The Whistler: A Murderer's Tale

  The Whistler: A Murderer’s Tale

  Act 1 – The Whistler

  Act 2 – Marie

  Act 3 – Revenge?

  The Whistler

  1

  London 1999

  He was a killer...

  But no one crowding the concert hall foyer knew that. Only once had Kurt Schmidt been recognised; and to solve that problem he’d simply murdered again. His ruined face – the reason why people glanced at him and then looked too quickly away – had otherwise disguised his identity for over fifty years…

  ‘Sir?’ said the woman sat behind the counter. ‘May I see your ticket please, sir?’

  ‘Ticket, yes,’ said Schmidt curtly, for he spoke little English.

  Suddenly the pain lanced inside his stomach, causing him to catch his breath. The half of his face that was not a mass of burnt flesh briefly registered his discomfort, before Schmidt again exercised his iron self-control.

  The woman behind the counter, however, had seen enough.

  ‘Sir?’ she said with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Schmidt repeated.

  He took the ticket stub bearing his seat number and walked away, mingling with the other concertgoers as they moved into the large hall. The raised stage contained a multitude of chairs and instruments. Soon the orchestra would emerge, along with the man whom Schmidt had flown especially from Germany to see.

  Pain continued to plague Schmidt, who determinedly sought to ignore it. He’d taken some of the painkillers given to him by his doctor before leaving his London hotel, although these were becoming steadily less effective.

  Two more months, at the most three, the doctor had warned, and then…

  Schmidt wasn’t scared of dying. But before that happened, he needed to attend to a matter of vital importance. He discreetly felt for the weapon hidden inside his inner jacket pocket, reassuring himself it was still there...

  Yes, it was.

  Tonight, he vowed, following this performance.

  2

  ‘Ten minutes, Mr Heinemann,’ said a male voice from behind the closed door.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ replied the elderly violinist, sat within his dressing room.

  He had on the black dinner jacket he always wore for such performances, although it was his habit to wait until the very last minute before putting on his bow tie.

  Just why, he wondered, did he feel so anxious – so on edge? Naturally there was always some degree of tension before a performance, but tonight…

  Tonight was somehow different. Something just didn’t feel right – but what? It was to be a fairly straightforward recital; the sort of thing Heinemann had done hundreds of times over the years, all over the world…

  So why this strange sense of trepidation, as though he was facing some great danger?

  Why were those old, murky memories being stirred? Of rifle butts and clubs, of blood stains on a concrete floor, of perpetual cold, pain and hunger…?

  Then, even more strangely, Heinemann’s memories suddenly went further back. Returning right to the very days of his childhood –

  …That battered old violin he’d found in the attic of the ramshackle house belonging to his aunt, just months after she’d taken him in following the death of his parents in an automobile accident... That shady wood where he’d taken this violin, his musical efforts having quickly become too much for his aunt to bear... The hours he’d spent just trying to extract a note that was pleasing to the ear…

  Once this had been achieved, Heinemann recalled, his progress had quickly become phenomenal. His aunt listened amazed as he repeated –albeit a little falteringly – the violin parts he heard coming from her gramophone.

  ‘This is quite incredible,’ she said softly, only a few months after the boy had found the instrument. ‘I don’t know where you get this talent from – your parents never had the least gift for music…’

  Upon the death of Herr Trutz – the ancient teacher at the small parish school – a stout woman called Frau Dressler took over the children’s class. She displayed an uncommon interest in Heinemann’s extra-curricular musical activities. He was by now almost fourteen, an age when education finished and a choice was made: to stay in the tiny village of Hegensdorf that lay to the east of Germany and work on the land, or move to a city, if such a thing was possible.

  Frau Dressler made this so for Heinemann.

  ‘I have an acquaintance who runs an academy in Berlin,’ she informed the teenager – ‘an academy for exceptionally gifted young musicians. This, I think, is you.’

  Following a discussion with his aunt, Heinemann decided to go to Frau Stielke’s Musical Academy. He had already been accepted purely on Frau Dressler’s recommendation.

  ‘Yes, you must, Erich,’ said his aunt enthusiastically, as they sat eating dinner one evening. ‘I think there’s more in you than just a farm labourer, and who knows what opportunities you will be given?’

  She hid her concerns from her nephew. Hegensdorf may have been a particularly isolated village, dependant almost on a system of barter when times were hard – but still she recognised the anti-Semitism that was seeping like poison through Germany’s populace.

  Perhaps, she considered bleakly, it was a good thing that her brother and his Jewish wife were dead – for such mixed marriages were beginning to be frowned upon. But this being the case, how could the half-Jewish teenager expect to fare in Berlin?

  A month later Heinemann and his aunt were stood at the train station. In one hand Heinemann carried his suitcase, in the other his ancient, beloved violin.

  As the train puffed into the station, Heinemann’s aunt said, ‘Remember, Erich, you must always be polite and attentive. This is a chance in a million, and you must grab it with both hands.’

  Her eyes misted with tears as she waved the teenager goodbye, the train pulling away, beginning the long journey to Berlin and possible danger.

  3

  Works by Stravinsky, Schumann, Mozart and one other composer whose name Kurt Schmidt didn’t recognise were being performed tonight. Schmidt particularly enjoyed Schumann’s ‘Violin Concerto in D Minor’ – but really, so long as Heinemann was playing Schmidt would listen to anything.

  Schmidt stood up twice, to allow people to get to their seats that were beyond his own. He gave the grimace that passed for his smile when they thanked him. Then he sat down and prepared himself for a feast of classical music, to be given by a genius and an orchestra of international repute.

  Strange, but Schmidt (who rarely if ever considered his past – what was the use?) could now not help but remember himself as a young man. For such memories were closely allied with the first time he’d ever seen Erich Heinemann perform.

  It had been…

  ...1939, Schmidt remembered, shortly after the war had begun. Schmidt had already gone into hiding from the Socialists, who viewed with extreme displeasure the type of vagabond lifestyle he led.

  So he shared an abandoned house with three others who also had good reason to conceal themselves from the Nazis. They all did what they had to do in order to survive; Schmidt himself mugged and burgled and periodically murdered, all of which provided him with the money to be able to eat. He’d always lived so, even as a child, for at an early age he’d been abandoned by his mother – a feeble-minded whore – following his father’s suicide.

  He was in his element during the night, the dark concealing him as he roamed around Berlin, observing the well-to-do as they led a riotous life of theatres, restaurants and night clubs, high on champagne, cocaine and their belief in the invincible might of Germany.

  Like a rat Schmidt shied away from noise and bright lights, all the while sear
ching for the inevitable gentleman who’d had too much to drink and who was now on his own in a dark and unfamiliar part of the city...

  It was during one of his night-time escapades that Schmidt happened to sneak through an open side-door into the Aalto Theatre, a large, white-painted building situated beside the River Spree, close to the Tiergarten. He was searching for something to steal – but as he ventured cautiously along darkened corridors, he was suddenly captivated by what he heard coming from beyond the heavy black curtains directly in front of him.

  A number of instruments were playing – but it was one of the violins that really captured Schmidt’s attention. Never before had he been exposed to a sweeter, more thrilling sound; it somehow stirred (if still only partially) feelings and emotions within him that had until now been entirely dormant.

  He stood as though frozen, scarcely daring to breathe, let alone move. He was determined that nothing would spoil this brief, exquisite time; he could hardly believe the effect the music was having upon him...

  And then, when it finally ended in a shattering crescendo that set Schmidt’s thoughts whirling, he felt consumed with the desire to know who was capable of playing the violin with such evident genius.

  He moved towards the curtains, his hands starting to move them apart…

  Fool! There were a mass of people on the other side! Did he wish to be seen, to be discovered, to be captured?

  But – !

  For just a fraction of a second, wholly unable to help himself, Schmidt stared through the tiniest gap in the curtains and saw the violin player.

  It was a boy – nothing but a skinny teenage boy dressed in an ill-fitting black dinner jacket!

  But the way Schmidt felt at that moment, the music reverberating inside his skull, he might just as well have seen God. He turned and walked rapidly away from the curtains, returning towards the open side-door, the boy’s thin, almost sallow features stored within his mind.

  Some day, he vowed...

  Someday I’ll hear this boy-genius play again...

  All the ground-floor windows of the house where Schmidt resided were smashed, only a few boarded up. The warped backdoor was always unlocked and opened with some difficulty into the kitchen. Broken pots, pans and plates littered what had once been the sink, the pattern of the large rug that covered most of the floor almost obliterated with ingrained grime.

  A Jewish couple and an artist occupied the two other rooms downstairs, effectively giving Schmidt the entire first floor as his own. Although the room he actually occupied was at the rear of the house, the window that was approximately sixteen feet above the garden serving as a useful exit, should it ever be needed.

  The strong possibility of discovery made the artist thin and continually fatigued. The Jewish couple, meanwhile, appeared absolutely terrified unless they were drunk, which indeed most of the time they were.

  Schmidt, however, easily existed on the brief napping he allowed himself. He was unable to feel any significant worry, depression or fear regarding his circumstances – even when, one night just a few days before Christmas, the Socialists finally came for him and the three others.

  Unfortunately for Schmidt, he had – unusually – elected to remain indoors that evening. He’d ample food, money sufficient for the next few days, and the cold penetrated his very bones. Rain enforced the desire to stay huddled inside his old blankets, and by candlelight Schmidt gnawed on a cold sausage, trying to extract what warmth he could from the meagre heat of the flame.

  The sudden splintering of the front door caused him to hurriedly get up, throwing aside the blankets as he heard the door come crashing down, men shouting as they entered the house.

  ‘Everyone remain where you are! You are all under arrest!’

  The cries of the Jewish couple and the artist were silenced with blows audible to Schmidt upstairs. He blew out the candle and paused, listening: there was no indication that anybody was coming up the stairs.

  No sense of hope filled him, and so nothing was dashed when he then heard a tentative step on the first stair. He heard paranoid whispering – upstairs might be a group of armed Jewish men ready to fight to the bitter end. He heard guns being cocked, and then the men began their cautious ascent.

  Despite knowing any attempt at escape to be ultimately futile, Schmidt nevertheless opened his window and climbed out. He hung by his fingers from the ledge before dropping to the ground, his ankle buckling as he landed in the overgrown garden.

  A cry came from his room, telling Schmidt what he already knew: there were other members of the Gestapo watching the rear of the house. Ignoring the pain protesting in his ankle, he ran quickly across the garden.

  As he entered the alleyway, a man collided into him. Blood sprayed from the man’s face as Schmidt instantly knocked his adversary to the ground with a volley of punches.

  And then another figure appeared, pointing a pistol directly at Schmidt’s forehead.

  ‘Stay absolutely still, or I’ll blow your brains out!’

  Schmidt nodded once, and without expression raised his hands as men came up behind him, cursing the swine who’d hurt one of their colleagues...

  4

  ‘Two minutes, Mr Heinemann.’

  For whatever reason, the elderly violinist now felt as nervous as when he’d first arrived in Berlin, all those years before...

  Yes, the city had been gigantic – absolutely teeming with life and a world apart from Hegensdorf. Gigantic red and white swastika banners hung from the upper windows of the massive brick-built buildings; members of the Hitler Youth strutted confidently around, distributing leaflets which explained the National Socialist’s latest agenda

  Frau Stielke – the owner of the Academy – had herself come to meet Heinemann at the train station, brusquely escorting him to a waiting car. The excitement he felt at his first ever ride in such a vehicle was sobered by the woman sat beside him – Stielke was small, fat, and had a slight but still definite moustache. Several unsightly moles were clustered on her right cheek, while a cigarette seemed to be permanently attached to her wet bottom lip.

  Her initial greeting to the teenage boy had been curt to the point of rudeness. Now she eyed him with active distaste; Heinemann felt her gaze cutting into him, exposing the fear he felt – the fear at being alone in a city he was beginning to realise was not of a friendly disposition towards him.

  Recalling his aunt’s advice to be polite, he tried to make conversation with the ugly woman.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me at the station, Frau Stielke. I am looking forward to beginning my studies.’

  But his words were met with such a hostile stare that he shut his mouth immediately, and looking at the rear-view mirror he saw the driver smirking.

  The majority of the Academy’s pupils bordered in dormitories attached to the main building, segregated according to their age and sex. Lights went out at nine o’clock each night, and they were up and washed by seven the following morning, in time for breakfast before their lessons began.

  Heinemann’s position became uncomfortable within the first week of his being at the Academy. In one class, the children were taught that the population of the world could be divided into race groups – and that the Jews came lowest in this grouping. It was at this point that Heinemann first realised that the eyes of the class, as well as the teacher, were upon him.

  To add to this, the musical theory lessons (which were taken by Frau Stielke herself) exposed almost immediately a massive flaw in her friend Frau Dressler’s recommendation of the young, half-Jewish violinist – for he could not read music.

  The black dots on the five lines meant nothing to Heinemann, as he’d previously relied solely on his ear to learn pieces. The small class sniggered as he stood with his violin, staring hopelessly at the sheet music Stielke had ordered him to play.

  ‘How dare you come here, to waste my own and these pupils’ time!’ she screamed at him.

  Heinemann looked at the floor as the ver
bal attack continued. But slowly, he felt his initial shame and fear change to become a type of anger he’d never before experienced. His usually quiet, reserved character blanched at this new emotion – and then welcomed it. It felt both protective and extremely strengthening; while this anger raged Heinemann felt as though he could destroy the world.

  The anger continued to burn as he looked at the teacher, but outwardly he displayed no trace of it – if anything he appeared penitent.

  ‘Frau Stielke, I apologise to you and the other members of the class for my ignorance. If you will grant me just a little time I will do my best to learn to read music,’ he said solemnly.

  This appeared to partially pacify Stielke; she announced that she would personally instruct him for an hour each day – while the others pupils had their lunch-break – for a month. If he’d not made reasonable progress by then he would be out of the Academy.

  The other students barely repressed their laughter: Erich Heinemann had around thirty hours to reach a level of proficiency in reading music it had taken them most of their conscious lives to achieve.

  Heinemann’s extra lessons commenced the following day; for an hour the head of the Academy incessantly lectured him. By the end his head ached with the talk of ‘sharps,’ ‘flats,’ and the letter given to a particular dot on a particular ‘stave’.

  There would now be no chance for him to rest during the day. From half past seven until noon he learned history, mathematics and other, academic subjects; from one o’clock until six o’clock the emphasis was purely on music.

  Frau Stielke remorselessly corrected her young students on their technique, posture, and anything else with which she could find the slightest fault. No mistake, no matter how minor, escaped her ears and eyes.

  Heinemann made valiant attempts to learn the strange language of music, hoping that the dots and lines would suddenly make perfect sense – that they would magically become as clear as the words of a child’s book, allowing him to sight-read with all the nonchalance displayed by his peers.