John Boyne - The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas

Bruno walked towards the living room with a new book Father had given him called Treasure Island, intending to sit in there for an hour or two while he read it, but as he walked through the hallway he ran into Lieutenant Kotler, who was just leaving the kitchen.

‘Hello, little man,’ the soldier said, sneering at him as usual.

‘Hello,’ said Bruno, frowning.

‘What are you up to then?’

Bruno stared at him and started thinking of seven more reasons to dislike him. ‘I’m going in there to read my book,’ he said, pointing towards the living room.

Without a word Kotler whipped the book out of Bruno’s hands and started to flick through it. ‘Treasure Island,’ he said. ‘What’s it about then?’

‘Well, there’s an island,’ said Bruno slowly, to make sure that the soldier could keep up. ‘And there’s treasure on it.’

‘I could have guessed that,’ said Kotler, looking at him as if there were things he would do to the boy if he were a son of his and not the son of the Commandant. ‘Tell me something I don’t know about it.’

‘There’s a pirate in it,’ said Bruno. ‘Called Long John Silver. And a boy called Jim Hawkins.’ ‘An English boy?’ asked Kotler. ‘Yes,’ said Bruno. ‘Grunt,’ grunted Kotler.

Bruno stared at him and wondered how long it would be before he gave back his book. He didn’t seem particularly interested in it, but when Bruno reached for it he pulled it away.

‘Sorry,’ he said, holding it out again, and when Bruno reached for it he pulled it away for the second time. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he repeated and held it out once more, and this time Bruno swiped it out of his hand quicker than he could pull it away.

‘Aren’t you quick,’ muttered Lieutenant Kotler between his teeth.

Bruno tried to step past him, but for some reason Lieutenant Kotler seemed to want to talk to him today.

‘All set for the party, are we?’ he asked.

‘Well, I am,’ said Bruno, who had been spending more time with Gretel lately and had developed a liking for sarcasm. I can’t speak for you.’

‘There’ll be a lot of people here,’ said Lieutenant Kotler, breathing in heavily and looking around as if this were his house and not Bruno’s. ‘We’ll be on your best behaviour, won’t we?’

‘Well, I’ll be,’ said Bruno. ‘I can’t speak for you.’

‘You’ve a lot to say for such a little man,’ said Lieutenant Kotler.

Bruno narrowed his eyes and wished he were taller, stronger and eight years older. A ball of anger exploded inside him and made him wish that he had the courage to say exactly what he wanted to say. It was one thing, he decided, to be told what to do by Mother and Father-that was perfectly reasonable and to be expected-but it was another thing entirely to be told what to do by someone else. Even by someone with a fancy title like ‘Lieutenant’.

‘Oh, Kurt, precious, you’re still here,’ said Mother, stepping out of the kitchen and coming towards them. ‘I have a little free time now if- Oh!’ she said, noticing Bruno standing there, ‘Bruno! What are you doing here?’

‘I was going into the living room to read my book,’ said Bruno. ‘Or I was trying to at least.’

‘Well, run along into the kitchen for the moment,’ she said. ‘I need a private word with Lieutenant Kotler.’

And they stepped into the living room together as Lieutenant Kotler closed the doors in Bruno’s face.

Seething with anger, Bruno went into the kitchen and got the biggest surprise of his life. There, sitting at the table, a long way from the other side of the fence, was Shmuel. Bruno could barely believe his eyes.

‘Shmuel!’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

Shmuel looked up and his terrified face broke into a broad smile when he saw his friend standing there. ‘Bruno!’ he said.

‘What are you doing here?’ repeated Bruno, for although he still didn’t quite understand what took place on the other side of the fence, there was something about the people from there that made him think they shouldn’t be here in his house.

‘He brought me,’ said Shmuel.

‘He?’ asked Bruno. ‘You don’t mean Lieutenant Kotler?’

‘Yes. He said there was a job for me to do here.’

And when Bruno looked down he saw sixty-four small glasses, the ones Mother used when she was having one of her medicinal sherries, sitting on the kitchen table, and beside them a bowl of warm soapy water and lots of paper napkins.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Bruno.

‘They asked me to polish the glasses,’ said Shmuel. ‘They said they needed someone with tiny fingers.’

As if to prove something that Bruno already knew, he held his hand out and Bruno couldn’t help but notice that it was like the hand of the pretend skeleton that Herr Liszt had brought with him one day when they were studying human anatomy.

‘I’d never noticed before,’ he said in a disbelieving voice, almost to himself.

‘Never noticed what?’ asked Shmuel.

In reply, Bruno held his own hand out so that the tips of their middle fingers were almost touching. ‘Our hands,’ he said. ‘They’re so different. Look!’

The two boys looked down at the same time and the difference was easy to see. Although Bruno was small for his age, and certainly not fat, his hand appeared healthy and full of life. The veins weren’t visible through the skin, the fingers weren’t little more than dying twigs. Shmuel’s hand, however, told a very different story

‘How did it get like that?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Shmuel. ‘It used to look more like yours, but I didn’t notice it changing. Everyone on my side of the fence looks like this now.’

Bruno frowned. He thought about the people in their striped pyjamas and wondered what was going on at Out-With and whether it wasn’t a very bad idea if it made people look so unhealthy. None of it made any sense to him. Not wanting to look at Shmuel’s hand any longer, Bruno turned round and opened the refrigerator, rooting about inside it for something to eat. There was half a stuffed chicken left over from lunch time, and Bruno’s eyes sparkled in delight for there were very few things in life that he enjoyed more than cold chicken with sage and onion stuffing. He took a knife from the drawer and cut himself a few healthy slices and coated them with the stuffing before turning back to his friend.

‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ he said, speaking with his mouth full. ‘If only you didn’t have to polish the glasses, I could show you my room.’

‘He told me not to move from this seat or there’d be trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t mind him,’ said Bruno, trying to sound braver than he really was. ‘This isn’t his house, it’s mine, and when Father’s away I’m in charge. Can you believe he’s never even read Treasure Island}’

Shmuel looked as if he wasn’t really listening; instead his eyes were focused on the slices of chicken and stuffing that Bruno was throwing casually into his mouth. After a moment Bruno realized what he was looking at and immediately felt guilty.

Tm sorry, Shmuel,’ he said quickly. ‘I should have given you some chicken too. Are you hungry?’

‘That’s a question you never have to ask me,’ said Shmuel who, although he had never met Gretel in his life, knew something about sarcasm too.

‘Wait there, I’ll cut some off for you,’ said Bruno, opening the fridge and cutting another three healthy slices.

‘No, if he comes back-’ said Shmuel, shaking his head quickly and looking back and forth towards the door.

‘If who comes back? You don’t mean Lieutenant Kotler?’

‘I’m just supposed to be cleaning the glasses,’ he said, looking at the bowl of water in front of him in despair and then looking back at the slices of chicken that Bruno held out to him.