Boy on top of the mountain John Boyne

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Title: Boy on the Mountain Top

About the book "The Boy on the Mountain Top" by John Boyne

John Boyne is a modern Irish writer. His book, entitled “The Boy on the Mountain Top,” is an incredibly heartfelt, tragic work that couldn’t be more in tune with our era. The novel has been translated into dozens of languages ​​and is a universally recognized bestseller, with every chance of repeating the success of the acclaimed book “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.” In his literary work, the author talks about the period of Adolf Hitler's reign in pre-war and wartime Nazi Germany. At the same time, the ideological emphasis is on the duty of each person to bear responsibility for his actions before society, as well as on the fate of those thoughtless adherents of the fascist way of life who vainly sought to conquer the whole world. Reading the novel will be interesting both for connoisseurs of fiction with a historical background, and for all lovers of dramatic, heartbreaking stories.

In his novel The Boy on the Mountaintop, John Boyne introduces us to the main character - an ordinary boy named Pierrot. His mother is of French nationality, and his father is a German who went through the First World War and received deep moral trauma. And although things in their family are not going as smoothly as they would like, the boy feels happy. His parents love him immensely, and besides, he has a friend Anshel, with whom he talks using gestures. However, this unassuming little world is soon destined to disappear forever. It's the end of the 1930s. After some time, our young hero will move to Austria, to a large, wonderful house. He will now be called Peter, and he will have a new senior companion, who will have a mustache with a brush, a charming companion Eva and a very smart dog Blondie. He has a pleasant manner and is always full of energy and enthusiasm. Only the servants are terribly afraid of him, and people visiting the family constantly talk about the greatness of Germany and the need to demonstrate it to the rest of the world.

As in his previous, hugely successful work, in The Boy on the Mountain Top John Boyne also uses a little boy as the narrator, so we again see tragic events through the eyes of a child. This novel was a truly successful continuation of the story of Nazi Germany. In addition, the same historical period is shown from a fundamentally different point of view. This is a story about the transformation of a pure soul into a merciless machine, very truthful, without any embellishment or digression. “The Boy on the Mountain Top” is a creepy, gut-wrenching confession of a crippled child, which should be read by everyone, because it simply cannot leave you indifferent.

On our website about books lifeinbooks.net you can download for free without registration or read online the book “The Boy on the Mountain Top” by John Boyne in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

A new novel from the author of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. An ordinary boy, Pierrot, lives in Paris. His mother is French and his father is German. Dad went through the First World War and was forever mentally traumatized. And although not everything is fine at Piero’s home, he is happy. His parents adore him, he has a best friend, Anshel, with whom he communicates in sign language. But this cozy world is about to disappear. It's the second half of the 1930s. And soon Piero will find himself in Austria, in a wonderful house on the top of a mountain. Pierrot will now be called Peter, and he will have a new adult friend. A new friend has a brush mustache, a beautiful lady named Eva and the smartest German shepherd Blondie. He is kind, smart and very energetic. Only for some reason the servants are scared to death of him, and the guests who are in the house talk about the greatness of Germany and that it’s time for all of Europe to know about it.

A piercing, disturbing and incredibly in tune with our time novel, which became, in fact, a continuation of “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas,” although the characters are completely different.

On our website you can download the book “The Boy on the Mountaintop” by Boyne John for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.

John Boyne

Boy on top of the mountain

© Maria Spivak, translation, 2015

© Phantom Press, 2016

To my nephews Martin and Kevin

Three red spots on a handkerchief

Although Pierrot Fischer's father did not die in the Great War, Emily's mother always maintained that it was the war that killed him.

Pierrot was not the only seven-year-old child in Paris who had only one parent left. At school, in front of him sat a boy who had not seen his mother for four years, who had run off with an encyclopedia seller, and the main brawler and bully of the class, the one who called the miniature Pierrot a Booger, generally found himself with his grandparents in the room above their tobacco shop on the Avenue de la Motte-Pique and spent almost all his free time hanging out at the window, bombarding passers-by with water balloons and flatly refusing to admit to what he had done.

And nearby, on Avenue Charles-Floquet, in the same house as Pierrot, but on the ground floor, lived his best friend Anshel Bronstein with his mother, Madame Bronstein - their father drowned two years ago while trying to swim across the English Channel.

Pierrot and Anshel were born a week apart and grew up almost like brothers - if one mother needed a nap, the other looked after both. But unlike most brothers, the boys did not quarrel. Anshel was born deaf, and from an early age the friends learned to communicate freely in sign language, replacing words with the waves of their dexterous fingers. Instead of names, they chose special gestures for themselves. Anshel assigned Pierrot the sign of a dog, because he considered him both kind and faithful, and Pierrot Anshel, the smartest one in the class, as everyone said, the sign of a fox. When they addressed each other, their hands looked like this:

They were almost always together, kicking a soccer ball on the Champ de Mars, learning to read and write together. And their friendship became so strong that when the boys grew up a little, only Pierrot Anshel allowed him to look at the stories he wrote at night in his room. Even Madame Bronstein did not know that her son wanted to become a writer.

That is good, handing a stack of papers to his friend, showed Pierrot; his fingers fluttered in the air. I liked about the horse and about the gold that was found in the coffin. But this is so-so, he continued, handing over the second stack. But only because of your terrible handwriting, I was not able to make out everything... And this, Pierrot finished, waving the third stack like a flag in a parade, This is complete nonsense. If I were you, I would throw this in the trash.

I wanted to try something new, Anshel showed. He had nothing against criticism, but sometimes he defended stories he didn’t like quite fiercely.

No, Pierrot objected, shaking his head. It's a bullshit. Don't let anyone read it, don't embarrass yourself. They will also think that your balls are stuck behind your rollers.

Pierrot was also attracted to the idea of ​​becoming a writer, but he did not have the patience to sit for hours, writing letter after letter. He preferred to sit on a chair in front of Anshel and, gesticulating wildly, invent something on the fly or describe his school escapades. Anshel watched carefully, and then, at home, transferred his stories to paper.

- So I wrote this? - asked Pierrot, receiving and reading the finished pages for the first time.

“No, I wrote,” Anshel answered. - But this is your story.

Emily, Pierrot's mother, rarely mentioned her father in conversations, although the boy thought about him constantly. Until three years ago, Wilhelm Fischer lived with his family, but in 1933, when Pierrot was almost five years old, he left Paris. Pierrot remembered that his father was tall and carried him along the street on his shoulders, and also knew how to neigh like a horse and at times even broke into a gallop, causing Pierrot to squeal with delight. The father taught the boy German so that he “wouldn’t forget his roots” and helped him in every possible way to master the piano; True, Piero well understood that in terms of performing skills he was no match for his dad. He often brought guests to tears with his folk melodies, especially if he also sang along in a quiet but pleasant voice, in which sadness and longing for the past sounded. Piero made up for his lack of musical talent with his ability in languages: he easily switched from his father's German to his mother's French.

And his crowning number was the performance of “La Marseillaise” in German and then “Germany Above All” in French, although this sometimes upset the guests.

“Please don’t do this again, Pierrot,” my mother asked one evening when his performance led to a misunderstanding with the neighbors. – If you want to be an artist, learn something else. Juggle. Show tricks. Stand on your head. Anything but sing in German.

-What's wrong with German? - Pierrot was surprised.

“Yes, Emily,” said dad, who had been sitting in a chair in the corner all evening, drank too much wine and, as usual, fell into the blues, remembering all those horrors that were always with him, did not leave him, haunted him. -What's wrong with German?

– Don’t you think that’s enough already, Wilhelm? – Mom turned to him, angrily putting her hands on her hips.

- Enough of what? Will your friends stop insulting my country?

“Nobody insulted her,” my mother snapped. “People just can’t forget the war, that’s all.” Especially those whose loved ones remained lying on the battlefields.

- But at the same time they can easily come to my house, eat my food and drink my wine?

Dad waited until mom went into the kitchen, called Pierrot and hugged him, drawing him to him.

“The day will come when we will get ours back,” he said firmly, looking the boy straight in the eyes. – And then don’t forget whose side you’re on. Yes, you were born in France and live in Paris, but you are German to the core, like me. Remember this, Pierrot.

Sometimes dad woke up in the middle of the night from his own scream, his screams echoing through the empty and dark corridors of the apartment. The dog Pierrot, named D'Artagnan, jumped out of his basket in horror, flew up onto the bed and, trembling all over, crawled under the blanket with his owner. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and listened through the thin walls as mom calmed dad down, whispering: everything is fine, you're at home with your family, it's just a bad dream.

“Yes, but this is not a dream,” the father once answered in a trembling voice, “but much worse.” Memories.

It happened that at night, on the way to the toilet, Pierrot saw from the corridor: his father was sitting in the kitchen, with his head on the wooden table, barely audibly muttering something, and an empty bottle lying next to him. Then the boy would grab the bottle and run barefoot down into the yard and throw the bottle into the trash can so that his mother wouldn’t find it the next morning. And usually, when he returned, dad somehow already ended up in bed.

The next day, neither father nor son seemed to remember anything.

But one day Pierrot, rushing into the courtyard with his night mission, slipped on the wet stairs and fell; He didn’t hurt himself, but the bottle broke, and, getting up, he stepped on a sharp fragment with his left foot. Wincing in pain, Pierrot pulled out the glass, but blood gushed out of the cut; he jumped to the apartment, began to look for a bandage, and then dad woke up and realized what he had caused. Having disinfected and carefully bandaged the wound, he sat his son down in front of him and asked for forgiveness for drinking so much. Then, wiping away his tears, Pierrot said that he loved him very much and would not allow such stories to happen again.

“I love you too, dad,” Pierrot replied. “But I love it when you ride me on your shoulders like a horse.” And I don’t like it when you sit in the kitchen and don’t want to talk to me or mom.

“I don’t like it either,” Dad muttered. “But sometimes it’s like I’m covered in a black cloud that I can’t get out of.” That's why I drink. To forget.

- Forget what?

- War. What did I see there? “He closed his eyes and whispered: “What was I doing there?”

Pierrot swallowed and asked, although he no longer wanted to know:

-What were you doing there?

Dad smiled sadly.

“It doesn’t matter what, the main thing is for the good of your country,” he said. – You understand, right?

- Yes, dad. “In fact, Pierrot didn’t really understand what he was talking about, but dad should know how brave he is.” “I will also become a soldier to make you proud of me.”

The father looked at his son and put his hand on his shoulder.

“The main thing is to choose the right side,” he said.

And I forgot about the bottle for almost two months. And then, just as quickly as he had quit, the black cloud returned and he started drinking again.

Dad worked as a waiter in a local restaurant, leaving in the morning around ten, returning at three and leaving again for the evening shift. One day he returned in a very bad mood and said that a certain Papa Joffre had come to them for lunch and sat down at his table; Dad was not going to serve him, but the owner, Monsieur Abrahams, threatened: then, they say, go away and you don’t have to come back.

John Boyne

Boy on top of the mountain

To my nephews Martin and Kevin

Three red spots on a handkerchief

Although Pierrot Fischer's father did not die in the Great War, Emily's mother always maintained that it was the war that killed him.

Pierrot was not the only seven-year-old child in Paris who had only one parent left. At school, in front of him sat a boy who had not seen his mother for four years, who had run off with an encyclopedia seller, and the main brawler and bully of the class, the one who called the miniature Pierrot a Booger, generally found himself with his grandparents in the room above their tobacco shop on the Avenue de la Motte-Pique and spent almost all his free time hanging out at the window, bombarding passers-by with water balloons and flatly refusing to admit to what he had done.

And nearby, on Avenue Charles-Floquet, in the same house as Pierrot, but on the ground floor, lived his best friend Anshel Bronstein with his mother, Madame Bronstein - their father drowned two years ago while trying to swim across the English Channel.

Pierrot and Anshel were born a week apart and grew up almost like brothers - if one mother needed a nap, the other looked after both. But unlike most brothers, the boys did not quarrel. Anshel was born deaf, and from an early age the friends learned to communicate freely in sign language, replacing words with the waves of their dexterous fingers. Instead of names, they chose special gestures for themselves. Anshel assigned Pierrot the sign of a dog, because he considered him both kind and faithful, and Pierrot Anshel, the smartest one in the class, as everyone said, the sign of a fox. When they addressed each other, their hands looked like this:

They were almost always together, kicking a soccer ball on the Champ de Mars, learning to read and write together. And their friendship became so strong that when the boys grew up a little, only Pierrot Anshel allowed him to look at the stories he wrote at night in his room. Even Madame Bronstein did not know that her son wanted to become a writer.

That is good, handing a stack of papers to his friend, showed Pierrot; his fingers fluttered in the air. I liked about the horse and about the gold that was found in the coffin. But this is so-so, he continued, handing over the second stack. But only because of your terrible handwriting, I was not able to make out everything... And this, Pierrot finished, waving the third stack like a flag in a parade, This is complete nonsense. If I were you, I would throw this in the trash.

I wanted to try something new, Anshel showed. He had nothing against criticism, but sometimes he defended stories he didn’t like quite fiercely.

No, Pierrot objected, shaking his head. It's a bullshit. Don't let anyone read it, don't embarrass yourself. They will also think that your balls are stuck behind your rollers.

Pierrot was also attracted to the idea of ​​becoming a writer, but he did not have the patience to sit for hours, writing letter after letter. He preferred to sit on a chair in front of Anshel and, gesticulating wildly, invent something on the fly or describe his school escapades. Anshel watched carefully, and then, at home, transferred his stories to paper.

So I wrote this? - asked Pierrot, receiving and reading the finished pages for the first time.

No, I wrote,” Anshel replied. - But this is your story.

Emily, Pierrot's mother, rarely mentioned her father in conversations, although the boy thought about him constantly. Until three years ago, Wilhelm Fischer lived with his family, but in 1933, when Pierrot was almost five years old, he left Paris. Pierrot remembered that his father was tall and carried him along the street on his shoulders, and also knew how to neigh like a horse and at times even broke into a gallop, causing Pierrot to squeal with delight. The father taught the boy German so that he “wouldn’t forget his roots” and helped him in every possible way to master the piano; True, Piero well understood that in terms of performing skills he was no match for his dad. He often brought guests to tears with his folk melodies, especially if he also sang along in a quiet but pleasant voice, in which sadness and longing for the past sounded. Piero made up for his lack of musical talent with his ability in languages: he easily switched from his father's German to his mother's French.

And his crowning number was the performance of “La Marseillaise” in German and then “Germany Above All” in French, although this sometimes upset the guests.

“Please don’t do this again, Pierrot,” my mother asked one evening when his performance led to a misunderstanding with the neighbors. - If you want to be an artist, learn something else. Juggle. Show tricks. Stand on your head. Anything but sing in German.

What's wrong with German? - Pierrot was surprised.

Yes, Emily,” said dad, who had been sitting in a chair in the corner all evening, drank too much wine and, as usual, fell into the blues, remembering all those horrors that were always with him, did not leave him, haunted him. - What's wrong with German?

Don't you think that's enough already, Wilhelm? - Mom turned to him, angrily putting her hands on her hips.

Enough of what? Will your friends stop insulting my country?

“Nobody insulted her,” my mother snapped. “People just can’t forget the war, that’s all.” Especially those whose loved ones remained lying on the battlefields.

But at the same time, they may well come to my house, eat my food and drink my wine?

Dad waited until mom went into the kitchen, called Pierrot and hugged him, drawing him to him.

The day will come when we will get ours back,” he said firmly, looking the boy straight in the eyes. - And then don’t forget whose side you’re on. Yes, you were born in France and live in Paris, but you are German to the core, like me. Remember this, Pierrot.

Sometimes dad woke up in the middle of the night from his own scream, his screams echoing through the empty and dark corridors of the apartment. The dog Pierrot, named D'Artagnan, jumped out of his basket in horror, flew up onto the bed and, trembling all over, crawled under the blanket with his owner. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and listened through the thin walls as mom calmed dad down, whispering: everything is fine, you're at home with your family, it's just a bad dream.

Yes, but this is not a dream,” the father once answered in a trembling voice, “but much worse.” Memories.

It happened that at night, on the way to the toilet, Pierrot saw from the corridor: his father was sitting in the kitchen, with his head on the wooden table, barely audibly muttering something, and an empty bottle lying next to him. Then the boy would grab the bottle and run barefoot down into the yard and throw the bottle into the trash can so that his mother wouldn’t find it the next morning. And usually, when he returned, dad somehow already ended up in bed.

The next day, neither father nor son seemed to remember anything.

But one day Pierrot, rushing into the courtyard with his night mission, slipped on the wet stairs and fell; He didn’t hurt himself, but the bottle broke, and, getting up, he stepped on a sharp fragment with his left foot. Wincing in pain, Pierrot pulled out the glass, but blood gushed out of the cut; he jumped to the apartment, began to look for a bandage, and then dad woke up and realized what he had caused. Having disinfected and carefully bandaged the wound, he sat his son down in front of him and asked for forgiveness for drinking so much. Then, wiping away his tears, Pierrot said that he loved him very much and would not allow such stories to happen again.

“I love you too, dad,” Pierrot replied. - But I love it when you ride me on your shoulders like a horse. And I don’t like it when you sit in the kitchen and don’t want to talk to me or mom.

“I don’t like it either,” Dad muttered. “But sometimes it’s as if a black cloud is covering me, from which I can’t get out.” That's why I drink. To forget.

Forget what?

War. What did I see there? - He closed his eyes and whispered: - What was I doing there?

Pierrot swallowed and asked, although he no longer wanted to know:

What were you doing there?

Dad smiled sadly.

It doesn’t matter what, the main thing is for the good of your country,” he said. - You understand, right?

Yes, dad. - In fact, Pierrot didn’t really understand what he was talking about, but dad should know how brave he is. - I will also become a soldier to make you proud of me.

The father looked at his son and put his hand on his shoulder.

The main thing is to choose the right side,” he said.

And I forgot about the bottle for almost two months. And then, just as quickly as he quit, the black cloud returned and started drinking again.

Dad worked as a waiter in a local restaurant, leaving in the morning around ten, returning at three and leaving again for the evening shift. One day he returned in a very bad mood and said that a certain Papa Joffre had come to them for lunch and sat down at his table; Dad was not going to serve him, but the owner, Monsieur Abrahams, threatened: then, they say, go away and you don’t have to come back.

Who is Papa Joffre? - asked Pierrot. He had never heard this name before.

“He was a great general during the war,” my mother answered, taking a pile of laundry out of the basket and placing it next to the ironing board. - Our hero.

- Your hero,” dad clarified.

Don't forget that you are married to a French woman. - Mom scorched him with an angry look.

“Yes, and out of love,” dad responded. - Pierrot, didn’t I tell you how I first saw my mother? Two years after the Great War. I agreed to meet my sister on her lunch break. My sister was working in the store, I went after her and saw that she was talking with her new assistant. She was terribly embarrassed - she had only entered the service a week ago. I just looked at her and immediately realized: this is my future wife.

A new novel from the author of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. An ordinary boy, Pierrot, lives in Paris. His mother is French and his father is German. Dad went through the First World War and was forever mentally traumatized. And although not everything is fine at Piero’s home, he is happy. His parents adore him, he has a best friend, Anshel, with whom he communicates in sign language. But this cozy world is about to disappear. It's the second half of the 1930s. And soon Piero will find himself in Austria, in a wonderful house on the top of a mountain. Pierrot will now be called Peter, and he will have a new adult friend. A new friend has a brush mustache, a beautiful lady named Eva and the smartest German shepherd Blondie. He is kind, smart and very energetic. Only for some reason the servants are scared to death of him, and the guests who are in the house talk about the greatness of Germany and that it’s time for all of Europe to know about it.

A piercing, disturbing and incredibly in tune with our time novel, which became, in fact, a continuation of “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas,” although the characters are completely different.