Cold Angel: Murder in Berlin 1949

by Horst Bosetzky

  Now I feel better. I go back to work. Mrs. Gast has had a relapse, she’s dying. So it was cancer in the end. Hopeless. I would like to give her an injection so she would pass quickly. I cheer her up, with the old Berlin ditty: “With Grandma Kay it’ll be okay, with Grandma Jane it was the same, only with Grandma Meg, she had no luck, seven times they cut her up, and then they saw that Grandma Meg, she had a wooden leg.” It makes me happy to see how she laughs because it reminds her of her grandmother who she loved very much. I always manage to comfort patients, even those who are dying. No other nurse can do that like me. When I die they’ll write these words on my tomb: “She was a kindhearted nurse, the angel of Berlin, the Florence Nightingale of Germany, she truly sacrificed herself for her patients.”

  I’m done and I can go and visit the children in Teltow now. They wait for me like chicks waiting for their mother hen. I’m everything to them. My Siegfried, my Siglinde, my Hedda. Oh how I would love to have you all with me in a big house, no, a manor. After all, your grandmother was a countess and you deserve better than a catholic institution in Teltow. Out in the boondocks. How long do I have to sit in this S-Bahn train? Why don’t I have my own car anymore and my chauffeur – as I used to at my parents house and with Wilhelm?!

  “Children, I brought you all something nice.” Sweets, fruit, toys.

  “Momma, you came, finally!”

  “Finally, dear, dear Momma, you take us in your arms.”

  “Momma, don’t ever go away again, please, please!”

  I feel as if they are tearing my heart apart. The whole world should see how I suffer! I would have killed myself long ago if the children didn’t need me so much and Walter and Kurt and all my patients. I know, I know, they can’t manage without me.

  But I’ll make it, I’ll get out of this miserable situation. I’m strong enough to do it. I CAN DO WHATEVER I SET MY MIND TO.

  17.

  Me – Wednesday, December 21, 1949

  I had a terrible night and a horrible nightmare. I was taking a walk in the cemetery and I heard the dead whisper: I must unearth them. Then one climbs out of his tomb and lies down next to me in my bed. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom.

  I think of Kurt constantly. I must become his wife. He’s coming to me in the evening the second day of the Christmas holiday. He told his family he would be on standby duty, but in fact he’s off. I’ll shower him with presents. But, my God, there are only three days left before Christmas Eve and I still don’t have a typewriter for him. I know nothing would him happier than a typewriter. He doesn’t have one at work and has to write everything by hand. If I give him a typewriter he’ll be bowled over. He’s never received such a valuable present. His wife, his children – all they do is take from him. I am the first one to give him so much. Me. I’m the only one.

  I don’t feel well. It started right after I woke up. I feel as if a ball is constantly rising inside me, from my stomach to my throat. My legs shake, my calf muscles cramp up. Same thing with my stomach, my wound. I must inject some morphine.

  It slowly takes effect. I can breathe. But still: where can I find a typewriter, where can I get the money? Money, money, money! I scream: NO TYPEWRITER, NO KURT, AND WITHOUT KURT NO HAPPINESS. It’s that simple. I don’t have much time. Something has to happen. Today. I go to work at 6PM. So there’s time before then. First breakfast. Blood sausage, marmelade, instant coffee. Why is it other people drink real coffee – and I have to drink this piss? Why do other people live in big homes, even own their own houses – and I have to live in this hole? Another failure. In the foyer I meet Mrs. Stöhr. She’s been shopping and is holding a newspaper.

  “Did you read this Mrs. Kusian. Deadly accident while slaughtering a rabbit. 75 year old Heinrich Welz, from 75 Reichenbergerstrasse in Kreuzberg, was attempting to slaughter a rabbit when he stabbed himself in the thigh, cutting the main artery. The firemen took him to Urban Hospital where he died shortly afterwards.

  “You have to be really careful. My brother in law and I we often slaughter rabbitts.”

  “Not in my house please!”

  I get ready to go to Zoo station. I’ve got to find a store somewhere where they’ll let me have a typewriter without putting down a deposit. But where?

  “Hello, Mrs. Kusian!”

  I return the greeting. An old patient of mine. I know what the other patients used to whisper behind her back: “She makes her money on her back.” People said that she beat the pavement nearby on Augsburgerstrasse waiting for a john. That gives me an idea… That way I would at least have the money to put down. If I take Pervitin, it’ll be all right. No big deal. One more or less doesn’t matter. And maybe I’d enjoy it. Like in 1944 when we celebrated the New Year at my place and I … Maybe I can a get a guy to pay 50 marks if I give him what he wants. No! No! No! What if Kurt found out…? I’ve got to find another way: I mustn’t sell myself, I have to sell something. But what? I don’t own anything that I could sell. Nothing, but the Stöhr woman does… I could lure an antique dealer in the apartment, pretend I’m the widow Stöhr, sell the living room rug, get a down payment on the understanding that the beautiful rug will be picked up after Christmas. By then I’ll have the money, I’ll go to the store, say I’m sorry but the deal is off. What a brilliant idea! I’m the only person who could have thought of that. I beat everybody.

  On Pestalozzistrasse there’s a consignment shop for used goods. I remember last Spring I bought an old vacuum cleaner there. I go. It’s open. The owner’s name if Kurt Gehring. Kurt, that’s a good omen.

  “Hello Mr. Gehring. I’ve come to your store once before… But you didn’t look as good as you do today. I can tell: you’re doing well, right?”

  “No, no, on the contrary… Since my wife died, I…”

  “A man like you doesn’t need to stay alone for very long.” I know how to make men crazy. He needs it, it’s obvious. “Your business… You look like you’re doing well.”

  “Thank you but things could be better.”

  “Well then, this is just the right time: I have an absolutely beautiful Persian carpet for you.”

  “I make it a rule not to accept rugs on consignment, and I never buy them. Carpets are always dusty and stained. People spill coffee on them, the children pee on them…”

  “Mine is as good as new.”

  “People don’t look for new carpets here.”

  “Please Mr. Gehring, please do me a favor! I have three children and no money for Christmas presents.”

  “Aha, three children… they all pee on the carpet.”

  It’s time to play my trump card. I sit on a chair, I cross my legs high so that my skirt slides up and he can see as much he wants to whet his appetite. “Please, come with me to my apartment… You won’t regret it.” I’m better than Marlene Dietrich, I know it. But it’s all in vain. Gehring is unassailable and he refuses to come and see the rug.

  “Please leave my store.”

  “I will but first I’ll punch your face, you heartless bastard.”

  He runs to the back of the store and locks himself up in the bathroom; I grab a tea cup from the display and I run out into the street.

  I’m upset. No man can resist me usually, it works every time. Why couldn’t I do it this time? Suddenly I understand: that guy was a fag and he lied about having a wife. Obvious. Still, I go into the entrance hall of a building and gulp down some Pervitin. The morphine took my stomach pain away but it also dimmed my fire. Maybe Gehring wasn’t a homosexual at all, maybe I just wasn’t attractive enough. I can’t afford to make mistakes like that anymore.

  I travel through the city, as if in a feverish dream.

  THE TYPEWRITER…!

  THE TYPEWRITER…!

  THE TYPEWRITER…!

  I must have it, at any cost.

  I take the S-Bahn to Neukölln. First I go to Hertie’s. They don’t have any Erikas in stock. But in any case I couldn’t buy one with 20 marks. And yet that’s the most I could pay. Oth
erwise I have to go hungry. All I have left is 20 marks and 25 pfennigs… How can that happen to someone like me? It’s so unfair. I’ve always been disappointed in life. All of a sudden I feel so miserable I have to go to the ladies’ room and take some more Pervitin. I probably took too little before.

  So… I feel noticeably better again. There must be somebody in this city who will be willing to sell me a typewriter on credit! As I’m walking towards Hermann Platz, I see a small shop between Rathausstrasse and Fuldastrasse. ‘Mackeprang.’ What a name. With a name like that, he should be easy to convince. I go in.

  “Hello, how are you, I’m nurse Anita from Robert-Koch Hospital and my director, Mr. Ramolla, has asked me to find out where we can buy 25 typewriters for our offices and nursing stations.”

  “Oh…” I can see the shop owner is thinking this could be his lucky day. Still, he’s skeptical at first. “Has a dead patient willed you her entire fortune?”

  “No, we’re getting the money from an American foundation, the Benjamin Franklin Foundation.” I’m in great form now. I can feel it. And the nurse’s uniform I’m wearing does the rest.

  “May I make you an offer?”

  I nod. “Yes, of course. And I will see to it that you get the order in case there are several offers. What do you have in stock? Can we….”

  “Absolutely, dear Madam.”

  The shop keeper shows me a few models, among them, an Erika. I’ve got to have it. I try my luck immediately. “Would you mind if I took this one to the hospital so that we can try it out?”

  “What…? I would have thought you needed a somewhat larger model…?”

  I realize I’ve made a mistake. Now the only thing I can do is forge ahead full steam. “You are right. But I figured that there should be a little something for me in the lot.”

  That’s when he rushes past me to the door and throws it open. “Get out! Out, before I call the police!”

  I won’t give up. If you want to take over the world in a bolt of thunder, you don’t wait for the next storm! That’s what Captain von Krummensee used to sing all the time, my dearest lover and the one I kept for the longest time. Fell at Katowice. He would have married me. His family owns a castle near Plön. In fact, I’m really Elisabeth von Krummensee.

  I go to the Post Office and look through the telephone book for other typewriter dealers. Not too far. Here’s one: Beigang, on Linkstrasse. That’s near Potsdammer Platz, I can get there with the U-Bahn. Something big is going on over here, East Berliners have to celebrate Stalin’s 70th birthday.

  A Mrs. Merten helps me. I hear her name when her boss, as he is leaving the store, tells her he is going to see one of their important customers. “I’ll be out until one o’clock, Mrs. Merten.” I try to size the woman up. I’ve got to get it right this time, I don’t want to experience another fiasco, as with Mackeprang. She seems very sensitive. She probably writes poetry and love stories in her free time. She’s wearing a wedding ring so she’s married but she doesn’t look very happy. The hard lines around her mouth seem to indicate a lot of bitterness. I bet she’s separated from her husband. Apart from that she’s very elegant. Nice hair, good clothes. That means she’s looking for somebody new. And maybe she also needs a new woman friend. Women whose heart is as heavy as hers are always looking for a shoulder to cry on and they like to listen to other people’s tales of woe. So… I give it all I have. First I sigh.

  “Oh God, it’s so awful…!”

  She looks at me wide eyed. “What can I do for you…?”

  “I’m in such a terrible situation…!”

  “I’m sorry… But unfortunately, we’re only a typewriter and office equipment dealership…”

  “That’s exactly the problem, a typewriter!” I happily catch the ball she has just thrown. “Kurt, my fiancé, is a gifted writer and a big Munich publisher wants to print his first novel… if he delivers the manuscript before Easter. But his old typewriter was stolen when his place was broken into, and now he can’t write anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible!”

  I could see that Merten was really touched. “And he hasn’t got the money for a new machine of course… I have to make him a present of one. But my life isn’t exactly a bed of roses either. You know, a nurse…”

  “We could arrange a deposit.”

  “Right now is a difficult time… I don’t have any cash, I have to wait for my next pay check, because… Oh God, it’s so awful I can’t even think of telling you.”

  “Please do…”

  I sit down. “Well, Walter, my ex husband, emptied my entire savings account and he literally stole every last penny from my desk drawer… with a picklock. Out of revenge, because I’m with Kurt. He used to beat me repeatedly and he would disparage me in front of everybody. And that’s not all: he threatened to kill Kurt if I keep seeing him. That’s why Kurt and I want to leave, we want to move to the American zone. But the only way we can is if Kurt sells his novel…” I go on, more forcefully now. “The only way he can do that is if he delivers his novel on time, and for that he needs a typewriter. An Erika would be enough.” I take a rumpled handkerchief out of my bag and wipe tears from my eyes.

  “You poor thing,” Mrs Merten says. “I’ll talk to my employer and we will see what we can do. Can you come back?”

  18.

  Me - Thursday December 22, 1949

  This morning I feel absolutely miserable, I drink cup after cup of coffee Real grain coffee. I finally have some at home. I had to pay a fortune for it. By chance I “found” a package of five brand new thermometers at the hospital and I got a couple of marks for them from a second hand dealer. But I can’t make too much stuff ‘disappear’ from the hospital because Ramolla has it in for me, he wants to kick me out. And Pervitin is even more expensive.

  The Stöhr woman left the paper on the kitchen table. I take a look. What terrible headlines! Without Heat or Light, Misery in the Garden District – True, many people are worse off than I am… Higher gas Consumption at Christmas time – That’s because they’re all opening the taps… Phone numbers and addresses of taxi stations – Will I ever be able to afford a taxi..? Cars Kill four Children’– How awful! Search for Seidelmann’s Killer – right, let them look.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kusian. Ah, you have our newspaper again… You know, I’m not like that, but my mother says that you should share a little of the cost, because that’s not included in the rent.”

  I’m boiling with rage, so early in the morning: that stupid cow! But I must stay calm, I can’t afford to move again. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Stöhr, by the middle of next year, 1950, I’ll pay the whole subscription. By then I’ll finally receive my Uncle William’s money that I have inherited. It’s in the bank in Dayton, Ohio but the Americans froze the account because he’s supposed to have been a big Nazi, which is totally ridiculous.”

  “Good.” Stöhr tears the paper from my hands. “My mother would like to read it now.”

  I ride to work. Ramolla walks up to me. “You are fired as of December 31st of this year!”

  I can’t believe it. The world is so ungrateful! What will happen to me now? I faint.

  When I come to, Head Nurse Anita sends me home. I’m to lie in bed and get some rest. God, if she only knew… I have no work. I have exactly 15 marks and 42 pfennigs in my purse. I’m supposed to live on that until I get unemployment next year. Ramolla hates me and if I apply for a job at another hospital, they’ll call him first and then they’ll say: “Sorry, we have no vacancies to fill.” I know that when he doesn’t like someone he has bad things written up about them in their files. I have to move to another city and start a new life – with Kurt. Kurt has to see how much I love him, he’s got to know that I’ll do anything for him, really anything. ANYTHING, ANYTHING, ANYTHING! For him, I would even commit murder.

  I need 200 marks, 300, 400. Maybe Walter can lend me some money. I walk to the Zoological Gardens S-Bahn station. I wait for the next train. A train comes in from Cha
rlottenburg. I stand right at the edge of the platform. One step forward – and it’ll all be over. Peace. I’m pulled in… NO!!! I still want something from life, I want many more years, with KURT. I want to have a second life, a new life, where we have money and we open a private clinic.

  “Train for Erckner. All aboard.”

  I get on and ride to Friedrichstrasse so I can take the Nordbahn to Velten. Oranienburgstrasse, Stettiner station, Humboldthain, Gesundbrunnen, Bornholmen strasse, Wollanstrasse. I get off, I’m in control again. It’s not far from the station to Sternstrasse. I meet Walter’s landlady, she’s coming down the stairs. “Bad luck, Mrs. Kusian, your brother in law just left.”

  Everybody thinks Walter is my brother in law; they don’t know he’s my ex husband. After the war I had to lie in order to find a position as a nurse trainee: no one would hire the wife of an ex Nazi. Walter and his golden party insignia – all of a sudden my husband was a war criminal. They threw us out of our house. In 1945, they carried me out of the hospital on a coal wagon. Splinters from a Russian grenade had torn my stomach muscles and calves. The wounds weren’t properly healed yet, everything was still suppurating. At exactly the same time, Walter came back from prison camp, a broken man, physically and morally. I hid him for over a week. He doesn’t know how often I was questioned because of him. No money, no work, five of us in a small room. I went all around Berlin, on crutches, to try and find a new place for us and work for myself. Finally we got a one bedroom apartment. It was hell. Our marriage was falling apart with each passing day and, in the end, I breathed a sigh of relief when Walter finally gave me a divorce.

  Walter… Somehow I still feel something for him. Even if there’s Kurt. Walter was so dashing, so sharp. Whenever he took me it was like a storm and he took my breath away. No, he isn’t at home. I’m disappointed. I’m horrified at the same time because I’m betraying Kurt, if only in my mind. How can I make it up to him? With the typewriter of course. But where can I find the money for it…? As my grandfather used to say: ‘Whichever way you turn, your ass is still behind you.’