You’re awake then,’ she said.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Pierrot, propping himself up on his elbows. His head ached, his mouth still felt dry and there was an unpleasant burning sensation above his nose where Hugo had punched him.

  ‘It’s not broken,’ replied Simone, sitting down next to him. ‘I thought it was at first, but no. Although it will probably be quite sore for a few days and you might have a black eye as the swelling goes down. If you’re squeamish, you should probably avoid the mirror for a little while.’

  Pierrot swallowed and asked for a glass of water. In the months since he’d arrived at the orphanage these were the most words Simone Durand had ever said to him. Usually she barely spoke at all.

  ‘I’ll talk to Hugo,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him to apologize. And I’ll make sure that nothing like this ever happens to you again.’

  ‘It wasn’t Hugo,’ said Pierrot in an unconvincing tone, for despite the pain he was in, he still didn’t like the idea of getting someone else in trouble.

  ‘Yes it was,’ replied Simone. ‘Josette told me, for one thing, although I would have guessed anyway.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he like me?’ he asked quietly, looking up at her.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she replied. ‘It’s ours. Adèle’s and mine. We’ve made mistakes with him. Many mistakes.’

  ‘But you take care of him,’ said Pierrot. ‘You look after all of us. And it’s not like any of us are your family. He should be grateful to you.’

  Simone tapped her fingers against the side of the chair as if she was weighing the importance of revealing a secret. ‘Actually, he is family,’ she said. ‘He’s our nephew.’

  Pierrot opened his eyes wide in surprise. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know. I thought he was an orphan, just like the rest of us.’

  ‘His father died five years ago,’ she said. ‘And his mother . . .’ She shook her head and wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Well, my parents treated her quite badly. They had some very silly, old-fashioned ideas about people. In the end they drove her away. But Hugo’s father was our brother, Jacques.’

  Pierrot glanced across at the picture of the two little girls standing hand in hand with the small boy, and the portrait of the man with the pencil moustache dressed in a French army uniform.

  ‘What happened to him?’ he asked.

  ‘He died in jail. He’d been there since a few months before Hugo was born. He never even got to meet him.’

  Pierrot thought about this. He’d never known anyone who’d been to jail. He remembered reading about Philippe, the brother of King Louis XIII in The Man in the Iron Mask, who’d been falsely imprisoned in the Bastille; even the idea of such a fate had given him nightmares.

  ‘Why was he in jail?’ he asked.

  ‘Our brother, like your father, fought in the Great War,’ Simone told him. ‘And while some men were able to return to their normal lives after the fighting ended, there were many – the vast majority, I believe – who were unable to cope with the memories of what they’d seen and what they’d done. Of course, there are doctors who have done everything they can to make the world understand the traumas of what took place twenty years ago. You only have to think of the work of Dr Jules Persoinne here in France or Dr Alfie Summerfield in England, who have made it their life’s work to educate the public on how the previous generation suffered and how it is our responsibility to help them.’

  ‘My father was like that,’ said Pierrot. ‘Maman always said that although he didn’t die in the Great War, it was the war that killed him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simone, nodding. ‘I understand what she meant. It was the same with Jacques. He was such a wonderful boy, so full of life and fun. The epitome of kindness. But afterwards, when he came home . . . well, he was ve
ry different. And he did some terrible things. But he had served his country with honour.’ She stood up and walked across to the glass cabinet, opening the little latch at the front and removing the medal that Pierrot had stared at on the day he’d arrived. ‘Would you like to hold it?’ she asked, offering it to him.

  The boy nodded and took it carefully in his hands, running his fingers across the figure that was moulded onto the front.

  ‘He was given that for bravery,’ she said, taking it back and replacing it in the cabinet. ‘That’s all we have of him now. Over the decade that followed he was in and out of jail on many occasions. Adèle and I visited often, but we hated it. To see him there in such horrible conditions, treated so badly by a country for which he had sacrificed his peace of mind. It was a tragedy – and not just for us but for so many families. Yours included, Pierrot – am I right?’

  He nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Jacques died in prison and we’ve looked after Hugo ever since. A few years ago we talked to him about how our parents treated his mother and how our country treated his father. Perhaps he was too young and we should have waited until he was more mature. He has a great anger inside him now, and unfortunately that’s something that manifests itself in his treatment of the other orphans. But you mustn’t be too hard on him, Pierrot. Perhaps he picks on you the most because you are the one with whom he has the most in common.’

  Pierrot thought about this and tried to feel sympathy for Hugo, but it wasn’t easy. After all, as Simone had pointed out, their fathers had gone through similar experiences, but he didn’t go around making life miserable for everyone else.

  ‘At least it came to an end,’ he said finally. ‘The war, I mean. There won’t be another one, will there?’

  ‘I hope not,’ replied Simone as the door to the office swung open and Adèle entered, brandishing a letter in her hand.

  ‘There you are!’ she said, looking from one to the other. ‘I’ve been looking for you both. What on earth happened to you?’ she asked, leaning down and examining the bruises on Pierrot’s face.

  ‘I was in a fight,’ he said.

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah,’ she replied. ‘Hard luck. But I think this will cheer you up. You’ve had some good news. You’re going to be leaving us soon.’

  Pierrot looked from one sister to the other in surprise. ‘A family wants me?’ he asked.

  ‘Not just any family,’ said Adèle, smiling. ‘Your family. Your own family, I mean.’

  ‘Adèle, will you please explain what’s going on?’ asked Simone, reaching across to take the letter from her sister’s hands and running her eyes across the envelope. ‘Austria?’ she said in surprise, noticing the postmark.

  ‘It’s from your aunt Beatrix,’ said Adèle, looking at Pierrot.

  ‘But I’ve never even met her!’

  ‘Well, she knows all about you. You can read it. She’s only recently found out about what happened to your mother. She wants you to come and live with her.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Three Train Journeys

  Before waving him off at Orleans, Adèle handed Pierrot a parcel of sandwiches and told him to eat them only when he was very hungry as they had to last for the entire trip, which would take more than ten hours.

  ‘Now, I’ve pinned the names of all three stops to your lapel,’ she added, fussing around him as she made sure that each scrap of paper was securely fastened to his coat. ‘And every time you arrive at a station whose name matches one of these, make sure you get off and change on to the next train.’

  ‘Here,’ said Simone, reaching into her bag and passing a small gift across, neatly wrapped in brown paper. ‘We thought this might help to pass the time. It will remind you of the months you spent with us.’

  Pierrot kissed them both on the cheek, thanked them for all they had done for him and boarded the train, choosing a carriage where a woman and a young boy were already seated. The lady stared at him irritably as he sat down, as if she and the boy had hoped to have the carriage entirely to themselves, but said nothing as she returned to her newspaper while the boy picked up a packet of sweets from the seat next to him and put them in his pocket. Pierrot sat by the window as the train pulled out, and waved at Simone and Adèle before looking down at the first note attached to his lapel. He read the word carefully to himself:

  Mannheim.

  He had said goodbye to his friends the previous night, and Josette had been the only one who seemed sorry to see him go.

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t a found a family to adopt you?’ she asked. ‘You’re not just trying to make the rest of us feel better?’

  ‘No,’ said Pierrot. ‘I can show you my aunt’s letter if you like.’

  ‘So how did she track you down?’

  ‘Anshel’s mother was sorting through some of my mother’s things and she found the address. She wrote to tell Aunt Beatrix what had happened and gave her the details of the orphanage.’

  ‘And now she wants you to go to live with her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pierrot.

  Josette shook her head. ‘Is she married?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then what does she do? How does she earn a living?’

  ‘She’s a housekeeper.’

  ‘A housekeeper?’ asked Josette.

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, Pierrot, per se,’ she replied, having read this phrase recently in a book and been determined ever since to find an opportunity to use it. ‘It’s a little bourgeois, of course, but what can you do? And what about the family whose house she takes care of – what type of people are they?’

  ‘It’s not a family,’ said Pierrot. ‘It’s just one man. And he said it was fine with him as long as I’m not noisy. He’s not there very often, my aunt said.’

  ‘Well,’ said Josette, pretending to be indifferent but secretly wishing that she could go with him, ‘you can always come back, I suppose, if it doesn’t work out.’

  Pierrot thought about this conversation now as he watched the scenery fly past, and felt a little uncomfortable. It did seem strange that his aunt had never got in touch in all these years – after all, she had missed seven birthdays and Christmases during that time – but of course it was possible that she hadn’t got on with Maman, particularly after everything that had happened between Beatrix and Pierrot’s father. He tried to put his concerns out of his mind for now, however, and closed his eyes for a little snooze, only opening them again when an elderly man entered the carriage to take the fourth and final seat. Pierrot sat up straight, stretched his arms and yawned as he glanced across at him. The man was wearing a long black coat, black trousers, a white shirt and had long dark curls on either side of his head. He obviously had some difficulty walking too as he used a cane.

  ‘Oh, now this is too much,’ said the lady opposite, closing her newspaper and shaking her head. She was speaking German, and something in Pierrot’s head realigned itself to recall the language that he had always spoken with his father. ‘Really, can’t you find anywhere else to sit?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Madam, the train is full,’ he said politely. ‘And here is an empty seat.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she snapped, ‘but this just won’t do.’

  And with that she stood up and left the carriage, marching down the corridor while Pierrot looked around in surprise, wondering how she could possibly object to someone sitting with them when there was a place available. The man looked out of the window for a moment and sighed deeply, but didn’t put his case on the rack above, even though it was taking up a lot of space between them.

  ‘Would you like some help with that?’ asked Pierrot. ‘I can put it up there if you like.’

  The man smiled and shook his head. ‘I think you would be wasting your time,’ he said. ‘But you’re very kind to offer.’

  The woman now returned with the
conductor, who looked around the carriage and pointed towards the old man. ‘Come on, you,’ he said. ‘Out. You can stand in the corridor.’

  ‘But the seat is empty,’ said Pierrot, who assumed the conductor thought that his mother or father was travelling with him and that the old man had taken their seat. ‘I’m alone.’

  ‘Out. Now,’ insisted the conductor, ignoring Pierrot. ‘On your feet, old man, or there’ll be trouble.’

  The man said nothing and stood up, planting his cane carefully on the ground as he picked up his suitcase and, with great dignity, navigated his way slowly through the door.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, madam,’ said the conductor, turning to the lady when the man was gone.

  ‘You should be watching out for them,’ she snapped. ‘I have my son with me. He shouldn’t be exposed to people like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, and the woman snorted in disgust, as if the entire world was conspiring to frustrate her.

  Pierrot wanted to ask her why she had made the man leave, but he found her a frightening presence and thought that if he said anything, he might have to go too, so instead he turned away and looked out of the window, closing his eyes once again, and started to doze.

  When he awoke, the compartment door was being opened and the woman and the boy were taking down their bags.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘Germany,’ she said, smiling for the first time. ‘Finally away from all those awful French people!’ She pointed towards a sign that, like Pierrot’s lapel, said Mannheim. ‘This is where you get off, I think,’ she added, nodding towards his jacket, and he jumped up, gathered his belongings and made his way out to the platform.

  Standing in the centre of the station concourse, Pierrot felt anxious and alone. Everywhere he looked, men and women were hurrying along, brushing past him, desperate to get to wherever they were going. And soldiers too. Lots and lots of soldiers.

  The first thing he noticed, however, was how the language had changed. They had crossed the border, and everyone was now talking in German instead of French, and as he listened carefully, trying to understand what people were saying, he was glad that Papa had insisted on him learning the language as a child. He tore the Mannheim label off his jacket, threw it in the nearest wastepaper basket and looked down to read what the next one said: