Read Online The Boy at the Top of the Mountain by John Boyne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Boyne
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lying in, a chest of drawers with a bowl and jug on top and a wardrobe in the corner. He lifted the sheets, looked down, and was surprised to see that he was wearing a long nightshirt with nothing underneath it. Someone must have undressed him, and the idea of this made his face grow red because whoever it was would have seen
everything
.
Pierrot climbed out of bed and walked over to the wardrobe, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor below, but his clothes were not inside. He opened the drawers of the chest, but they were empty too. The jug was full of water, however, so he drank a little and swirled it around in his mouth, and then poured a little into the bowl so he could wash his face. Walking over to the single window, he pulled the curtain back to look outside, but the glass was frosted over and he could only make out an indistinct blend of green and white beyond that suggested a field working hard to break through the snow. He felt a twist of anxiety build in his stomach.
Where am I?
he wondered.
Turning round, he noticed a portrait on the wall of an extremely serious man with a small moustache, staring into the distance; he was wearing a yellow jacket and an iron cross on his breast pocket, one hand resting on the top of a chair, the other pressed against his hip. Behind him hung a painting of trees and a sky that was darkening with grey clouds, as if a terrible storm was brewing.
Pierrot found himself staring at the painting for a long time – there was something hypnotic about the man’s expression – and he only snapped out of it when he heard footsteps making their way along the corridor outside. Quickly he jumped back into bed and pulled the sheets up to his chin. When the door handle turned, a rather portly girl of about eighteen years of age with red hair and an even redder face looked inside.
‘You’re awake then,’ she said in an accusatory tone.
Pierrot said nothing, simply nodded his head.
‘You’re to come with me,’ she said.
‘Where to?’
‘Where I take you, that’s where. Come on. Hurry up. I’m busy enough as it is without having to answer a lot of daft questions.’
Pierrot climbed out of bed and walked towards her, looking down at his feet instead of directly at her. ‘Where are my clothes?’ he asked.
‘Gone into the incinerator,’ she said. ‘They’ll be ashes by now.’
Pierrot gasped in dismay. The clothes he had worn for the journey were clothes that Maman had bought for him on his seventh birthday; it was the last occasion they had gone shopping together.
‘And my suitcase?’ he asked.
She shrugged but didn’t look the least bit remorseful. ‘Everything’s gone,’ she said. ‘We didn’t want those nasty, smelly things in the house.’
‘But they—’ began Pierrot.
‘You can stop that nonsense right now,’ said the girl, turning round and wagging a finger in his face. ‘They were filthy and most likely crawling with undesirables. They’re better off in the fire. And you’re lucky to be here in the Berghof—’
‘The what?’ asked Pierrot.
‘The Berghof,’ she repeated. ‘That’s what this house is called. And we don’t allow tantrums here. Now follow me. I don’t want to hear another word out of you.’
He walked along the corridor, looking left and right, trying to take everything in. The house was made almost entirely of wood, and although it felt pretty and cosy, the photographs on the wall showing groups of officers in uniforms standing to attention – some looking directly down the camera lens as if they were hoping to intimidate it into cracking – seemed a little out of place. He stood in front of one of them, mesmerized by what he saw. The men looked fierce, frightening, handsome and electrifying all at once. Pierrot wondered whether he might look as frightening as them when he was grown up; if he did, then no one would dare to knock him over in train stations or steal his sandwiches in railway carriages.
‘She
everything
.
Pierrot climbed out of bed and walked over to the wardrobe, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor below, but his clothes were not inside. He opened the drawers of the chest, but they were empty too. The jug was full of water, however, so he drank a little and swirled it around in his mouth, and then poured a little into the bowl so he could wash his face. Walking over to the single window, he pulled the curtain back to look outside, but the glass was frosted over and he could only make out an indistinct blend of green and white beyond that suggested a field working hard to break through the snow. He felt a twist of anxiety build in his stomach.
Where am I?
he wondered.
Turning round, he noticed a portrait on the wall of an extremely serious man with a small moustache, staring into the distance; he was wearing a yellow jacket and an iron cross on his breast pocket, one hand resting on the top of a chair, the other pressed against his hip. Behind him hung a painting of trees and a sky that was darkening with grey clouds, as if a terrible storm was brewing.
Pierrot found himself staring at the painting for a long time – there was something hypnotic about the man’s expression – and he only snapped out of it when he heard footsteps making their way along the corridor outside. Quickly he jumped back into bed and pulled the sheets up to his chin. When the door handle turned, a rather portly girl of about eighteen years of age with red hair and an even redder face looked inside.
‘You’re awake then,’ she said in an accusatory tone.
Pierrot said nothing, simply nodded his head.
‘You’re to come with me,’ she said.
‘Where to?’
‘Where I take you, that’s where. Come on. Hurry up. I’m busy enough as it is without having to answer a lot of daft questions.’
Pierrot climbed out of bed and walked towards her, looking down at his feet instead of directly at her. ‘Where are my clothes?’ he asked.
‘Gone into the incinerator,’ she said. ‘They’ll be ashes by now.’
Pierrot gasped in dismay. The clothes he had worn for the journey were clothes that Maman had bought for him on his seventh birthday; it was the last occasion they had gone shopping together.
‘And my suitcase?’ he asked.
She shrugged but didn’t look the least bit remorseful. ‘Everything’s gone,’ she said. ‘We didn’t want those nasty, smelly things in the house.’
‘But they—’ began Pierrot.
‘You can stop that nonsense right now,’ said the girl, turning round and wagging a finger in his face. ‘They were filthy and most likely crawling with undesirables. They’re better off in the fire. And you’re lucky to be here in the Berghof—’
‘The what?’ asked Pierrot.
‘The Berghof,’ she repeated. ‘That’s what this house is called. And we don’t allow tantrums here. Now follow me. I don’t want to hear another word out of you.’
He walked along the corridor, looking left and right, trying to take everything in. The house was made almost entirely of wood, and although it felt pretty and cosy, the photographs on the wall showing groups of officers in uniforms standing to attention – some looking directly down the camera lens as if they were hoping to intimidate it into cracking – seemed a little out of place. He stood in front of one of them, mesmerized by what he saw. The men looked fierce, frightening, handsome and electrifying all at once. Pierrot wondered whether he might look as frightening as them when he was grown up; if he did, then no one would dare to knock him over in train stations or steal his sandwiches in railway carriages.
‘She
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