Pierrot couldn’t help but be impressed, and wished he had a uniform like theirs instead of the secondhand clothes the Durand sisters had given him back at the orphanage. If he was dressed like these boys, then strange girls in train stations wouldn’t be able to pass remarks about how old his clothes were.
‘My father was a soldier,’ he said suddenly, surprising himself with how loudly the words emerged from his mouth. The boys stopped talking to each other and stared at him, while the boy by the window woke up and blinked a few times, looking around and asking whether they’d arrived at Munich yet.
‘What was that you said, little man?’ asked the first boy, the obvious leader of their group.
‘I said that my father was a soldier,’ repeated Pierrot, already regretting having said anything at all.
‘And when was this?’
‘During the war.’
‘Your accent,’ said the boy, leaning forward. ‘Your language skills are good but you’re not a native German, are you?’
Pierrot shook his head.
‘Let me guess.’ A smile crossed his face as he pointed a finger at Pierrot’s heart. ‘Swiss. No, French! I’m right, amn’t I?’
Pierrot nodded.
The boy raised an eyebrow and then sniffed the air a few times as if he was trying to identify an unpleasant smell. ‘And how old are you. Six?’
‘I’m seven,’ said Pierrot, sitting up straight, mortally offended.
‘You’re too small to be seven.’
‘I know,’ said Pierrot. ‘But some day I’ll be bigger.’
‘Perhaps, if you live that long. And where are you going?’
‘To meet my aunt,’ said Pierrot.
‘And is she French too?’
‘No, she’s German.’
The boy considered this and offered him an unsettling smile. ‘Do you know how I feel right now, little man?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Pierrot.
‘Hungry.’
‘Didn’t you have any breakfast today?’ he asked, which led to uproarious laughter from two of the other boys, who stopped laughing almost immediately when their leader glared at them.
‘Yes, I had breakfast,’ he replied calmly. ‘I had a delicious breakfast, actually. And I had lunch. I even had a little snack at Mannheim station. But I’m still hungry.’
Pierrot glanced down at the pack of sandwiches sitting on the seat next to him and he regretted not having put them in his suitcase with the gift that Simone had given him. He’d been planning on eating two here and saving the last one for the final train.
‘Maybe there’s a shop on board,’ he said.
‘But I have no money,’ said the boy, smiling and extending his arms. ‘I’m just a young man in the service of the Fatherland. A mere Rottenführer, the son of a literature professor – although, yes, I am superior to these lowly and wretched members of the Hitlerjugend you see beside me. Is your father wealthy?’
‘My father is dead.’
‘Did he die during the war?’
‘No. Afterwards.’
The boy considered this. ‘I bet your mother is very pretty,’ he said, reaching out for a moment and touching Pierrot’s face.
‘My mother is dead too,’ Pierrot replied, pulling away.
‘What a pity. I assume she was also French?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it doesn’t matter so much.’
‘Come on, Kurt,’ said the boy by the window. ‘Leave him alone, he’s just a kid.’
‘Do you have something to say, Schlenheim?’ he snapped, turning his head in one quick movement and staring at his friend. ‘And did you forget your etiquette while you were snoring like a pig over there?’
Schlenheim swallowed nervously and shook his head. ‘I apologize, Rottenführer Kotler,’ he said quietly, his face turning red. ‘I spoke out of turn.’
‘Then I repeat,’ said Kotler, looking back at Pierrot. ‘I’m hungry. If only there was something to eat. But wait! What’s this?’ He smiled, showing an even set of sparkling white teeth. ‘Are those sandwiches?’ He reached across and picked up Pierrot’s parcel and sniffed the packet. ‘I believe
‘My father was a soldier,’ he said suddenly, surprising himself with how loudly the words emerged from his mouth. The boys stopped talking to each other and stared at him, while the boy by the window woke up and blinked a few times, looking around and asking whether they’d arrived at Munich yet.
‘What was that you said, little man?’ asked the first boy, the obvious leader of their group.
‘I said that my father was a soldier,’ repeated Pierrot, already regretting having said anything at all.
‘And when was this?’
‘During the war.’
‘Your accent,’ said the boy, leaning forward. ‘Your language skills are good but you’re not a native German, are you?’
Pierrot shook his head.
‘Let me guess.’ A smile crossed his face as he pointed a finger at Pierrot’s heart. ‘Swiss. No, French! I’m right, amn’t I?’
Pierrot nodded.
The boy raised an eyebrow and then sniffed the air a few times as if he was trying to identify an unpleasant smell. ‘And how old are you. Six?’
‘I’m seven,’ said Pierrot, sitting up straight, mortally offended.
‘You’re too small to be seven.’
‘I know,’ said Pierrot. ‘But some day I’ll be bigger.’
‘Perhaps, if you live that long. And where are you going?’
‘To meet my aunt,’ said Pierrot.
‘And is she French too?’
‘No, she’s German.’
The boy considered this and offered him an unsettling smile. ‘Do you know how I feel right now, little man?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Pierrot.
‘Hungry.’
‘Didn’t you have any breakfast today?’ he asked, which led to uproarious laughter from two of the other boys, who stopped laughing almost immediately when their leader glared at them.
‘Yes, I had breakfast,’ he replied calmly. ‘I had a delicious breakfast, actually. And I had lunch. I even had a little snack at Mannheim station. But I’m still hungry.’
Pierrot glanced down at the pack of sandwiches sitting on the seat next to him and he regretted not having put them in his suitcase with the gift that Simone had given him. He’d been planning on eating two here and saving the last one for the final train.
‘Maybe there’s a shop on board,’ he said.
‘But I have no money,’ said the boy, smiling and extending his arms. ‘I’m just a young man in the service of the Fatherland. A mere Rottenführer, the son of a literature professor – although, yes, I am superior to these lowly and wretched members of the Hitlerjugend you see beside me. Is your father wealthy?’
‘My father is dead.’
‘Did he die during the war?’
‘No. Afterwards.’
The boy considered this. ‘I bet your mother is very pretty,’ he said, reaching out for a moment and touching Pierrot’s face.
‘My mother is dead too,’ Pierrot replied, pulling away.
‘What a pity. I assume she was also French?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it doesn’t matter so much.’
‘Come on, Kurt,’ said the boy by the window. ‘Leave him alone, he’s just a kid.’
‘Do you have something to say, Schlenheim?’ he snapped, turning his head in one quick movement and staring at his friend. ‘And did you forget your etiquette while you were snoring like a pig over there?’
Schlenheim swallowed nervously and shook his head. ‘I apologize, Rottenführer Kotler,’ he said quietly, his face turning red. ‘I spoke out of turn.’
‘Then I repeat,’ said Kotler, looking back at Pierrot. ‘I’m hungry. If only there was something to eat. But wait! What’s this?’ He smiled, showing an even set of sparkling white teeth. ‘Are those sandwiches?’ He reached across and picked up Pierrot’s parcel and sniffed the packet. ‘I believe
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