The Whistler: A Murderer's Tale

by Ben Stevens

  Following another track that led away from the road, Heinemann saw that further along the trees had been completely cleared from an area that was approximately five times the size of the camp.

  Trenches criss-crossed this area like scars, prisoners busy with shovels and picks as they widened and lengthened them. Placed around the perimeter were several narrow, metal towers with a ladder leading to the top where a light was placed.

  Saying, ‘Right, get to work,’ Eckhart then walked over to where another guard stood smoking a cigarette.

  Following the Pole to a lop-sided, tiny wooden hut, Heinemann was asked, ‘What tool? Pick or shovel?’

  Having never used either implement before, the violinist could only shrug in answer to Kasek’s question. Cupping his hands over his mouth he blew into them, his cracked tooth aching fiercely in the cold air.

  Handing him a shovel from an assortment contained inside the hut, Kasek said, ‘Take this. You thin and weak so pick no good.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Heinemann shortly. The tool felt unfamiliar in his hands, entirely different from the violin.

  Recognising that the teenager had never done so much as a spot of digging in his life, Kasek nodded and said, ‘I show you to use. Easy after bit. Don’t show guard you no good.’

  With this he walked over to an unmanned stretch of trench at the furthest corner of the clearing, next to the forest. Instructing Heinemann to get into the trench and shovel loose soil over its edge, he then began hacking with the pick at the cold hard earth, his breathing regular and steady as he worked.

  After five minutes Heinemann’s muscles screamed with pain; letting go of the shovel he’d trouble opening his fingers. But sweat was coursing down his face and he no longer felt cold.

  Noticing his trouble and so laughing quietly, Kasek said, ‘After bit become easy. Skin of hands make hard. Keep going: you stop and guard see trouble.’

  ‘Anyone ever escaped?’ asked Heinemann as he returned to work.

  As Kasek answered, he noticed how the Pole’s thick lips seemed barely to move: to anyone looking from more than a short distance away it would appear as though he was not talking at all.

  ‘Couple: pretty easy to do. But they both caught and shot.’

  Yes, thought Heinemann – it would be pretty easy to break out of this camp. To drop his shovel right now and run into the forest. Although – according to the Pole – it was pretty certain he’d be caught and so shot in punishment, what was the alternative? To merely await his transferral to one of these Lagers that Kasek had mentioned?

  He continued working without another word, consumed by his thoughts.

  Work finally finished at seven o’clock that evening, and after the tools had been put back in the hut the prisoners were marched back to camp. Barely able to keep up with the pace demanded by the guards, Heinemann struggled to keep his eyes open: every conceivable part of him ached, and he longed for the filthy mattress of the top bunk.

  Back in the cell he and Kasek received a bowl of soup and some bread from another prisoner who went from cell to cell, Eckhart accompanying him. They ate seated on Kasek’s bunk.

  ‘Same food always. But enough. Sometimes even soup bad but and you get shits,’ said the Pole cheerfully, as he mopped up what was left in his metal bowl with a crust of bread.

  ‘The others here – what have they done?’ asked Heinemann, as he wearily hoisted himself up to the top bunk and lay with his eyes closed.

  ‘Don’t know, never talk. And – but for other man who in this cell before you – no one ever here much long but me.’

  So his stay here would only be temporary, thought Heinemann. Where would he be taken next, if indeed his punishment for having made Marie pregnant wasn’t death?

  An acute feeling of desolation shot through him as he saw the cellist behind closed eyes, and he cried silent tears. It had been a long day. Having awoken that morning as usual in his room in Berlin here he was falling asleep in a labour camp outside of the vast city.

  But he was alive, and that was something. Apart from the blow to his mouth he’d not been that badly mistreated, though it was sod’s law he’d probably catch TB from that cadaverous man who’d coughed in his face.

  And if he was going to be ultimately killed anyway – shot or hanged for the crime of racial pollution – surely it would be better to meet death while fighting to regain his freedom. All he knew was that he wouldn’t get far by himself – if he could somehow get hold of a car from somewhere then maybe...

  But he couldn’t even drive. Still dressed in his mud-stained clothes and holding the thin blanket close to his body, he fell asleep, sheer exhaustion overriding even his frantic thoughts.

  23

  No explanation was given for the disappearance of two of Enrich Rath’s students, the music class now numbering only seven members excluding the tutor.

  The reason initially given by Rath for Marie von Hahn’s absence – exhaustion – was soon disregarded as the rumour spread throughout the university that she’d had a clandestine affair with the Mischling violinist.

  This explained matters perfectly, and also made the students understand that they were not to discuss this matter even with their closest friends. The names Marie von Hahn and Erich Heinemann were never to be uttered again: having chosen to rebel against the dictates of the National Socialists, they’d been removed clean out of existence.

  At night, alone in his luxurious flat, Enrich Rath cursed his cowardice aloud: he should set an example, stand up and demand to know what had happened to his two students. He knew, however, what would happen in this instance – having been warned once before about his outspoken support for his Jewish friends, he’d simply disappear himself.

  Thoughts of suicide occurred yet again and so he aggressively threw himself into marking his remaining students’ work, trying through this to forget the black ideas.

  One question, however, kept repeating at the back of his mind – If Erich Heinemann wasn’t actually dead, then just where the hell was he?

  24

  The weeks moved slowly towards Christmas. It rained frequently, Heinemann slipping about and cursing the mud as Kasek laughed quietly. The Pole had become a great source of strength for the young Mischling, for his spirits never seemed to flag nor his strength weaken.

  This was in stark contrast to the other soulless-looking wrecks who toiled in the clearing, and Heinemann soon realised that it had been a piece of extreme good fortune that he’d been placed in the same cell as this affable and resilient man.

  Having become more accustomed to the labouring, he no longer awoke with every muscle feeling as though it had been torn in half. Kasek had taught him the correct way of using a shovel, so to make the tool do a great deal of the work itself. And when the mud coated the shovel, as it did frequently, he would use the cuff of his prison-issue jacket or the tip of Kasek’s pick to clean it.

  In the evening, back in their cell and fed, Kasek would often examine the calluses on the young man’s hands and chuckle softly, saying, ‘A workman, a real workman. Man’s hands now, not woman’s.’

  On Sundays the twenty or so prisoners of the camp worked only until two o’clock in the afternoon, free then to spend the rest of the day trying to get themselves and their clothes clean by using the single water pump outside, or to rest in their cells. Somehow Kasek had managed to obtain a deck of cards, and so he and Heinemann consequently spent much of this free time playing poker.

  On Christmas morning one of the prisoners suddenly dropped his pick and began running towards the edge of the forest. It took the guards a few moments to realise what was happening: as one shouted at the fleeing man, the others fumbled for the rifles they wore slung over their shoulders.

  It took three shots to bring the prisoner down, the first two having no visible effect on him. He was almost within the sheltering pine trees when he flung up his arms and fell to the ground, where he writhed for a few seconds before lying quite still. Accompanied by
a guard, two prisoners were instructed to carry the corpse back to the camp.

  Kasek was breathless with excitement.

  ‘It can be done good!’ he declared. ‘We right by forest – other man have to run too far.’

  ‘But in the forest, then what?’ countered Heinemann, frustration gnawing at him as he checked the Pole’s enthusiasm. ‘There’s bound to be a fence somewhere in there, perhaps close by; and anyway, the forest’s not that big. We’ll have nothing to eat, and we won’t be able to hide for long. They’ll hunt us down like a couple of rats.’

  The several lights placed around the cleared area were switched on when it grew dark, which in these winter months was around four o’clock in the afternoon. But these lights were not particularly effective – situated at the outer edge of the clearing and quite a distance from the nearest light, Heinemann and Kasek discovered that they still worked mostly in darkness. Also, the bulbs were prone to blowing if it rained too fiercely.

  No – Heinemann had already realised that the security of the camp relied primarily on nothing more than the absolute apathy of its prisoners. Every day they walked to the clearing with their heads bowed, the light of life all but extinguished from their eyes.

  On the few occasions he’d heard the men speak, Heinemann had realised that some of them were German and the others foreign. He’d no idea what ‘crimes’ had caused them to be put in this place, far less the ultimate purpose of their work…

  Having hacked away in silence at the earth with his pick for a few more hours, Kasek said, ‘Do you think? Can we? I never thought much before but now…’

  There was no need for Heinemann to ask him what he meant. It was hardly a cryptic question.

  Having already adopted the same closed-mouth style of speaking as the Pole, he replied, ‘As I’ve said already – we’ll be caught. Now it’s dark, we could go now. How often does that guard come round – once an hour? And he’s just been, so we’d have perhaps sixty minutes before it’s noticed that we’ve escaped – though that’s by no means certain. That’s sixty minutes before we get caught and shot.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Kasek said irritably. ‘I know anyway. We fucked. We die here.’

  With that he continued to work in silence, saying not another word. Feeling ashamed for the way in which he’d destroyed his cellmate’s flash of hope, Heinemann still reflected that what he’d said had been right.

  Escape, yes – if a chance came he’d take it. But suicide? That was all Kasek’s plan amounted to.

  There had to be another way.

  25

  The view from the balcony window of Enrich Rath’s living room was beautiful, millions of lights twinkling in the night. Sipping a glass of wine and relaxing after four hours spent marking his students’ work, the tutor felt momentarily at peace as he stood looking out at Berlin. At such a moment as this, it was impossible to believe that things had turned so rotten in Germany’s capital city along with the country as a whole.

  Another reason for Rath’s more relaxed frame of mind was that – thanks to the fact that he’d overheard two members of the SA talking outside the Aalto Theatre – he was now aware that Erich Heinemann was still alive, and imprisoned within a small labour camp that was no great distance away.

  His class having again recently performed at the theatre, Rath had slipped outside during the interval, ostensibly to obtain some fresh air but really to escape the venomous attentions of Frau Sasse. The SA men had been stood beside the Spree, unaware that Rath had crept close enough to be able to hear every word they’d said.

  Rath was familiar with both the general area he’d heard mentioned as well as the pine forest, though he’d never guessed that situated within this was a small prison camp.

  To his knowledge there were a few of these camps situated locally, groups of men convicted of various offences being forced to participate in some sort of construction work. So he wondered why the camp in which Heinemann was being held should be so secretive: the nature of the work? The crimes of the prisoners it contained?

  A thrill again coursed through him as he imagined escaping with his former student, the two of them somehow finding their way to Switzerland and freedom. He frequently dreamed about it, and even caught himself pondering the likelihood of their succeeding while teaching his class.

  ‘Impossible,’ he murmured.

  But why? came the response from his heart, which still beat with passion and fury, belying his outwardly calm and controlled character. It was not impossible: others had done it, so why not he and the Mischling?

  There were several areas along the border between Switzerland and Germany where it might be possible to sneak past the patrols, given a dark night and plenty of luck…

  Once within the neutral country he would finally be free of the depression and the thoughts of suicide that plagued him; he would have fought the Socialists and won. It would be the ultimate poke in the eye to that spiteful bitch Frau Sasse, who was so fond of belittling and patronising him in public.

  And in freeing Erich Heinemann, he would atone for having not made more of a stand when his Jewish friends had been arrested and deported...

  ‘I will do it,’ he suddenly vowed to the million flickering lights.

  This coming Saturday he’d drive out to the pine forest, park his car, and search on foot for evidence of this camp. Quite what he’d do when and if he found it he’d no idea, but it was a start and even so loose a plan made him feel almost elated for the first time in years.

  As his hand shook violently and dropped his glass of wine onto the carpet, Rath laughed. For a moment the noise frightened him: it sounded strange, alien – other people had cause to laugh, not he. Then he realised that it felt good, and so he continued until tears coursed down his face and he could hardly stand.

  ‘Switzerland, Switzerland,’ he said in between gasps, ‘I’m going to Switzerland. So Hitler – shit to you!’

  *

  Enrich Rath did not feel anything like so ecstatic two days later, as he prepared to drive out of Berlin to the area he’d heard the SA men describe. It had been gross stupidity to talk out loud even in his own home; one could hardly be unaware of the hidden microphones that were used to betray traitors to the Reich. Of course, such nefarious methods were never openly admitted – but one knew they existed all the same.

  Given his close encounters with the authorities before, he cursed himself for behaving like such a fool. It had not been so much like gross stupidity as raving madness.

  In such a frame of mind Rath continually checked his rear-view mirror as he drove, searching for the tell-tale signs that he’d a tail – the car behind that never got too close nor too far back.

  Once, soon after he’d crossed swords with the Gestapo and so almost earned himself a spell in a concentration camp, Rath had considered that he’d had a tail for a week or so. But he might just have been paranoid.

  While wishing for a cigarette though he’d not smoked in almost two years he drove out of Berlin, exchanging its houses, roads and industrial complexes for wide open spaces and greenery. Ahead the road took a sharp bend, a deep drop on either side.

  His thin upper lip curling, Rath read the sign that was by the side of the road:

  DANGER! SHARP TURN AHEAD. THIRTY-FOOT DROP. REDUCE SPEED NOW! JEWS! DO NOT DRIVE UNDER SIXTY KILOMETRES PER HOUR!

  Negotiating the curve, he saw an old house with boarded windows on one side of the road ahead, accessed by a track. Slightly beyond this began the pine forest. Turning onto the track, Rath parked his car right outside the deserted house, where it was concealed from the road by a large bush.

  Back on the road, he began walking the few hundred yards towards the forest. Only once did he hear a car approaching, but before he could be observed he squatted down beside the road and waited until it had passed.

  He couldn’t be certain that there wouldn’t be someone whom he knew in the passing car – someone who would ask him later and in company what h
e’d been doing in that particular area. Should the SA or the Gestapo ever hear about his little day-trip, it wouldn’t take them long to put two and two together and realise the purpose behind it.

  Rath had almost reached the forest when he decided to leave the road and cut across a field full of some type of long grass. Almost at the trees, he was startled when a flock of wood-pigeons – as equally alarmed by his presence as he was at theirs – flew suddenly up from the ground, their wings clattering.

  As they disappeared into the white hazy sky Rath looked despairingly around. But nothing followed: he was quite alone.

  Entering the forest it became suddenly darker, the branches many feet above cutting out a great deal of light. Carpeting the hard surface were millions of green and brown needles, and kicking at a pile as though he was again a carefree child Rath suddenly turned white with terror.

  If he was actually quite close to the prison camp even now, should he assume that there were wires placed an inch or so above the ground, hidden so to snag unwary feet and sound an alarm somewhere close by? If caught he could claim that he was merely taking a walk, although just by giving his name he would quickly betray the real reason why he was in this forest…

  So exercising far more caution he continued walking, letting out a quiet whistle of surprise five minutes later when his progress was stopped by a fence a few feet higher than himself and topped by barbed-wire.

  Peering more intently past the trees beyond, he was able to make out two long and low buildings in a clearing that was approximately twenty yards away. Closer than these buildings was a thick concrete pipe that rose approximately three feet out of the ground. It appeared as though it just might have something to do with the small camp’s rudimentary sewage system. A few buckets were scattered on the ground close by, Rath guessing their purpose.