Cemetery of the Nameless

by Rick Blechta

  When I commented on the quality of her English, she shrugged, “Everyone now learns English as their second language from an early age, although I have spent much time reading English books to improve my knowledge.”

  “My daughter also spends too much of her time listening to popular music, especially that horrible British band.”

  “Which one is that?” I asked.

  “They are called Neurotica, and I think they are quite good!” Stefanie said.

  “I agree. The keyboard player, especially. They weren’t much after he left the band.”

  “You know of them?”

  “Sure, although mostly because of Tory. She’s the one who likes them.”

  “That is quite interesting that your wife listens to popular music,” the girl said, giving her father a glance loaded with meaning. “As you can tell, Papa does not approve of it.”

  “You should not be spoiling your ears with that Quatsch!” Ertmann answered, defending himself.

  “But it is good music, Papa!” Stefanie shot back, then flashed an embarrassed smile at me. “I thought at one time that I would like to make my career playing this type of music.”

  “That was as recently as last month, daughter,” Ertmann pointed out.

  “That was before I played your wife’s marvellous Stradivarius,” Stefanie corrected, turning to me. “I want to thank you for letting my father borrow it. I cannot believe you were so generous.”

  I shot Ertmann a look, which he interpreted perfectly, but kept my mouth firmly shut. “I’m glad that you found it of such value.”

  She sighed expressively. “I now feel lost without it! Fine violins are so expensive, and even an adequate one costs many thousands, as you certainly know.”

  “That’s why I took up the trumpet,” I said, and everyone laughed.

  “Do you think it might be possible to meet your wife sometime? I know that... her situation is very difficult right now, but I really would like to speak with her about violin playing.”

  I thought that Tory might well enjoy Stefanie’s youthful enthusiasm and the sparkle in her eyes, and in the present circumstances, it might do her a lot of good. “I will see what can be arranged.”

  “I would be most grateful.”

  “You must not be disappointed if it is not possible, Stefanie,” her father said.

  “I will see what can be done,” I repeated firmly.

  Stefanie shot her father a glance which said clearly that she was aware he was not omniscient. Ertmann’s expression was indulgent. I knew that expression well from being around Tory’s parents and their only child, also a Wunderkind of the first water. My sympathies went out to the Ertmanns—and whatever guy Stefanie fell in love with.

  “Come, my friend, it is time we had our talk together,” he said, rising from the table.

  Ertmann’s house was big by European standards and located west and a bit south of Vienna’s downtown in a new-looking suburb. The room he led me to was obviously his sanctum, a collection of livedin furniture and book-lined walls, with a large stereo at one end and a larger window at the other which overlooked a series of rolling hills off to the north, indistinct in the grey mists the day’s wet weather had produced.

  When he saw the direction of my gaze, my host said, “That is the western end of the Wienerwald, our famous Vienna Woods.”

  “It’s an inspiring view. Our apartment looks out over downtown Montreal, and even though it is spectacular at night, I often long for something like this.”

  Ertmann looked surprised. “You do not have a vacation home?”

  I shook my head. “Tory and I talk about it, but we never seem to get around to looking for one. We can’t even decide on where to look.”

  “When you see what you want, you will know. Come, take a seat and we will talk,” Ertmann said, indicating one of two comfortable looking leather chairs. “I know it is an early hour, but perhaps you would be interested in a little cognac?”

  From a built-in cabinet among the books, he took out a bottle, poured two modest snifters, handed me one, then took his place in the chair next to mine. We looked silently out at the distant hills while I gathered my thoughts.

  “I’ve come to you for help because I don’t know where else to turn,” I began, then stopped with a sigh. “Quite frankly, I’m in over my head.”

  “You are starting at the end, my friend. If I am to be of any help, I must know your story from its beginning.”

  “Can this be kept off the record? I mean, there are things I didn’t tell Oberstleutnant Müller.”

  Now it was Ertmann’s turn to sigh. I knew that, being a man of integrity, he would be uncomfortable with what I was asking him to do, but curiosity, sympathy or budding friendship might help overcome his professional reticence.

  “For now, I will say yes to what you ask,” he told me, “but if you veer onto sensitive ground, I will warn you. It will be up to you to continue after that. This is agreeable?”

  I nodded, taking a sip of cognac. Knowing that what I needed was my head at its clearest, I put it down on the low table between us. “I don’t want to appear condescending, but how much do you know about music?”

  “In my youth, I took music lessons like most Austrian children. My piano instructor told my parents after a year that my talents must lie elsewhere. Still, I have always enjoyed listening to music, and do even more now that my daughter seems determined to make it her career. Come, tell me your story from the beginning.”

  I took a deep breath and mentally crossed my fingers. “There is apparently a work by Beethoven, a major work, a violin concerto that was somehow lost, possibly at the time of his death; we can’t be sure at this point. Anyway, no one knew of its existence—until now.”

  Ertmann nodded. “I have heard some very—how would you say it in your language?—vaporous rumours about this.”

  “You have? From whom?”

  “It is my department’s business to hear about anything that is interesting. However, lost music is not something which normally concerns us. Almost as an accident, it came to my ears that someone was trying to sell a manuscript which had been found. I sadly never found out who it was or any more about it. Beethoven’s name was not mentioned, but the rumour said the item was thought to be very valuable.”

  “Von Heislinger’s name never came up in connection with it?”

  Ertmann shook his head. “The late Rudolph von Heislinger’s name came up in a great many things, some of them musical as you know, but never in connection with a missing manuscript. Please elaborate.”

  I elaborated non-stop for close to thirty minutes about what had been offered to Tory, and how von Heislinger had used that to get his hooks into her. Ertmann seemed most interested when I told him why Tory had returned to Austria when it was in her best interest to put as much distance between herself and the border if she was determined to remain on the run.

  “This is something which puzzled Müller, as well,” Ertmann told me. “He thought your wife came back to Austria to throw the authorities off her trail. Your explanation makes far more sense.”

  “Like everyone else involved in this, Tory wants that manuscript. In the case of the others, though, the motive is certainly financial. Tory wants the music simply for what it is: an unknown work by one of the greatest composers who ever lived—and not some youthful compositional effort, either. This is a mature work, quite possibly his last.”

  “And you are certain that this is most definitely by Beethoven?”

  “We’re working on that. Von Heislinger told several people that he’d gotten the manuscript authenticated by experts, one being another of the guests present the night he died, a man named Schatzader. I’m thinking now that it was only Schatzader, since no one else has let the cat out of the bag. Schatzader tried to throw me off the trail by saying he didn’t think it was by Beethoven. In any event, all of this is a moot point unless we find the manuscript. We can say it’s anything we want, but the only acceptabl
e proof are the actual papers themselves. Without them, we have nothing.”

  Ertmann thought that over. “And it is your belief that Thekla Grillzer had possession of the manuscript at the time of her death?”

  “That’s what she told Tory, and I haven’t heard or seen anything that would disprove it.”

  Ertmann stared out the window for several minutes, the cognac in his grasp forgotten. I tried to stay relaxed, but everything relied on whether Ertmann would be able to cross the invisible line and help someone clearly persona non grata with the police.

  Keeping his eyes firmly on the misty bulk of the Viennese hills, he finally said, “Would it be a waste of time to remind you that this story should be told to Müller as the chief investigating officer or to the examining magistrate?”

  The answer to that came quickly. “They’re not interested in the truth about what happened, only in proving Tory is guilty! You know I speak accurately when I say that, as harsh as it sounds. Müller has a lot to lose if the facts turn out to be different from what he has been telling the media.”

  “And I have heard it said that you are a stubborn but honest man.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Probably the same person who told you I have a daughter who plays the violin and that I was formerly a policeman,” Ertmann said with a smile. “You see, I too have been finding out what type of individual I am dealing with.” Another moment or two more went by before he added. “In what way exactly do you want my help?”

  “You have access to information which I don’t. I think there are three people who need to be investigated, three people who might have a lot to gain by my wife taking the fall for two murders.”

  “And may I ask if Schultz, the lawyer, has any feelings on this?”

  “He is of the mind that we need to focus our energy defending Tory on the basis of her mental state at the time of the two murders. He says that the case which will be brought against her is too strong to risk doing otherwise, that she is in very real danger of being convicted. I think that’s selling the situation short. I know that my wife is in danger of further mental harm or worse if she is incarcerated, regardless of whether it’s in a jail or a psychiatric institution. I strongly believe that locking her up could kill her. Will you agree to help me?”

  “And if I decline?”

  “You have to agree! I have nowhere else to turn. Will you help me?” I repeated.

  Ertmann continued to stare out the window impassively, then sighed heavily and said, “Yes,” smiling at my obvious relief. “But for my own curiosity, tell me, what you would have done had I refused? Our mutual friend told me that you do not give up easily.”

  “I would have done this.” Reaching into my jacket pocket, I got up and went to the other end of the room. “May I?” I asked, indicating Ertmann’s sound system.

  With a bemused expression, Ertmann nodded, so I loaded in my tape cassette, punched a couple of buttons at his direction, twiddled a few knobs and the sound of Tory’s playing filled the small room. The Austrian’s eyes widened, and he motioned for me to pause it.

  “Am I correct in assuming that this is your wife playing the piece in question?”

  “Yes. It was recorded yesterday afternoon.”

  “But I am confused. You said that your wife is unable to play.”

  “The examining psychiatrist hypnotized her, and this is the result. Once he brought her out of hypnosis, she again couldn’t play. You can imagine the toll this is taking on her.”

  “Might I invite Stefanie in to hear this also?”

  “I don’t think that would be wise. Up until now, everyone has kept the secret, myself included. You can imagine the treasure hunt if the news leaked out—and the horrible press for Tory.”

  He nodded. “I see what you are meaning. My daughter is filled with a great deal of youthful exuberance. She is not good at keeping secrets.”

  I resumed playing the tape, and Ertmann sat as if in a trance while the melodic line swooped and soared, weaving a texture so fine and at the same time so powerful it took my breath away more with every hearing. As well, Tory’s playing had never reached such heights of expression. At one point, the poignancy of her phrasing brought tears to my eyes, and the tranquillity of the ending was so deeply profound that I felt I could almost reach out and touch the emotion behind the sound. I could scarcely imagine the effect with the orchestral accompaniment.

  We both remained silent for several heartbeats after I switched off the tape.

  “You were right, my friend,” Ertmann said as he opened his eyes. “I could not have refused you after hearing that.” Ertmann again contemplated the hills, and when he finally spoke, his voice had the distracted quality that comes with heavy thought. “It seems as if you...we have several interlocking problems to overcome, and the right order of solving them could prove as important as anything in this matter. First is this piece of music, since it is what started the whole chain of events.”

  “I didn’t really believe it was Beethoven until I heard Tory play it.”

  “Why are you so certain someone did not take the manuscript from Thekla Grillzer at her death?”

  “I don’t think she would have been stupid enough to leave it out on a table or something. She made a deal to meet with Tory about it at the end of that tragic evening. Why would she have had it out earlier? Plus, every single person involved with that concerto is still looking for it. They have all contacted me, one as recently as yesterday. I also believe it’s the reason my hotel room was ransacked.”

  “I agree.”

  “Now may I ask you a question? You do not have to answer if you don’t want to, but from the very beginning you have been helping me, probably more than I know. I’m curious as to why. By all rights, you should be playing for the opposite team.”

  Ertmann smiled at my sports analogy. “I have a video tape which I can show you. Once you see it, you will understand my motives.”

  “The English bookmaking fraternity are actually taking bets on whether Victoria Morgan will get out of this one. So far the odds are running about 10 to 1 against. Trade is brisk, but there are probably hopeful people who still hold tickets for upcoming concerts.”

  —excerpt from a report by John Bradley on the BBC World Service

  Chapter 26

  ROCKY

  It transpired that redoubtable Frau Ertmann had to go shopping, Stefanie had a late afternoon rehearsal, and Dad offered to drive them both to the nearest U-Bahn station.

  On his way out the door, Ertmann produced a video cassette, put it in the VCR in the living room and then turned to me. “I think you will find the contents of this video tape... enlightening. I will not answer any questions as to how it came to be in my possession.” Handing me a remote control and several pages of typing, he headed for the door. “Please watch it while I am away. I will return as quickly as I can. The papers are a translation if you cannot follow.”

  I flipped on the VCR , got a screen full of snow, then blackness and finally a picture.

  It looked like some sort of office. The camera was focused on a nervous-looking woman, maybe in her late forties. Wearing a black cloth coat and a black kerchief around her head, and her handbag on her lap, she could have been the mother of anyone in eastern Europe.

  A voice off-screen spoke. The language was Hungarian, and I found I could follow a great deal of what was said. God bless my aunties for pounding Hungarian into me when I was a kid.

  “You are the mother of Anna Maria Kozslik.”

  She nodded and a look of sadness crossed her face. “She was my only child. A gift from God.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Don’t you already know?”

  “We would like it in your own words.”

  The woman clutched her handbag tighter. “Anna Maria is... She was born with a gift. I didn’t really understand it. No one in our family could. There had never been anything like it among us.”

  The voice wait
ed for the woman to continue before prompting her with, “What sort of gift?”

  The woman leaned forward and whispered as if she were talking about a mortal sin. “Music. Anna Maria seemed born to make music. She hummed to herself in her crib before she could speak. When she was two, we visited a friend who had a piano. Anna Maria walked right over to it and began picking out melodies. Some I had never heard before. Maybe she had heard them on the radio or television. It was uncanny how few mistakes she made.

  “When it was time to leave, we had to pull Anna Maria away from that piano. She cried for days, until I took her back so she could play again. I talked to Anna Maria’s father that maybe we should let our daughter develop her talent, that we should get her lessons, but he would not hear of it. Music to him was not something to be taken seriously. People like us should not waste our time with such frivolities. No lessons for Anna Maria. I only wish to God now that I had listened to him!”

  The woman took a handkerchief from her coat sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “After her father decided to leave us, I eventually gave in to Anna Maria’s begging and looked into piano lessons, and even though it was too expensive, she was not to be denied. When she was ten, she went to the parish church and talked the organist into giving her lessons in exchange for cleaning his house. I’m afraid that he was not very accomplished, and we had nothing at home for her to practise on, but Anna Maria persisted. She used the piano in the church basement, one in the house of friends, anywhere she could find an instrument with a keyboard.

  “In less than three years, he could teach her no more. We still had not enough money, and when I approached her father for help, he was adamant that Anna Maria should concentrate on her school work so her future would be assured. Anna Maria borrowed music and taught herself. Soon it was obvious to everyone that she must have adequate training. The church raised money for tuition, and Anna Maria was enrolled for piano lessons one afternoon a week. Somehow we found the money for her bus and train fare to Budapest. Anna Maria was so happy. I only saw her in the evenings after my work was done. Every waking hour she could, Anna Maria was at the church practising.