Cold Angel: Murder in Berlin 1949

by Horst Bosetzky

  I ride through the city, although I don’t really have the fare and I hit the stores. I try everything, I tell them the craziest stories, I break out in tears – nothing works, nobody is willing to let me have a machine for a 10 mark deposit.

  Only Walter can help me. Maybe he knows a few old Party comrades who have gotten back on their feet and can help me out with some money.

  So I go back to Wedding, to Sternstrasse. This time he’s at home, getting ready to wrap the Christmas presents for the children. He makes me some herb tea. I sit down next to the warm tiled stove and watch him.

  “How about helping me?” he asks me.

  “No thanks.”

  “Why are you so listless, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Oh, Walter…” I get up, I go to him and snuggle up against him. “I don’t know where I’m at anymore. They fired me at the hospital and they want to lodge a formal complaint against me because they say I stole a typewriter. ‘If you don’t bring the typewriter back by Christmas Eve, Mrs. Kusian, we’ll send the police to your home!’”

  “And did you steal the typewriter?”

  “No, Walter, I swear by everything that’s sacred to me. But they don’t believe me. If I don’t have the money for a new typewriter by tomorrow, I’ll go to jail. Walter, you must lend me some money.”

  But all he does is laugh. “I haven’t got anything myself. Try to rob a naked man.”

  I faint again. The second time today. When I regain consciousness, I’m lying in Walter’s bed. He carried me there and took off my blouse and skirt. His hand slips under my panties and he starts caressing me. I think of Kurt and want to push his hand away, but he won’t let me. In the end I give in to him. I can’t help myself. Today has been so awful, I think I deserve a little pleasure. And so I spend the night with him…

  Around three o’clock in the morning he gets up to go to the toilet, and when he comes back, I break out and say: “Walter, I’ve done something terrible!”

  He switches on the night lamp and looks at me searchingly. “What did you do? Tell me…!”

  I can’t and I press my face into the pillow.

  19.

  Me – Friday, December 23, 1949

  I’m at wit’s end! I don’t know up from down anymore. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, tomorrow at noon the stores will close – and I still don’t have a typewriter for Kurt. I could hardly shut my eyes last night. At 8AM I go to the Zoo to telephone the hospital and call in sick. Ramolla doesn’t ask what’s wrong with me, he doesn’t ask for a certificate; he’s just glad I’m not showing up. “But what about your nurse’s uniform? You must please bring it back!” Is that what I deserve?!

  ‘Elisabeth, stop feeling sorry for yourself!’ I pull myself together. Now that I’m up I can still go to Beigang’s and see if I can make him come round. I take the S-Bahn and go to Potsdammer Platz. I’ve looked in the store almost every day to see the typewriter that’s meant for Kurt. But again today, Beigang seems unmoved.

  “As a rule we sell only cash.”

  “Please make an exception once in your life!” I beg him. “My entire life’s happiness hangs on it.”

  Mrs. Merten, the saleslady, supports me. “Yes, Mr. Beigang, for such a nice woman, such a neat nurse as Mrs. Kusian, we should make an exception. We really should.”

  “All right, I’ll let you talk me into it: a 50 mark deposit and six monthly installments of 30 marks.”

  At first I’m filled with joy and I embrace him. But later, after I’ve left the store, I feel just as miserable as ever: I don’t have the 50 marks. I tell myself to go back home first, go back to bed and wait.

  I don’t feel well. My wound hurts again. I helped several hundred men and I’ve literally saved several of their lives – and who is helping me now? Nobody. My grandmother used to say: ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ But how can I help myself? The only way is to steal the money I need or to murder someone who has it. Or lay a trap for someone, deceive him and sweet talk him into something. But how, how, how? I lie in bed for hours and brood. How can I get my hands on Mrs. Stöhr’s necklace, where does she keep it? If I could sell it or at least take it to the pawn shop… She’s going out to shop right now, but her mother is staying and she keeps watch like a lynx. So that won’t work. I stare up at the ceiling. Then my eyes fall on the nurse’s uniform. What if I put it on and went out to look for some opportunity…

  I start on Uhlandstrasse. I’m looking for an apartment building that has survived the war, the kind where rich people might live. I find one and I go up to the first floor. I look for an old fashioned brass name plate. What I need is a rich widow between the ages of eighty and ninety. When I find A. Rich, I freeze: this is a sign from heaven. I ring the shiny gold bell without another thought. I feel terrific even without the Pervitin. Like an actress on the night of the premiere. Stage lights. I hear footsteps shuffling close. Then the peephole is uncovered.

  “Yes… Why didn’t they send Nurse Gerda?”

  “Nurse Gerda had an accident, I’m covering for her.”

  “All right, come in.” She releases the chain.

  At that moment a man comes up the stairs and recognizes me. It’s Göltzsch from the furniture store downstairs at the corner; he followed me several times and is after me. I threw him off every time. But today…

  “Well, Mrs. Kusian, if you want to come up to my place, you’re on the wrong floor. One floor up.”

  I curse him, he’s ruined my plan with the old lady. I take flight, the old lady is angry at me. Downstairs, in the street, Göltzsch catches up with me. “So, did your rich aunt throw you out?”

  “I wish I had a rich aunt to inherit from. No, it was a mistake. I wanted to visit an ex patient of mine but I got the addresses mixed up.”

  Göltzsch turned on the charm like an UFA star. “Well, I never forget your address. Every evening I stand in front of the house at Kantstrasse 154a and I look up at your window with longing in my heart. You know: it’s my passion for nurses. Do you have a little time for me today?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I have to go… It’s my brother… his life…”

  “Is he in the hospital, clinging to life?”

  “No. He made some deals with two American officers – false papers for entry into the USA – and now they’re demanding the money and he hasn’t been able to put it together.”

  “My God, tell me, how can I help you?”

  I’m sure Göltzsch believes everything I say so I don’t need to search too far for an answer. “How can you help…? You can lend me the money.”

  He hesitates for only a couple of seconds and then he realizes what I’ve offered him. “First, I have to go to the bank to get the money. Could I bring it to you later? Let’s say around four?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll make us a good cup of coffee…”

  I’m saved. Kurt will get his typewriter. I dance across the street, or at least I feel as if I were dancing. Upstairs, I’ll have the place to myself since the Stöhr woman and her mother are visiting relatives in Finkenkrug.

  I put on my make up and get dressed. I hope that he’ll give me the money without my having to go all the way but, if it has to happen, I’ll let him take me. In the hospital I met many patients who made their money selling their ass and they were not bad people.

  At exactly 4PM he’s standing at my door. He’s carrying a briefcase and a bottle of champagne, he kisses me. “My name is Gregor…”

  “Come in.” He takes off his coat and I take him into my room.

  Göltzsch sits on my sofa and bounces up and down on it. “This doesn’t come from one of my stores and it’s already a little worn. You must have a busy love life.”

  “I sleep on it.”

  “The question is: with whom…?”

  “Only with men who have money.”

  “Then I may succeed.”

  “I only believe what I can see with my own eyes.”

  He pulls out his wallet from his jacket and ope
ns it. I can see a bundle of bills and I guess there’s more than a thousand marks. Much more in any case than what Seidelmann had.

  “Let’s have a drink first.” Göltzsch takes the bottle of champagne. “Do you have glasses?”

  “No. I’d have to ask my lodger…”

  “Then we’ll drink out of the bottle.”

  He pops the cork and the bottle goes back and forth. It reminds me of the evenings I used to spend with my officers during the war. Everything’s the same. I sit next to him on the sofa and take hold of his crotch. His pants are bulging already. I start massaging him and he lets me pleasure him. His hand rides up under my skirt and I let him play around. I’m an expert: it’s easy to get men into such a state that they’ll do anything you want. The trick is to stop just when you’ve got them where you want them. When I sense that Göltzsch is ripe, I let go of his dick and I push him away. “…Only when I have the money for my brother.”

  “How much?”

  “500 marks. And no interest until Easter.”

  “Fine. But only for you my sweet. I’ve got the promissory note in my coat pocket.” He goes out to the entrance hall. When he returns he has no paper in his hand, he’s got a clothes line. I recoil. “Don’t be afraid. I…I can only do it if I tie you up.”

  I don’t believe it. I see it in his eyes: he wants to kill me. So I pounce on him to tear the cord away. He won’t let go so we fight hard. He’s a man, a grown man of average weight and I’m just a woman but I’m not a weak woman: I’ve been lifting patients for years. That builds your muscles. We roll on the floor. Whenever he’s on top he tries to come into me and to strangle me at the same time. I’m scared to death. When I have the upper hand I try to slip the clothe line around his neck and pull it tight.

  Who knows how it would have ended; all of a sudden the door flies open and the Stöhr woman is there screaming.

  “Mrs. Kusian, I can’t believe my eyes!”

  “Help,” I cry. “Get the police. I’m being attacked.”

  “Stop your nonsense. I know Mr. Göltzsch. He is the biggest skirt chaser in town and he doesn’t need to attack a woman to get his way. And you Mr. Göltzsch, you should really be ashamed of yourself. Your wife is in the obstetrics ward and you are constantly going astray. Shame, shame, shame! Get out of here!”

  Göltzsch grabs his clothes and runs out of the apartment. He didn’t leave me a penny.

  20.

  Me – Saturday, December 24, 1949

  I’m beginning to panick. If the Stöhr woman hadn’t interrupted us… If, if, if. What if? How can I put together 50 marks for the deposit on the typewriter? I can only hope for a miracle. I know there’ll be a miracle again… How often we played that song on the gramophone. I can’t believe it: my life, my happiness, my future hangs on a single lousy fifty mark bill. I must get my hands on that money, I must! I take some more Pervitin, 20 milligrams.

  Slowly, it starts to work. Everybody in this city has got 50 marks, I’m the only who doesn’t. I’m worth much more than any of them. They should take a leaf out of my book. I beat them all. There will be a film about me: The Woman who fought for her Life’s Happiness or The Fearless Woman Who walked over the Dead. After all other people did it and monuments were built to celebrate them: Frederick the Great, Bismarck, Napoleon. Hundreds died in their wars. And I do it just for my own little happiness. A Love so great or What you do for Love. Someone will want to film my life. They’ll all be talking about Elisabeth Kusian. The Woman who never gave up or The Woman who took what she deserved to have. No that’s too long for a title. Maybe just: Elisabeth K. My life is like no other. My life is unique. I’ll tell the film makers that I want to play myself. Then it’ll say in big letters: Kusian plays Kusian on every marquee. I’ll have tons of money and the children can attend a Swiss boarding school. The Little Nurse turned Diva, they’ll write about me. Then I’ll finally be the person I was meant to be.

  I’m in great shape now. I’ll get that money. I have an idea, I put on my coat and I run downstairs to the telephone box. I know the Robert-Koch Hospital phone number by heart of course.

  “Hello, this is Nurse Elisabeth. I would like to speak to Mr. Ramolla.” They put me through. “Ah, finally. I know for a fact, Mr. Ramolla that you have political ambitions. So it wouldn’t look good if your name was in tomorrow’s papers. Nurse, unjustly fired, jumps in front of oncoming train. In her suicide letter, she accuses the administrative director of Robert-Koch Hospital.” Max Ramolla remains silent.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “250 marks compensation for my suffering or in exchange for my silence.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “No but I’m freezing. I’m standing on the platform at Zoo station, waiting for the U-Bahn to Ruhleben. You will be here at 12 o’clock sharp. With the money. Otherwise I’m throwing myself on the tracks. And my suicide note is on my night table.” I hang up.

  I still have an hour to wait and I wander through the streets. Christmas is being celebrated everywhere among the ruins. What will next year be like…, Christmas 1950? I’ll be living in Munich with Kurt. I’ll be reborn. It’ll be my second life.

  I keep checking my old watch. I go to Zoo station and go down the stairs to the U-Bahn. Will Ramolla come? Is he already hiding behind one the many yellow pillars? I walk all the way to the edge of the platform. A train comes. Instinctively I take a step back.

  Ramolla has not come yet. He won’t come. I swear under my breath. “Another shot in the dark!” I can hear my grandmother say: “Child, bad luck sticks to you like glue.”

  I really could jump in front of the oncoming train. But I still want to live, I want to live with Kurt, with my baby. So I go back home. I must call Beigang! I’d almost forgotten the most important thing in my life.

  “Hello, dear Mr. Beigang, this is Nurse Elisabeth. I wanted to come by to make my deposit and take the typewriter but I can’t leave the hospital. I can’t leave the operating room – a bad accident. Would it be all right if I came later, around 4?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m getting ready to close the store so I can be with my family in time for Christmas, today is Christmas Eve.”

  “Couldn’t you drop off the typewriter at my place…? I live at 154a Kantstrasse.”

  “No, that’s impossible. We live in Rudow.”

  I’m desperate now. “There’s got to be a way. I beg you…!” That must have moved him because I hear him talking to Mrs. Merten. Thirty seconds go by. “Look, Mrs. Kusian, today or tomorrow it’s impossible but my saleslady Mrs. Merten could come by your house on the second day of Christmas and bring you the typewriter. Could you wait till then?”

  “Yes, I will of course. Thank you so much.” My baby can only come on the second day of Christmas anyway, that’s when we’ll exchange presents. I’m sure now that everything will turn out fine.

  Again the strange pain that rakes my body: from my lower abdomen something like a ball rises up in my body, all the way to my throat. My jaws and my tongue stiffen, I can’t talk. As soon as I’m back in my room, I inject myself with morphine.

  Walter comes by; he’s bringing me a back pack full of coal pellets. He won’t stay because he’s going to see the children at the home. I don’t have the strength to go with him.

  Early in the evening I sit with Mrs. Stöhr and her mother in the main room. She doesn’t have a Christmas tree, just a pine cone wreath with a little bit of tinsel and a few bright colored balls. It’s sad. I think of how it must be in other families. I’m filled with melancholy so I go out and take the train to Kurt’s place. I stand in front of his apartment building for half an hour and stare up at his window. Then I return to Kantstrasse and go to bed. I’m so exhausted, as if I were sick. I sleep until late the next day, the first day of Christmas. In the afternoon the only thing that gets me out of bed is that I’m as hungry as a wolf. I eat and then I go back to the safety of sleep.

  21.

  Me - Monday, Decembe
r 26 1949

  Last night I injected some M again so I could sleep well. I was like a bird flying over the sea in sunny Africa. My reserves of morphine are dwindling, but I need it, otherwise, every time I go to sleep I see Seidelmann’s face. I bought five doses at Zoo station, 2 milligrams for 25 marks.

  I realize that today is the day. If I get the typewriter I get Kurt and everything is great. But I still don’t have the 50 mark deposit – and I won’t be able to get it by the time Mrs. Merten comes, around twelve. Again I remember my grandmother, when she was hard up, saying: “Why can you take but not steal?” So I must steal but what and where? Cash of course. I try to decide whether I should make use of the fact that I know my way around Moabit and go to the hospital. Many of the patients have a little cash in their cabinets. But no, everybody knows me there, it’s useless. I lie in bed, motionless, paralyzed. I won’t be able to get through the day without Pervitin. So I drink down 30 milligrams and I go out. It can’t be that hard, in the crowd, to pull someone’s wallet out of their pocket. But as I reach the S-Bahn station I notice that today, being that it’s the second day of Christmas, there are no crowds. The trains are empty, the city center looks dead. A few people are standing in front of the movie billboards. I stand close and look for an opportunity. Nothing, no luck. I walk past a few cafes and wonder whether I could go in and sit and try to take the money from the waitress’s money pouch. Impossible. Only an experienced pickpocket could manage that. I’m standing in front of a cigarette dispenser, very close to madness: right there, behind the metal, are the 50 marks I need as badly as I need M – and I can’t get inside the box. I hurry away. I go down the stairs to the U-Bahn station at Uhlandstrasse. I go to the booth. A tired looking woman my age is sitting at the machine that prints out the tickets. There must be 50 marks in her desk drawer. What if I held her up with my house keys? No, she would just laugh at me.