The Whistler: A Murderer's Tale

by Ben Stevens

  Consequently, Schmidt realised that the destruction of his face was in fact the best thing that could have happened to him. He’d had no identification on him when found, and now his handsome, distinctive features had been forever defiled.

  Soon enough I was asked about my identity; I replied that I had complete amnesia; all I could remember was waking up in the hospital tent. The tattoo I had been given on my arm at Sachsenhausen – for I’d spent some time there before being employed at Auschwitz – had been noticed, but I replied that I had no idea as to when or why I had been imprisoned. And of course, this tattoo just made it appear as though I had been a victim of the Nazis...

  Then, after a few days, I pretended to remember my name – for it would make it all the more convincing if I could recall just a little about myself. Ernest Kramer, a fine choice – common but not too common.

  Those chattering, idiotic American soldiers seemed to form a liking towards me, as they frequently came and visited my bedside. I refused their filthy tobacco but accepted their food, as the hospital rations were appalling and I needed to recover my strength. I pumped them for information regarding the state of Berlin, in the process picking up a smattering of English but also able to talk to them through a German nurse who could speak that language fluently.

  Now that he’d all but recovered, Schmidt felt impatient to leave the improvised hospital. He felt a strong sense of purpose, wanting to assist in restoring the devastated city back to its former glory.

  Informing the visiting soldiers of this, they were so impressed by his evident determination that they promised to give him all the assistance they were capable of upon his release.

  I left the hospital and travelled around Berlin, carefully observing all that was taking place. Under the Americans the rich could enjoy themselves: the Deutsches Theatre in Schumannstrasse had been reopened; the State Opera put on concerts. If you had the money you could eat and drink almost anything you wanted. Every day someone new was discovered as having been a Nazi – people screamed the accusation at each other if they had the most trivial of arguments, and there were many false arrests.

  Those not so well-off were in desperate circumstances; winter was fast approaching, and many people lived in houses without a roof or even four walls.

  So I assembled a group of men – men who until now had been sleeping rough, with nothing to do – and began to repair the damage. It would have been impossible to obtain bricks and wood had it not been for those American soldiers, who forced those who dealt in the black market to give me what I needed at a bargain price.

  During the day Schmidt worked tirelessly, and at night he read everything he could obtain concerning the techniques of construction. Every brick laid was progress, a step towards rebuilding his beloved city.

  As other men grew inspired by his efforts and sought to work under his direction, so his team grew. His energy soon became legend: by day he worked, by night he studied. Work continued even during the freezing winter of 1946, Schmidt (or rather Ernest Kramer, as he was now known) somehow finding building supplies as desperate people used their furniture, banisters and even floorboards as firewood.

  As Berlin limped into 1947, the bureaucrats installed to try and restore a semblance of order to the struggling city gave Ernest Kramer their full support. Juggling materials and men around, Kramer ensured that construction ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Kramer was given a large flat to live in, and at last became able to pay his men a decent wage.

  In 1957, his by now large and fully established building company was given the contract to renovate the Aalto Theatre.

  That, I think, was my proudest moment. I stood by the Spree and watched my men re-roofing the Aalto, remembering that time I was there as a young man, hidden behind the curtains, just listening as you played so well.

  I had achieved so much in little more than ten years, and there was next to no chance of me ever being brought to trial. There were precautions I had to take, of course, and on one occasion I was forced to kill to keep my real identity secret. But that was fine.

  That same year Kurt Schmidt purchased a record – Erich Heinemann’s first release on a major label – which he played repeatedly.

  Naturally it was excellent, and it proved how right I had been in my prediction of your future. There was another record of yours released soon after that, I remember, which was even better…

  Meanwhile, of course, the communists were taking over Eastern Europe, and so I made sure that I and my business stayed in the Western sector of Berlin – even though the Wall itself was not actually built until 1961, I realised what was coming. And I never wanted to be enslaved to another party or another system again; my life was satisfactory and I wished for it to remain so.

  Up until recently I was happy to see out my remaining years in Berlin – I felt no need to travel; no need to go and see anywhere else. On one occasion, just as a hobby, I even tried to learn the violin…Of course, I was useless – it is an instrument best left to the experts, like you. So I passed my free time reading, and sometimes practising a little English in a café with a small group of men and women.

  However, not so long ago, I received some… unfortunate… news. And it was then I realised that, before I died, I wanted to see you perform again. In fact, I wanted to meet you, to introduce myself and to tell you everything that concerned you and I – information that you could not possibly ever know otherwise.

  But of course, you had not been to Germany since nineteen-fifty-nine, and though you’d said nothing publicly about it, any fool could tell that you’d no intention of ever visiting your home country again. After all, you’ve not been back there in forty years!

  Very well, I must travel to see you. For the first time in my life I visited what is called an ‘Internet café’, and there had one of the staff find out where and when your next concert would be – for I knew that you still performed a few each year.

  And it was here – London, England, barely three weeks away. At first there were no tickets left, but thankfully someone cancelled soon after and so I was able to get one.

  And that, really, is all there is to say – except that before coming to see you I’d never been on a plane. But it’s been worth it – I have now fulfilled my last wish, and I am…

  Satisfied.

  7

  For a few moments after The Whistler had finished speaking, Heinemann stared sullenly at him.

  ‘What is this ‘unfortunate news’, exactly?’ Heinemann quietly asked.

  ‘I am dying,’ returned the former camp guard. There was absolutely no expression in either his ruined face or his voice; he might just as well have been commenting on the weather. ‘I have a cancer that has gone too far to be treated.’

  And it was at this exact moment that his stomach – which had for the last couple of hours given him virtually no discomfort at all – suddenly twisted in agony. Grimly Schmidt caught his breath, the side of his face that wasn’t ruined only momentarily registering his pain.

  ‘You should be in a hospital,’ observed Heinemann flatly.

  ‘No,’ returned Schmidt. ‘I cannot stand them. And anyway, tonight… tonight it ends. For I have now done everything that I wished to do.’

  It took Heinemann a moment to understand Schmidt’s meaning. Then he said coldly, ‘Suicide? A coward’s way out.’

  ‘Not when the only other option remains death – and a far more painful one at that,’ returned Schmidt. ‘It will take place in my hotel room, which is only five minutes’ walk from here.’

  ‘With that knife?’ asked Heinemann.

  ‘Possibly,’ shrugged Schmidt. ‘What does it matter?’

  Suddenly Heinemann leant forwards, his eyes fixed on Schmidt’s own.

  ‘Go,’ he said, his voice low and harsh. ‘Just go. You’ve fulfilled your last wish, and... now it is time for you to go.’

  Schmidt stared expressionlessly back at him; and after a few moments, without saying another
word, nodded and left the dressing room.

  For a while Heinemann stared back down at the floor. He still had on his bow tie – usually he removed it immediately after a performance – the glass of wine forgotten on the table.

  He found his dazed thoughts turning now to Marie. He’d met her one last time when he’d returned to Berlin in 1959, to give what would be his final performance within Germany.

  It was Marie who had, through his record company, contacted Heinemann. They’d arranged to meet in a little café in the Charlottenburg distract that was scarcely a stone’s throw from the house where Marie had lived with her grandmother, a few hours before Heinemann was due to perform.

  She was smartly-dressed, had her hair fashionably cut, and wore make-up. She looked every inch the wife of a well-to-do banker who was currently working nearby.

  For a while they made small-talk... But Heinemann was desirous to know what had happened to her after he’d been arrested by the Gestapo, and so she told him:

  ‘I was taken to Ravensbruck, after they’d aborted the pregnancy. It was hard, but somehow I survived.’

  Her voice was cold – entirely free of emotion – and she did not elaborate any further on what had happened during that time. Clearly, she was – like Heinemann himself – one of the concentration camp survivors who chose not to dwell in the past.

  ‘I returned here to find an ex-member of the Nazi Party living in my home,’ she continued. ‘I reported him to the Americans, and they arrested him. So I was able to reclaim my house, at least, and I lived there on my own for three or four years until I met Paul.’

  Heinemann nodded, and sipping his coffee searched for something to say. He’d felt a bolt of pain when Marie had declared what had happened to their baby, but not a trace of this had shown in his expression. As Marie had evidently dealt with what had happened, so must he.

  ‘And you?’ she said, looking searchingly at him across the table.

  ‘What about me?’ returned Heinemann.

  ‘You’re famous now, Erich,’ she replied with that slight, enigmatic smile. ‘We often read about you, you know, here in Germany.’

  ‘I’d prefer to remain anonymous,’ he said honestly, pulling a slight face. ‘Some of the things that are written… They have nothing to do with my career as a musician.’

  ‘Such as your past?’ she asked softly.

  Heinemann nodded.

  ‘Yes – that and my private life,’ he admitted with a rueful expression.

  She gave a gentle laugh.

  ‘What?’ he said with an enquiring smile.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but that’s reminded me – congratulations.’

  ‘Oh yes – well, thank you.’

  ‘When’s the wedding planned?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘There’s no date confirmed as-yet – next year, sometime in the summer.’

  ‘In America?’

  ‘Yes – I’ll be moving there, shortly. I’ve lived long enough in Switzerland, I think. I only meant to stay there for a while, after…’

  He let the sentence remain unfinished. Marie was well aware, after all, of the period of time to which he was referring.

  ‘I’m pleased for you, Erich,’ she said earnestly, as she briefly took his hand across the table. ‘Pleased for the both of us, in fact.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Heinemann, knowing that they shared the same thought: We survived, at least. Whatever else could have been, doesn’t matter now...

  When they’d finished their coffees, Heinemann paid the bill and helped Marie put on her coat. It was early autumn, red leaves beginning to cover the cobbled streets outside.

  ‘There’s something I meant to tell you already – I just didn’t know how,’ said Marie as they exited the café.

  ‘It’s to do with Enrich Rath, isn’t it?’ said Heinemann. Somehow, he knew already that any news concerning his former lecturer wouldn’t be good.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, her expression grave. ‘I’m afraid he died, before the war ended.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Treblinka,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Erich’ – for Marie, just like many others, knew of what had happened to Heinemann shortly before his imprisonment at Auschwitz. There was even some talk – which Heinemann personally considered preposterous – of turning the now-famous violinist’s early life into a movie.

  ‘There’s a plaque dedicated to him in Humboldt’s main hall,’ she continued. ‘I thought maybe you would like to see it while you’re here.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Heinemann, though he knew he never would. In fact, he knew then that this would be his final visit to Berlin or Germany itself.

  Coming back here after some fourteen years spend away (mostly in Switzerland, though in the last few years – as his fame had begun to spread – Heinemann had travelled extensively) had been a mistake. No matter how much Germany had changed since the Socialists had been in power, there were still some things Heinemann could never forget. And only time and distance made such things bearable.

  Others – survivors of the Nazi terror like himself, like Marie – might even have called him cowardly; they were determined to continue living in Germany, to see this country recover from what it had once been.

  But not Heinemann. He wanted no more part of it, regardless of whether that was right or wrong. He considered that he’d suffered enough to be entitled to make that choice.

  ‘Goodbye, Erich,’ said Marie, briefly kissing him on one cheek.

  ‘Goodbye, Marie,’ he replied, before they both walked away in opposite directions.

  *

  What have I done? Heinemann thought now, his mind returning abruptly to the present. What the hell have I just gone and done?

  In his mind’s eye he saw the thousands of shaven-headed, striped-uniformed scarecrows The Whistler had been responsible for murdering. They all of them mouthed a single word, which sounded harshly in Heinemann’s head in his native tongue –

  Rache –

  Revenge.

  He stabbed the button that was on the table. It seemed an eternity before there was a knock on the door and a voice from outside said, ‘Mr Heinemann?’

  ‘Come in,’ said Heinemann brusquely. The door opened and a young steward entered.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

  Only five minutes’ walk from here...

  ‘I need your help, quickly,’ said Heinemann. ‘Listen carefully...’

  8

  Schmidt’s diseased stomach caused him not the slightest twinge of pain as he made the short return walk to his hotel apartment. It was as calm and settled as his mind. A stiff drink – finally, he’d take a little alcohol again – a deep, hot bath, and then the caress of the knife’s blade across his wrists as he lay in the water. A long, and on the whole satisfying life coming to an end. The choice to terminate it as Schmidt wished, as a free man – this the most important thing in the world. Having been a captive once before, he could not bear such a thing again. It would be a living hell.

  The weapon he’d stolen earlier, from a restaurant where he’d eaten a very good steak. It had been extremely busy, and a little short-staffed. So no one had noticed Schmidt discreetly pocket the knife, just before he’d paid and left.

  Entering the small but exclusive hotel (as he aged, Schmidt had found that he liked comfort more-and-more – even his flight to England had been business class), he nodded in return to the clerk’s greeting and took the elevator to his room on the fifth floor. In his room, he turned on the taps in the bathroom and then selected a miniature bottle of whiskey from the selection of alcohol and soft drinks that was in his room.

  He turned on the radio – previously tuned by himself to a classical music station – and very nearly gave an ironic smile at the composition being played...

  It was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony – The Choral.

  He sipped his drink as the bath slowly filled. Appreciating his last hour or so of life. He did not consider heaven or hell or
the possibility of any kind of afterlife. There would be nothing and this he knew. It did not matter in the slightest.

  Then there came suddenly a knock at the door. Schmidt spun round to face it, his blue eyes suddenly burning with suspicion.

  He approached the door. He said cautiously: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Kramer?’ said a male voice outside. ‘We have a delivery for you, sir.’

  Schmidt’s stomach was at once alive with pain as his mind screamed danger.

  ‘What is... delivery?’ he said, slowly producing the knife from his inner jacket pocket.

  ‘A large parcel, sir. You need to sign for it,’ replied the man.

  The undamaged half of Schmidt’s face creased with surprise.

  ‘Who... from?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry sir, but I’ve really no idea,’ returned the man. There was a pause, then he said again: ‘If now’s inconvenient, I can always return later...’

  ‘No,’ said Schmidt, carefully tucking the knife into the top of his trousers by the small of his back. ‘No – I open door now.’

  And he began to do so...

  Epilogue

  Berlin, 1999

  Frau Klein was preparing dinner for herself and her husband when she happened to glance at the open newspaper that was on top of the marble kitchen worktop. What she saw then made her catch her breath, and very nearly drop the glass bowl of salad she was carrying.

  A report on page four, with an accompanying photograph of a man she’d once known and loved a very long time before – in a different life. There was also another photo, but this elderly man she didn’t know. He had only half a face.