Tristan (1998)

This text is not a report, a research paper, or an argument.
These are impressions I have received through my spiritual work—as a response to a fate that has deeply moved many people.

Tristan was a wonderful boy. He was friendly and kind-hearted, had a big heart for animals, and cared for them with genuine devotion.
Although he was only 13 years old when he died, he carried within him an unusual seriousness for a child, rooted in his grief over his deceased mother. Her death brought an incredible heaviness and burden into his life, causing him to “grow up” quickly. Too much grief for such a small heart.

His father and, above all, his grandmother were his anchors in life. Only with them could he be who he really was: still a child.

His grandmother, in particular, was able to give him the maternal love he lacked—with her, he could feel a certain lightness again and simply “be a child.” When he allowed himself to, he was funny and silly, quick-witted and cheerful.

But those were fleeting moments, replaced by his “difficult” everyday life. Here he was often serious; he only enjoyed talking to a few friends. His father tried to support him, but was too preoccupied with his own burden and grief to clearly recognize his son’s. Tristan didn’t want to be a burden to him, which is why he kept his feelings to himself.

On that terrible day in March, too many unrelated events converged and were destined to culminate in a catastrophe.

It wasn’t a nice day; the sun only peeked out from time to time. It was cloudy. Tristan didn’t want to go to school. He found a spot in the park where he met a nice woman with her dog, petted the dog, and chatted with her briefly. He just wanted to kill some time.

When it started to drizzle, he headed toward an underpass. By then, there were no other people left in the park. After all, it was March and the weather wasn’t nice.
A man had settled down in the underpass itself—perhaps he, too, had originally been seeking shelter from the approaching rain. He had spread out his belongings on a large black blanket. He was a homeless man. Tristan noticed him at the other end of the tunnel and also heard him talking to himself. He was clearly speaking incoherently and aggressively, gesturing wildly in the air.
Tristan decided to walk past him. At first, nothing happened—Tristan had almost walked past him—when he was suddenly yanked backward. The man had grabbed his backpack from behind and pulled him over. The moment Tristan realized the stranger was reaching for him, the only thought that shot through his mind was that this was yet another mugging. He feared he was about to be robbed again.
But soon kicks and punches followed, and he was hurled against the wall and the cobblestones until he lost consciousness. Unimaginable things happened, and Tristan died.

The man was a homeless person with severe mental health issues. At the time of the incident, he was experiencing a severe psychotic episode that led him to believe he was fighting demons rather than a child. He was in a state of complete delusion. These episodes may have been triggered by drug abuse, but the decisive factor was his psychotic episodes, for which he was receiving medication. Although he had no fixed residence (at least not in the Frankfurt area), he had access to the appropriate medication and received medical care, at least intermittently. His state of consciousness was determined by the medication. On that day, he did not take any.

He took his murder weapon with him and buried some of the incriminating evidence, while disposing of the rest in public trash cans. Since he was homeless, no one paid him any attention. Since he was also obviously confused and aggressive, no one wanted to pay him any attention either.

Over the years, he has partially forgotten the crime, depending on his mental state. In fact, he did talk to someone about the crime, but within his own social circle, so there was no incentive to pass on the information.

A witness also saw him leaving the underpass after the crime. She was an elderly woman who was on her balcony at the time. From there, she could see the man, but she did not report it to the police. She has since passed away, but she told this to a close relative.

One detail in particular has stuck in my mind: During the visions, I constantly heard the monotonous dripping of water. This may have been due to the location, or it may have been a hint of rain. The fact that no one else was in the public park and that the only two people apparently present made their way to the only covered area also leads me to believe that it could have been an approaching rain shower, which either never materialized or passed quickly.

This crime, in its brutality and senselessness, shook all of Germany. Nevertheless, the perpetrator was never found.

Tristan was a child when he was murdered. This heinous crime not only ripped him from life but also destroyed his family’s lives. The pain and grief over such an extreme act of violence will likely last a lifetime for his loved ones.
We forget that there are people, like his family, whose lives will never be the same again. An injustice that can never be atoned for in this life.
Something else he wanted me to know was that he wanted to apologize to his father. He said that if he hadn’t been there that day, it would never have happened. Of course, it wasn’t his fault in any way—but that’s how it must have felt to him.

A murderer who was able to live with the crime his entire life.

A child who is murdered. And yet feels guilty.

The descriptions above are not facts or truths. They are impressions I have gathered, with details that were surprising—even to me. These writings are not meant to be accusatory or merely pedantic. Rather, they are an attempt to understand something that cannot be understood. They are an attempt to let something like a small light shine in absolute darkness. They are an attempt to find a truth where only silence is permitted.