they are. Someone must have left them behind.’
‘They’re mine,’ said Pierrot.
‘Is your name written on them?’
‘You can’t write your name on bread,’ said Pierrot.
‘In that case, we can’t be sure that they are yours. And having found them, I claim them as my prize.’ And with that Kotler opened the packet, took the first sandwich out and devoured it in three quick bites before starting on the second. ‘Delicious,’ he said, offering the last one to Schlenheim, who shook his head. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asked.
‘No, Rottenführer Kotler.’
‘I’m sure I can hear your stomach grumbling. Eat one.’
Schlenheim reached out to take the sandwich, his hands trembling a little as he did so.
‘Very good,’ said Kotler, smiling. ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t another,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders at Pierrot. ‘If there had been, I could have given one to you. You look as if you’re starving!’
Pierrot stared at him and wanted to tell him exactly what he thought of thieves who were older than him stealing his food, but there was something about this boy that made him understand that he would come off worse in any exchange they might have, and it wasn’t just because Kotler was bigger than him. He could feel tears forming behind his eyes but promised himself that he wouldn’t cry, blinking instead to force them to retreat as he looked down at the floor. Kotler inched his boot forward slowly, and when Pierrot looked up, he tossed the crumpled, empty bag at him, hitting him in the face, before returning to his conversation with the boys around him.
And from there to Munich Pierrot never opened his mouth again.
When the train pulled in to the station a couple of hours later, the members of the Hitlerjugend collected their belongings, but Pierrot held back, waiting for them to leave first. They walked out one by one until only Pierrot and Rottenführer Kotler remained. The older boy glanced down at him and bent over, examining the place name on his lapel. ‘You must get off here,’ he said. ‘This is your stop.’ He spoke as if he hadn’t bullied him at all but was merely being helpful as he ripped the piece of paper from Pierrot’s coat before leaning over to read the final note:
Salzburg
.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You are not staying in Germany, I see. You’re travelling on to Austria.’
A sudden panic entered Pierrot’s mind when he thought about his final destination, and although he really didn’t want to converse with this boy any more, he knew that he had to ask. ‘You’re not going there too, are you?’ he asked, dreading the idea that they might end up on the same train again.
‘What, to Austria?’ asked Kotler, taking his knapsack from above the seat and making his way through the door. He smiled and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. He started to move on, thought better of it and looked back. ‘At least, not yet,’ he added with a wink. ‘But soon. Very soon, I think. Today, the Austrian people have a place they call home. But one day . . .
poof!
’ He pressed the tips of his fingers together and pulled them apart, making the sound of an explosion, before bursting into laughter as he disappeared out of the compartment and onto the platform beyond.
The final journey to Salzburg took less than two hours, and by now Pierrot was tired and very hungry, but as exhausted as he felt, he was afraid of falling asleep in case he missed his stop. He thought of the map of Europe that hung on the wall of his classroom in Paris and tried to imagine where he might end up if that happened. Russia, perhaps. Or further away still.
He was alone in the carriage now and, remembering the present that Simone had handed him on the platform at Orleans, he reached into his case and took it out, unwrapping the brown paper and running his finger beneath the words on the cover of the book.
Emil and the Detectives
, it said.
By Erich Kästner
.
The illustration on the front
‘They’re mine,’ said Pierrot.
‘Is your name written on them?’
‘You can’t write your name on bread,’ said Pierrot.
‘In that case, we can’t be sure that they are yours. And having found them, I claim them as my prize.’ And with that Kotler opened the packet, took the first sandwich out and devoured it in three quick bites before starting on the second. ‘Delicious,’ he said, offering the last one to Schlenheim, who shook his head. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asked.
‘No, Rottenführer Kotler.’
‘I’m sure I can hear your stomach grumbling. Eat one.’
Schlenheim reached out to take the sandwich, his hands trembling a little as he did so.
‘Very good,’ said Kotler, smiling. ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t another,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders at Pierrot. ‘If there had been, I could have given one to you. You look as if you’re starving!’
Pierrot stared at him and wanted to tell him exactly what he thought of thieves who were older than him stealing his food, but there was something about this boy that made him understand that he would come off worse in any exchange they might have, and it wasn’t just because Kotler was bigger than him. He could feel tears forming behind his eyes but promised himself that he wouldn’t cry, blinking instead to force them to retreat as he looked down at the floor. Kotler inched his boot forward slowly, and when Pierrot looked up, he tossed the crumpled, empty bag at him, hitting him in the face, before returning to his conversation with the boys around him.
And from there to Munich Pierrot never opened his mouth again.
When the train pulled in to the station a couple of hours later, the members of the Hitlerjugend collected their belongings, but Pierrot held back, waiting for them to leave first. They walked out one by one until only Pierrot and Rottenführer Kotler remained. The older boy glanced down at him and bent over, examining the place name on his lapel. ‘You must get off here,’ he said. ‘This is your stop.’ He spoke as if he hadn’t bullied him at all but was merely being helpful as he ripped the piece of paper from Pierrot’s coat before leaning over to read the final note:
Salzburg
.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You are not staying in Germany, I see. You’re travelling on to Austria.’
A sudden panic entered Pierrot’s mind when he thought about his final destination, and although he really didn’t want to converse with this boy any more, he knew that he had to ask. ‘You’re not going there too, are you?’ he asked, dreading the idea that they might end up on the same train again.
‘What, to Austria?’ asked Kotler, taking his knapsack from above the seat and making his way through the door. He smiled and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. He started to move on, thought better of it and looked back. ‘At least, not yet,’ he added with a wink. ‘But soon. Very soon, I think. Today, the Austrian people have a place they call home. But one day . . .
poof!
’ He pressed the tips of his fingers together and pulled them apart, making the sound of an explosion, before bursting into laughter as he disappeared out of the compartment and onto the platform beyond.
The final journey to Salzburg took less than two hours, and by now Pierrot was tired and very hungry, but as exhausted as he felt, he was afraid of falling asleep in case he missed his stop. He thought of the map of Europe that hung on the wall of his classroom in Paris and tried to imagine where he might end up if that happened. Russia, perhaps. Or further away still.
He was alone in the carriage now and, remembering the present that Simone had handed him on the platform at Orleans, he reached into his case and took it out, unwrapping the brown paper and running his finger beneath the words on the cover of the book.
Emil and the Detectives
, it said.
By Erich Kästner
.
The illustration on the front
Similar Books
