The Whistler: A Murderer's Tale

by Ben Stevens

  It was well known that Frau Sasse was fond of the violinist, and so then, as now, none of these teenagers had vocalised their thoughts concerning him: he was protected for the moment.

  But they were reassured by the thought that the National Socialists were steadily removing everything – and everyone – that either intentionally or unintentionally stood in the Party’s path.

  So they were certain that Humboldt University would soon be rid of its unwelcome guest.

  2

  As a particularly cold and damp autumn moved quickly towards winter the students of Enrich Rath’s music class developed a certain, reserved familiarity with one another. Although not actually ostracised as he’d been at Stielke’s Academy, Heinemann nevertheless realised that his presence was uncomfortable for six of them and actively despised by one.

  Only Marie remained as isolated from the class as he, her haughty demeanour and habit of rarely speaking discouraging any attempt at gaining her friendship.

  On November 7, a seventeen year old refugee named Herschel Grynszpan shot and mortally wounded the Third Secretary of the German Embassy in Paris. This was in revenge for his father’s deportation and the Nazis repression of the Jews, although Grynszpan had not meant to murder the man. He had in fact intended to kill the First Secretary.

  Goebbels issued immediate instructions for a ‘spontaneous demonstration’ against this murder, though in truth there was nothing in the least spontaneous concerning what followed. It was organised by Reinhard Heydrich, a thirty four year old man who ran the security service and the Gestapo.

  He wired police headquarters with instructions detailing how to conduct these ‘demonstrations’ – Jewish businesses and apartments were to be destroyed, wealthier Jews to be arrested and imprisoned until such time as they could be transported to a concentration camp. Only if the destruction of Jewish-owned property threatened that of a German’s was it to be avoided. The police were instructed not to hinder these protests.

  And so on November 10 a nightlong orgy of destruction and violence began...

  Erich Heinemann had just fallen asleep when a cry for help shattered his slumber and caused him to sit upright in bed. For several moments all was quiet and then the night exploded – there was smashing glass and another cry, drunken shouting and snatches of a ‘song’ concerning the sexual preferences of Jewish women.

  In an agony of worry Heinemann moved to sit on the edge of his bed. He’d no doubt that property owned by Jews was being destroyed, and for what reason. The newspapers, with headlines dictated by Goebbels, had not ignored the Grynszpan story; in fact they’d practically begged for revenge to be exacted for the murder of the Third Secretary of the German Embassy.

  Suddenly Heinemann heard the sound of someone running along the narrow road his room overlooked, followed by the hoarse, excited shouting of several men. He looked out of his window, a flickering streetlight illuminating the bloody scene below: three men in dark shirts with swastika armbands caught up with another man who fell beneath their jackboots.

  Heinemann could only watch, sickened, as the men hacked at the victim with their feet until he stopped moving. Satisfied, the attackers then moved quickly away, obviously intending to find another victim.

  For several moments Heinemann felt numb with shock, unable to move or think. He was then stirred into action as he saw the injured man start to move. Cursing his hesitation, he grabbed the blanket from his bed and left the room, walking quickly along the landing to the stairs. None of the other tenants in the house appeared to have been disturbed.

  He left the house and stopped dead in the street. It was deserted – the man had gone. Only a patch of blood marred the cobbled road, and looking to his right he was just in time to see a figure lurch around the bend approximately thirty yards away.

  A fear of being out overwhelmed him: he again heard shouting – no, screaming – but this time it sounded much further away. He re-entered the house and returned to his room. He sat on his bed, his head in his hands. This was a nightmare, an utter nightmare. The darkness of the room intensified his feelings of utter isolation, of absolute despair. He lay back, gazing at a ceiling he could not see.

  After what felt like an age the comforting blanket of sleep fell upon him, although just before this occurred the question he dared not usually consider troubled him.

  Just what was going to happen to him?

  The following morning the national newspapers dutifully reported the events of the previous night. Goebbels himself had dictated how the articles were to be worded: justice had been done, brutality had been met with brutality, and the Jews had only themselves to blame.

  Throughout Berlin there pervaded a deathly calm, the same disbelieving stillness that usually follows a natural disaster. Heinemann took the tram to Humboldt University as normal, and during the journey observed Jews clearing out their shattered shops and businesses, sweeping the streets clean of broken glass while nearby policemen stood watching and laughing.

  Reaching the university, Heinemann walked quickly up the wide steps to the main entrance while dreading the day ahead. By the end of it his head always ached with the information he was compelled to remember.

  A significant part of the course concerned the Nazi perspective on music, and this was accompanied by frequent testing. In such tests the students were expected to achieve a mark of seventy percent or more, though Heinemann had barely scraped by with sixty on more than one occasion.

  The red-haired man – Fritz Muehlebach – obtained an average mark of around ninety five percent, soaking up all he was told as effectively as a sponge absorbs water. The rest of the class always passed comfortably.

  As he entered the building Heinemann noticed that many of the students whom he saw had an air of exhilaration about them, as though they’d recently been involved in something momentous. A few stared hungrily back at him, quietly talking among themselves as he passed.

  Affecting not to notice, Heinemann nevertheless fretted inwardly about his situation. Last night’s widespread violence must have emboldened people like these, so could he now expect a move to be made against himself – possibly sometime in the near future?

  He was the last of the students to enter the classroom, hurriedly taking a seat as Enrich Rath walked in. The tutor’s face looked strained and tired; his unusually bleary eyes suggested a sleepless night.

  ‘If you would like to open your books we shall begin,’ he said, and without further preamble he went straight into the topic of that day’s lesson.

  Heinemann was soon kept busy scribbling the notes he would use for the work that was certain to be set later on. During lunch he again noticed the stares he was receiving; he wondered just how protective the shield afforded by Frau Sasse’s favouritism actually was. How would he have fared that time at Gestapo headquarters, had it not been for such a thing?

  When will it be me, he thought, who falls underneath the jackboots?

  3

  Erich Heinemann found the weeks preceding Christmas to be less than pleasurable. The university work was hard and his room was freezing cold. He washed his few clothes in the communal bathroom along the landing and attempted to dry them on the small radiator in his room.

  Fritz Muehlebach had by now made his acquaintance with the university’s other Nazis, but the other music students did not make any friendships outside those of their class. Heinemann knew that people seen in his company risked being shunned by others or possibly worse, so he accepted the loneliness he bore with affected nonchalance.

  Only Marie von Hahn appeared as isolated as he; others attempted to converse with her only to achieve the same lamentable degree of success as Heinemann had himself. She was aloof, cold.

  Had there been more female students at the university, Marie might have received less attention. The Nazis however discouraged the education of females above an elementary level: their main role in society, decreed the National Socialists, was to bear children and keep a tidy house.
So it was only Marie von Hahn’s exceptional talent for the cello that allowed her to attend Humboldt University.

  Heinemann was by now secretly besotted with Marie, and from overheard conversations he’d gleaned precious scraps of information concerning her. She was nineteen years old – his senior by a year – and lived in a house with her sick grandmother, whom she cared for in the evenings. The grand surname came from her grandfather, who’d been an officer in a Prussian cavalry regiment.

  Both of Marie’s parents were dead, and so (considered Heinemann) Marie and he had something in common – a misfortune they shared.

  Humboldt University was due to finish for Christmas. It was to be a lengthy holiday, from the 14 December to the 4 January, allowing those students who’d travelled from distant parts of Germany the opportunity of returning home to their families. The Socialists placed a strong emphasis on family values; they considered it important for Germany’s younger citizens to be able to spend quality time with their parents and close relatives.

  Heinemann viewed the impending holiday with a feeling of mild despair – attending the warm university at least allowed him to spend some time spent away from his cold, damp lodgings. And there was no way he could afford the train fare to go back and visit his aunt in Hegensdorf.

  On the last day of term the music class finished at two o’clock in the afternoon, and upon being dismissed by Rath the students left the classroom. With a few exceptions – including Heinemann and Marie – it appeared that the entire university was going to celebrate the end of term in the bars of the Ku’damm, the broad boulevard that spread westwards from the Gedachtniskirche.

  Heinemann was the last to leave, and as he walked out of the door he heard his tutor say softly, ‘Could I have a word please, Herr Heinemann?’

  Even at little more than a whisper Rath’s voice remained coldly authoritative, and so Heinemann obediently re-entered the classroom. Rath stood looking out of the large window at the dull December sky. The trees below were bare of leaves, lending the area a particularly naked look in comparison to their ample foliage in the summer.

  The scene was morose, suggesting to Heinemann a particular loneliness borne by the tall man; not the simple lack of friends endured by himself because of his Jewish blood, but a real, gut-wrenching isolation. A loneliness even from one’s self.

  ‘Yes, Herr Rath?’ he prompted.

  His teacher appeared to be distracted from some train of thought, and he turned round to face the thin student.

  ‘Yes, sorry, Herr Heinemann. I received earlier today a phone-call from someone speaking on behalf of Commissioner Sasse, whom I believe you’ve already met.’

  Heinemann paled slightly, and Rath quickly continued:

  ‘You seem to have attracted the Commissioner’s personal interest – the person calling said he wanted to know how you were getting along and how your grades were. I told the truth, which is that they are acceptable but with room for improvement. There is always room for improvement, you never stop learning – that is life…’

  His eyes became abstract for a moment and his composed expression faltered; then he again dragged himself back to the matter at hand:

  ‘The other reason for the call was to mention that there are to be a few social occasions over the festive period, held primarily for certain... Party members, and that something like a quartet is needed to provide a little musical entertainment for these.

  ‘It was, apparently, even hoped that a few members of the Berlin Philharmonie Orchestra might oblige. This is, however, an impossibility, as they have many prior engagements to perform. So I have been asked to find an alternative.

  ‘The answer to me is obvious: the music class of Humboldt University should perform. However, six of my students are leaving Berlin and returning home for their Christmas break. But the problem that this creates is not insurmountable, and I assured the person calling that between yourself, Frau Hahn, Fritz Muehlebach and I we should be able to come up with something.’

  Fritz Muehlebach – the name was said with a very faint tone of contempt; had the atmosphere in the room not been so intimate Heinemann would never have caught it.

  ‘We will need to rehearse, of course,’ observed Rath. ‘I suggest my apartment for this, or I have the keys for the practice rooms here. Fortunately we four can form a quartet – you and I playing the violins, and of course Herr Muehlebach playing the viola and Frau Hahn the cello. I will find the appropriate music for us to perform.’

  Again there came that almost unnoticeable sarcasm, that bitterness – at what? Heinemann began to feel uncomfortable, and strangely now longed for his room where he could at least be on his own, away from this straight-backed man whose tormented thoughts writhed behind his impassive expression.

  ‘I should add that any dealings between yourself and the authorities are not my concern. Your education is, and your position at Humboldt University is safe as far as I am concerned. Is there anything you would like to say?’

  Rath stared hard at his student as he said this, and Heinemann realised with a shock that his eyes were imploring. This man certainly had some secret he wished to confide.

  Heinemann’s heart turned as hard as stone, and he met the stare with absolutely no expression. He wished for none of Rath’s confidences: everyone had to fight their own battles.

  ‘No, Herr Rath. I am very happy here, and with continued application from myself I hope that my grades will improve,’ he said mechanically.

  For a moment his tutor’s eyes continued to bore into his own, and just before they looked away despair seemed to fill them. The tutor’s coldly authoritative facade had cracked; Heinemann had glimpsed the real Enrich Rath.

  The teacher said, ‘I know that you are not contactable by telephone, and so I will come to your lodgings to give you further details if that is convenient. Where is it that you live exactly?’

  Heinemann told him.

  ‘Very well, Herr Heinemann. In the interim, enjoy your break.’

  ‘And you, Herr Rath,’ he replied, by now desperate to leave.

  He left the University, and walked along the Unter den Linden and through the Gendarmenmarkt Square, failing to appreciate its period architecture and the ornately-carved water fountain. Everything had been tainted by the Nazis; it seemed as though there was scarcely a statue or a building that they did not hang their flag upon.

  The need to walk was acute; to get as far away from other people and the Socialist Party as was possible in Berlin. He buttoned his thick black coat up as far as it would go and stuck his numb hands in its pockets. He headed for the Tiergarten, the park in the middle of the city that covered several hundred acres.

  It appeared all but deserted on this cold winter’s afternoon, and he walked some distance along a path until he grew tired. He found a bench to rest on before he began the journey home. The sky was overcast; darkness and possibly snow would soon be falling. He pulled his coat tight around him, feeling the wind cut through the thin fabric of his trousers.

  As far as he could see there was no one else around. Some way to his right stood the Brandenburger Tor and far away, marking the centre of the park, the Siegessaule, the victory column by which he had often performed during the summer.

  A figure came suddenly into view to his left. A couple of minutes later he realised that ‘it’ was a woman. His eyesight was excellent, and soon, with a surge of feeling that set his heart racing, he recognised her.

  It was Marie von Hahn.

  She walked up to him, wrapped in a coat and scarf. Her semi-exposed cheeks burned fiercely in the winter air, and her breath misted in front of her face.

  ‘Oh, hello – do you mind if I sit down?’ she asked.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Something of a surprise seeing you here,’ she said casually. Heinemann stared about him for a few moments, surveying the park’s expanse, trying to make sense of its strange wintry beauty.

  ‘It’s nice... I didn’t think it could
be in winter, but it is. I haven’t been here before.’

  Marie nodded. ‘I prefer it when it’s like this; when there’s no one else about. This cold weather puts them off – in the summer it’s packed.’

  She caught the look of dislike in Heinemann’s face, at this talk of the crowds he so evidently hated, and she laughed.

  ‘You’re not very sociable, are you Erich? Even in class you sit and say nothing.’

  Anger flared up within him. Marie’s comments were crass, thoughtless in their stupidity, and he spoke tightly despite his infatuation for her:

  ‘Have you noticed anything about me, perhaps? A suggestion of my mother’s race? A race persecuted within Germany – you know what took place on November the tenth, right? No one wants to know me, and so I don’t want to know them. Besides which, you don’t say that much in class yourself, you know.’

  His anger had completely dissipated by the time he’d finished his rant, leaving him feeling merely a little scared. He should never have spoken so – such comments could well get him into serious trouble.

  But Marie just nodded, and turning to face him said, ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter; it’s not your problem. I shouldn’t say such things.’

  Heinemann heard her intake of air just before she spoke, and resigned himself to the farewell.

  So he was surprised when she asked, ‘Where do you live, Erich?’

  It was twice now she’d used his Christian name, which among young people at least implied a certain intimacy – a friendliness.