Free The Boy at the Top of the Mountain by John Boyne

stared at her, unable to say anything for a moment. He couldn’t quite believe that anyone would say something so cruel.
    ‘I’ll wash myself,’ he said finally, his voice cracking a little. ‘I know how to do it and I’ll do it right. I promise.’
    Herta threw her hands in the air in defeat. ‘Fine,’ she said, picking up a square of soap and slamming it sharply into the palm of his hand. ‘But I’ll be back in fifteen minutes and I want all that soap to be used up by then, do you understand me? Otherwise I’ll take the scrubbing brush to you myself, and there’s nothing you can say that will stop me.’
    Pierrot nodded and breathed a sigh of relief, waiting until she had left the bathroom before taking off the nightshirt and climbing carefully into the bath. Once he was in, he lay back and closed his eyes, enjoying the unexpected luxury. It had been a long time since he’d taken a warm bath. In the orphanage they were always cold, as there were so many children who needed to use the same water. He softened the soap, and when it produced a good lather, he began to wash himself.
    The bath water quickly turned murky from all the dirt that had collected on his body, and he buried his head under the surface, enjoying the way the sounds of the outside world disappeared, before massaging his scalp with the soap to wash his hair. When he’d rinsed out all the lather he sat up and scrubbed his feet and his fingernails. To his relief, the soap got smaller and smaller, but he kept washing until it disappeared entirely, relieved that when Herta returned she would have no cause to go through with her appalling threat.
    When she came back in – without even knocking! – she was carrying a large towel, and held it out before him. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Out you get.’
    ‘Turn round,’ said Pierrot.
    ‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ said Herta with a sigh, turning her head away and closing her eyes. Pierrot climbed out of the bath and allowed himself to be enveloped in the fabric, which was softer and more sumptuous than any he had ever known. It felt so comfortable wrapped tightly around his small body that he would have been happy to stay in it for ever.
    ‘Right,’ said Herta. ‘I’ve left fresh clothes on your bed. They’re too big for you but they’ll have to do for now. Beatrix is going to take you down the mountain to get you kitted out, or so I’m told.’
    The mountain again.
    ‘Why am I on a mountain?’ asked Pierrot. ‘What sort of place is this?’
    ‘No more questions,’ said Herta, turning away. ‘I have things to do even if you don’t. Get dressed, and when you come downstairs, you can find something to eat if you’re hungry.’
    Pierrot ran back upstairs to his room still wrapped in the towel, his feet leaving small outlines on the wooden floor, and sure enough a set of clothes had been laid out neatly on his bed. He put them on, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt, turning up the cuffs on the trousers and fastening the braces as tightly as he could. There was a heavy jumper too, but it was so over-sized that when he put it on it hung down below his knees, and so he took it off again and decided to brave the weather.
    Walking back downstairs, he looked around, uncertain where he was supposed to go now, but there was no one about to help him.
    ‘Hello?’ he said quietly, nervous of drawing too much attention to himself but hoping that someone would hear. ‘Hello?’ he repeated, walking towards the front door. He could hear voices out there – two men laughing – and turned the handle, opening it to reveal a burst of sunlight despite the cold. As he stepped outside, the men threw their half-smoked cigarettes on the ground, crushing them underfoot, standing tall and staring directly ahead. A pair of living statues wearing grey uniforms, grey peaked caps, heavy black belts around their waists and dark black boots that reached almost to their knees.
    They both carried rifles slung