You just said that you hope you won’t become an eagle, signed Anshel, laughing and showing his friend the signs that he should have made.
See? signed Pierrot, wishing that he could throw all the different shapes in the air and let them fall back into his fingers in the proper order. I’m already forgetting.
No you’re not. You’re still learning, that’s all.
You’re so much better at it than I am.
Anshel smiled. I have to be.
Pierrot turned as he heard the sound of the steam escaping from the valves of the train’s smoke box and the harsh blast of the conductor’s whistle, a furious call-to-platform that made his stomach turn over in anxiety. There was a part of him, of course, that was a little excited about this bit of his journey, for he’d never been on a train before, but he just wished that the trip would never come to an end because he was scared of what might be waiting for him at the other end.
We can write to each other, Anshel, signed Pierrot. We must never lose touch.
Every week.
Pierrot made the sign of the fox, Anshel made the sign of the dog, and they held the two symbols in the air to represent their eternal friendship. They wanted to give each other a hug, but there were so many people around that they felt a little embarrassed and so shook hands instead as Pierrot took his leave of them.
‘Goodbye, Pierrot,’ said Mme Bronstein, leaning down to give him a kiss, and the noise of the train was so loud now, and the bustle of the crowds so overwhelming, that it was almost impossible to hear her.
‘It’s because I’m not a Jew, isn’t it?’ said Pierrot, looking directly at her. ‘You don’t like Gentiles and you don’t want one to live with you.’
‘What?’ she asked, standing up straight and looking shocked. ‘Pierrot, whatever gave you that idea? That was the last thing on my mind! Anyway, you’re a smart boy. Surely you can see how attitudes towards Jews are changing here – the names we get called, the resentment people seem to feel towards us.’
‘But if I was a Jew you’d find a way to keep me with you, I know you would.’
‘You’re wrong, Pierrot. I’m just thinking about your safety and—’
‘All aboard!’ cried the conductor loudly. ‘Last call! All aboard!’
‘Goodbye, Anshel,’ Pierrot said, turning away from her and making his way up the step into the carriage.
‘Pierrot!’ cried Mme Bronstein. ‘Come back, please! Let me explain – you have it all wrong!’
But he didn’t turn round. His time in Paris was over, he knew that now. He closed the door behind him, took a deep breath, and stepped forward to begin his new life.
Within an hour and a half the conductor was tapping Pierrot on the shoulder and pointing towards the church steeples that were just coming into sight. ‘Now then,’ he said, pointing to the piece of paper that Mme Bronstein had pinned to his lapel and on which she had written his name – PIERROT FISCHER – and his destination – ORLEANS – in big black letters. ‘This is your stop.’
Pierrot swallowed hard, took his small suitcase out from under the seat and made his way to the door just as the train pulled in. As he stepped onto the platform, he waited for the steam from the engines to clear to see whether anyone was waiting for him. A momentary panic left him wondering what he would do if no one showed up. Who would take care of him? He was only seven years old, after all, and he had no money for a ticket back to Paris. How would he eat? Where would he sleep? What would become of him?
He felt someone tap him on the shoulder, and when he turned round a red-faced man reached down to rip the note from his collar, holding it close to his eyes before crumpling it up and throwing it away.
‘You’re with me,’ he said, making his way towards a horse and cart while Pierrot gazed at him, rooted to the spot. ‘Get a move on,’ he added, turning round and staring at him. ‘My time’s precious even if yours isn’t.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Pierrot, refusing to follow him in case he was simply being taken into servitude by some farmer who needed extra help with his harvest. Anshel had once written a story about just such a boy and it had ended badly for everyone involved.
‘Who am I?’ asked the man, laughing at the audacity of the boy’s question. ‘I’m the fellow who’s going to tan your hide if you don’t hop to it.’
Pierrot’s eyes opened wide. He hadn’t been in Orleans for more than a couple of minutes and he was already being threatened with violence. He shook his head defiantly and sat down on his suitcase. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.’
‘Don’t worry, we won’t be strangers for long,’ said the man, his face softening a little as he smiled. He was about fifty years old and looked a little like M. Abrahams from the restaurant, except for the fact that he hadn’t shaved in a few days and was wearing scruffy old clothes that didn’t match very well. ‘You’re Pierrot Fischer, aren’t you? It said so on your lapel anyway. The Durand sisters sent me to get you. My name’s Houper. I do a few odd jobs for them now and then. And sometimes I come to collect the orphans from the train station. The ones who travel on their own, that is.’
‘Oh,’ said Pierrot, standing up now. ‘I thought they would come to fetch me themselves.’
‘And leave all those little monsters with the run of the place? Not likely. The place would be in ruins by the time they got back.’ The man stepped forward and his tone changed as he lifted Pierrot’s suitcase. ‘Look, there’s nothing to be frightened of,’ he said. ‘It’s a good place. They’re very kind, the pair of them. So what do you think – will you come with me?’
Pierrot glanced around. The train had moved on now, and from where he was standing there was nothing to be seen for miles except fields. He knew that he had no choice.
‘All right,’ he said.
Within the hour, Pierrot found himself seated in a neat and orderly office with two enormous windows looking over a well-tended garden. The Durand sisters looked him up and down as if he was something they were considering buying at a fair.
‘How old are you?’ asked Simone, holding up a pair of spectacles to examine him before letting them fall and hang loose around her neck.
‘I’m seven,’ said Pierrot.
‘You can’t be seven, you’re far too small.’
‘I’ve always been small,’ replied Pierrot. ‘But I plan on getting bigger one day.’
‘Do you indeed?’ said Simone doubtfully.
‘Such a lovely age, seven,’ said Adèle, clapping her hands together and smiling. ‘Children are always so happy then, and so full of wonder about the world.’
‘My dear,’ interrupted Simone, laying a hand on her sister’s arm. ‘The boy’s mother has just died. I doubt that he is feeling particularly jovial.’
‘Oh, of course, of course,’ said Adèle, her face growing serious now. ‘You must still be grieving. It’s a terrible thing, the loss of a loved one. A terrible thing. My sister and I understand that only too well. I only meant that boys of your age are rather charming, I think. You only start to turn nasty when you hit thirteen or fourteen. Not that you will go that way, I’m sure. I dare say you will be one of the good ones.’