The Whistler: A Murderer's Tale

by Ben Stevens

  ‘Four days ago Monowitz was bombed! We have hanged the British and French prisoners as part of our revenge for this, but that is not enough! Such a heinous crime demands the utmost punishment, and I want ten of you to leave the group and line-up in front of me.’

  Unsurprisingly, none of the inmates moved, forcing The Pig after a few moments to move forward and grab one man by his arm.

  ‘You – stand over there,’ he ordered, the inmate walking to where the Chief Guard pointed. The Pig then roughly pushed the arms of nine other men, one of whom was Heinemann.

  So this was it – his time was up. For over three years he’d fought against colossal odds; and this was the end of it. His bowels turned to ice as he walked to stand with the other chosen men, Passarge looking at him in shock.

  Heinemann set his face and avoided looking at the still fat-faced priest, everything within him willing that he meet death bravely and that it would at least be quick.

  ‘Please, free one of these men. I will take their place,’ said Father Passarge suddenly.

  The Pig looked balefully at him, but before he could say or do anything The Whistler motioned towards Heinemann and said, ‘We’ll swap him for this one.’

  Opening his wet mouth to disagree, The Pig then met the other guard’s cold blue eyes and immediately reconsidered. Something told him that to go against The Whistler on this occasion – even though he was technically superior in rank to this man – would not be wise.

  So instead he nodded and Heinemann was replaced by Passarge, the priest and the other men then marched away.

  Erich Heinemann never saw his friend or any of the other nine men again. And a month later he discovered what terrible fate had so very nearly befallen himself, a man who’d recently been forced to drag ten decayed corpses to the crematorium revealing all.

  Father Passarge and the others had been walled-up inside a small room and left to starve to death, in revenge for a bombing in which they’d taken no part in organising or carrying out.

  When Heinemann was told this he said nothing, as with the priest’s death there was no longer anyone to say anything to.

  But that night, in his bunk, he did something that he’d never had the least inclination to do before.

  He prayed. He didn’t know the right words, but somehow this didn’t seem important. He knew that the priest’s act of selfless courage hadn’t been intended for his exclusive benefit; The Whistler had made his sacrifice save a Mischling’s life.

  But whatever: Heinemann hoped that Passarge – wherever the man was now, hopefully in that glorious kingdom he’d devoted his life to serving – was aware that he’d never forget him, and that with each day that unfolded far ahead into the future he’d do his very best to honour that priest’s name in thought, word and deed.

  For Heinemann had never felt more determined to survive – somehow, he’d ensure that he lasted far longer than Auschwitz, Hitler and the Third Reich itself...

  5

  ‘...It was me,’ said Schmidt, Heinemann well aware that they were both recalling the same occasion. ‘I saved your life that day.’

  ‘No,’ returned Heinemann desperately, shaking his head. ‘No, it was the priest who…’

  ‘There were other occasions, too,’ continued Schmidt remorselessly. ‘Many of them. Sometimes your name was on the list for the gas chamber, and I removed it. It was I who managed to get you into the Monowitz factory; to get you a job of some importance. And now and then, perhaps, did you not find a cob of bread in your bunk?’

  Yes, Heinemann had. On a number of occasions, in fact. Curiously, he’d never sought to question such good fortune – possibly one of the other, ever-changing inmates had got confused about which bunk was theirs when they’d secreted the bread for later – but had merely eaten the food quickly and secretly at night.

  ‘No…’ said Heinemann, in what was almost a low moan. For it was now all too obvious that – had it not been for this disfigured mass-murderer – he would never have survived Auschwitz.

  But why? Why had The Whistler protected him?

  As though in reply to Heinemann’s despairing mental question, Kurt Schmidt tonelessly declared, ‘You are one of the greatest classical musicians of the twentieth century. I knew that, were you to survive Auschwitz, you would go on to become famous worldwide. So it became my responsibility to see that you lived. I am content that I did this well, and that my prediction proved correct.’

  Suddenly Heinemann stood up; moving to stand close by The Whistler he hissed, ‘And what about all those that died?’

  There was absolutely no reaction. So still and composed was the former concentration camp guard now that he might almost have been a mannequin. And with an immediate and almost calming sense of resignation, Heinemann realised that he was simply wasting his breath.

  The Whistler had helped murder thousands of people but had ensured that Heinemann survived purely because of the young Mischling’s talent for the violin. As bizarre as this seemed, it still remained the simple fact of the matter. And no amount of raging by Heinemann now would change anything that had occurred over half a century before.

  Sitting back down on his chair, Heinemann placed his chin on his trembling fist and stared down at the floor, remembering…

  *

  October 7 1944 witnessed the largest revolt staged by the inmates of the Auschwitz in its comparatively brief history. Working within Monowitz, Heinemann suddenly heard shouting and explosions coming from outside; yet he refused to recognise anything that might have given him false hope or finally – and fatally – destroyed his grim resolve to stay alive.

  As was usual, a group of Jews had been forced to take the bodies from out of a gas chamber. Inside there was a scene from hell, inmates clinging together even in death or piled over each other on the floor.

  It was not unusual (in fact it was quite common) for the forced attendants to recognise friends and relatives among the corpses – and on October 7 such a sight caused approximately four hundred and fifty inmates to revolt.

  They were not alone: several women imprisoned at Birkenau managed to smuggle them home-made bombs, which were used to blow-up four gas chambers. A fifth was set on fire as the men attempted to break out of the camp. Two hundred and fifty succeeded; but being both starving and hopelessly ill-dressed for the brutal cold, they were soon hunted down and shot.

  Five women were arrested, and subjected to torture in an attempt to make them talk. One of them, Roza Robota, smuggled out a message assuring those who’d taken part in the rebellion but not managed to escape:

  You have nothing to fear, we shall not talk.

  True to her word, she and the other women were hanged three months later with nothing having been got from them.

  Time had long ago ceased to have any meaning for Heinemann. The hours, days and months contained nothing other than hunger, cold and pain. His severely emaciated body festooned with sores and covered with lice, it was nothing short of a miracle that he succeeded in awakening each morning.

  But constantly within his mind there beat the grim instruction: Stay alive, Stay alive; and often in his sleep he heard Father Passarge exhorting him not to make his sacrifice be in vain – he’d no right to die in such a place as Auschwitz...

  The Allied bombing campaign on the Monowitz factory resumed on December 26. It was the late Christmas present the surviving inmates had been praying for. No more people were transported to the camp, and the black smoke that had once belched almost continually from the chimneys of the crematorium – accompanied by the nauseating smell that carried for miles – finally ceased.

  There were no more gassings.

  A new rumour was quickly spread: the war was over – Germany had lost! The Soviet army was on its way. Those in charge of Auschwitz began destroying the camp’s records, the Totenbuch – death book – that meticulously kept track of the camp’s daily, monthly and yearly mortality rate.

  The order to evacuate Auschwitz was given on J
anuary 18, those inmates deemed fit enough taken to nearby railway junctions to be transported to a hundred different camps within Western Germany. Many of these journeys also included a walk of hundreds of miles.

  The Death Marches had begun. Anyone who fell was shot, and the slightest protest was met with savage brutality by the armed guards.

  Along with eight hundred and fifty other slave labourers, Heinemann was left behind with only a skeleton guard remaining at the camp. He had dysentery, and lay for days with little food or water. The stench of excrement, of death, hung about him; a foul cloak that did its utmost to finally snuff out the last flickering light of life.

  His eyes rarely opened, and when they did they were lifeless, unseeing: they showed just how close to death he was. His mind wandered; he talked to his aunt, to Frau Stielke, sometimes even to Commissioner Sasse of the Berlin Gestapo. His skeletal hands would frame arpeggios on an imagined violin; he would be playing pieces to the rich by the Siegessaule, the victory column in the Tiergarten.

  On the 19 January the Allies bombed Monowitz again. This left the remaining inmates with even less food and water, and two hundred died during the following week. On the 25 the SS shot three hundred and fifty Jews in the sick bay, Heinemann ignored as his survival was considered an impossibility – it was simply not worth wasting the ammunition.

  It was then the SS left, the Russians arriving the very next day.

  Along with the surviving slave labourers at Monowitz, the Soviets found another seven thousand survivors scattered around the camp. The Nazis had succeeded in destroying the gas chambers, but not the vast storehouses containing the imprisoned and murdered people’s belongings.

  In these were the only reminders of the countless thousands who’d passed through the camp gates to die: nearly a million women’s dresses, three hundred thousand men’s suits, and thirty eight thousand pairs of men’s shoes.

  6

  Finally, Erich Heinemann raised his eyes to again meet Schmidt’s lizard-like gaze.

  ‘And you,’ said the elderly violinist quietly. ‘What became of you… after?’

  The unscarred section of Schmidt’s brow creased with mild surprise.

  ‘Why do you wish to know?’ he asked.

  Heinemann rubbed his face with his hands. He gave a deep sigh before replying, ‘I’m not sure... I... I suppose I just want to know how you escaped being imprisoned or hanged – which is what you still deserve – and so are able to stand here in front of me tonight, a free man.’

  Schmidt patted the pocket of his jacket where he’d put back the knife.

  ‘You can still call the police…’ he said, and his tone of voice was not taunting but merely matter of fact.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Heinemann wearily. ‘Just… just tell me what became of you after the war.’

  For almost a minute Schmidt thought, as it slowly occurred to him that he really did want to tell Erich Heinemann his story. Never would he have revealed it to anyone else; but this violinist had had such a profound affect on his life that Schmidt considered they shared some kind of bond – something that merited Heinemann being told everything.

  ‘Very well, then…’ said Schmidt, and he prepared himself to begin.

  *

  Several months before the Russians liberated Auschwitz, recognising that Germany’s defeat was imminent, Kurt Schmidt left the concentration camp. One day he declared that he was going to inspect the perimeter of the camp for hiding partisans, and simply did not return.

  In any case, all the while he’d been at the camp Schmidt had continually felt the urge to return to the vaulted buildings of the Mitte district; the winding alleyways, little shops and quaint cafes within Charlottenburg; the liberating expanse of the Tiergarten...

  In short, The Whistler missed Berlin.

  And so when he left Auschwitz, he did not question his insane logic in returning to a city that was the obvious goal for the fast-encroaching Allied powers, nor did he consider the risks that the four hundred kilometre trek to Berlin would entail.

  Having travelled at night and with the utmost caution – often spending days in hiding when I thought that it was not as-yet safe to continue my journey – I at last entered Berlin.

  There, hidden within the doorways of partially destroyed buildings, I watched as the few remaining Nazis consigned themselves and others to their deaths; those fools who fought Russian tanks armed with nothing more than paving slabs and wooden clubs.

  But I had returned – returned to the city that was my home. It had been heavily bombed and lay in ruins, but it was still Berlin.

  I found a cellar hidden amongst a huge pile of rubble, inside of which were perhaps twenty people hiding from the Nazis, who would have made them fight to the death. But they didn’t seem any less afraid of the Russians, who, it seemed, freely raped and murdered.

  The Russians – the forward infantry and tank divisions of whom were already in Berlin – arrived en masse a few days later, some possessing the lined face of the Mongolian and the characteristic oriental-looking beard.

  Others were from Turkestan and Siberia; short and sturdy men who marched quickly to wherever it was they were ordered to go. The red banner flew from the roof of the Reichstag and rumours began spreading that Adolf Hitler was dead, killed by his own hand.

  What strange men those Russians were! I would sneak out of the cellar to look for food, and see them trying to ride bicycles in the streets, falling off and getting on again until such time as they grew bored. They were like small children. For days on end I heard the same record being played over-and-over – it was a Christmas carol, would you believe!

  Soon enough a group of soldiers discovered the cellar, and myself and the other men were held at gunpoint while they raped every woman in turn – even one who was in her eighties. A husband of one of the younger ones – some hot-headed fool – was shot dead when he tried to attack a soldier.

  When this was all done the others ran away, but three of the soldiers took me to where they were staying – a large flat owned by two doctors. One soldier spoke a little German, and he told the doctors that I would be staying here as well. Then he dropped his trousers, and waited for them to diagnose whatever his problem was.

  After this there followed a drinking session that lasted well into the next morning, rum and schnapps having been provided by the soldiers. When drunk they would at first dance and sing, and then they would cry – one man even put a pistol to his head and played Russian Roulette. I hoped he would blow his brains out, but that night he was lucky...

  Schmidt was mildly bemused by the Russians apparent inability to use a water closet. Tables, beds and carpets were common places for faecal visiting cards to be discovered by weary Berliners, after a jolly group of liberators had popped by armed with several bottles of rum.

  For the first and only time in his life, Schmidt needed something to help him get through this strange period. For he was entirely bewildered by the absurdity of what was taking place. Auschwitz had contained death... that was normal, an inevitable part of human existence. This now was lunacy.

  So finding his saviour in schnapps he soon left his lodgings (having first strangled one of the Russian soldiers as he slept, Schmidt considering that the man had – in his own strange language – mocked him one day) and took to wandering about the city, losing himself in his memories from before the war. He keenly felt Berlin’s destruction – almost like a parent whose child has been badly hurt.

  One day he entered a desolate area that had seen some of the harshest fighting between the remaining German forces and the Russians. And then, through his alcoholic haze, he suddenly realised where he was...

  This was Schoneberg – the place where he’d lived with his parents for the first few years of his life.

  I was walking through wrecked streets, just trying to remember where it was that my parents had had their lodgings, when something exploded almost under my feet. For a while there was just blackness and I thought I wa
s dead. Then the pain began… My face felt as though it had been torn apart, and the blackness wasn’t death: I was blind.

  I heard men’s voices which grew ever-louder as they approached me; some were German and the others I discovered later were American – for they had recently taken over from the Russians here. They talked for a while, and then I felt myself being lifted up before I passed out.

  For several weeks Schmidt drifted in and out of consciousness, as American doctors did the best they could to repair his ruined face. They managed to save his sight, although it would be almost a year before his right eye ceased to throb with excruciating pain.

  When he’d sufficiently recovered from his injuries he took notice of his surroundings. He was laid-out inside a huge white tent, along with hundreds of other men, women and children.

  Schmidt realised that he’d been lucky with the amount of treatment he’d received; for usually the harassed and overworked doctors could make only the most cursory of examinations. The nurses had deep lines of exhaustion etched into their faces; they tried to give what comfort they could to the dying, the amputees, and the blind.

  A doctor told me that he and his colleagues had done the best they could, but that my face and my upper body were still severely scarred and burned. They simply didn’t have the resources to offer me any further surgery. The doctor gave me a mirror and looked afraid of my reaction, as though I might scream and cry about my injuries like some foolish woman and throw myself into the Spree.

  I was alive! That was all I cared about, and the doctor looked most relieved when I thanked him for all he had done.

  Through the American soldiers, who visited the wounded out of some pleasant sense of humanitarianism, Schmidt heard how members of the Nazi Party were being hunted throughout Germany. If it was suspected that they’d been involved in any atrocities then they would be dealt with at special ‘War Crimes’ trials.