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

over their shoulders.
    ‘Good morning,’ said Pierrot cautiously.
    Neither soldier spoke, so he walked out a little further before turning round and looking from one to the other; but still neither of them said a word. A sense of their ridiculousness overtook him and he put two fingers to the corners of his mouth, stretched his lips as wide as he could and rolled his eyes, trying not to giggle too much. They didn’t react. He hopped up and down on one foot while slapping a hand back and forth against his mouth, letting out a war cry. Still nothing.
    ‘I am Pierrot!’ he declared. ‘King of the mountain!’
    Now the head of one of the soldiers turned a little and the expression on his face, the manner in which his lip curled and his shoulder lifted slightly, causing his rifle to rise too, made Pierrot think that maybe he shouldn’t talk to them any more.
    A part of him wanted to go back inside and find something to eat, like Herta had suggested, as he hadn’t eaten anything in the twenty-four hours since leaving Orleans. But for now he was too intent on looking around, trying to discover exactly where he was. He walked across the grass, which had a white frosting that crackled in a pleasing manner beneath his boots, and looked out at the view. The sight that he beheld was astonishing. He wasn’t just at the top of a mountain; he was on a mountain within a collection of other mountains, each one with huge peaks that rose into the clouds. Their snowy summits mingled with the white of the sky, and the clouds gathered between them, disguising where one ended and the next began. Pierrot had never seen anything quite like this in his life. He made his way round to the other side of the house and looked at the landscape from there.
    It was beautiful. An enormous, silent world captured in tranquillity.
    He heard a sound in the distance and wandered around the perimeter, staring down at the winding road that led from the front of the house through the heart of the Alps, twisting left and right in unpredictable ways before blurring into the invisible area below. How far up was he? he wondered. He breathed in and the air felt so fresh and light, filling his lungs and his spirit with an enormous sense of well-being. Looking back down at the road, he watched as a car worked its way towards him, and wondered whether he ought to go back inside before whoever was in it arrived. He wished Anshel was here; he would know what to do. They had written regularly to each other when Pierrot was in the orphanage, but the move had happened so quickly that he didn’t even have time to let his friend know. He would have to write soon, but what address would he offer?
    Pierrot Fischer,
    The Top of the Mountain,
    Somewhere near Salzburg
    That would hardly do.
    The car drew closer and stopped at a checkpoint about twenty feet below. Pierrot watched as a soldier emerged from a little wooden hut before lifting the barrier and waving it forward. It was the same car that had collected him from the train station the night before, the black Volkswagen with the retractable roof, a pair of black, white and red flags blowing in the breeze at the front. When it pulled up, Ernst got out and walked round to open the back door, and Pierrot’s aunt stepped out, the two of them chatting for a moment before she glanced in the direction of the soldiers at the door, then seemed to rearrange her face into a stern expression. Ernst went back and climbed into the driver’s seat, then drove forward to park a little distance away.
    Beatrix asked something of one of the soldiers, who pointed in Pierrot’s direction, and she turned and caught his eye. As her face relaxed into a smile, he thought how much like his father she was. Her expression reminded him deeply of Wilhelm, and he wished that he was back in Paris, in the good old days when his parents were both alive and had cared for him and loved him and kept him safe while D’Artagnan scratched at the door longing