I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 109: Chapter 19: The Weed Theory

Five days later, Fritz arranged to meet Werner.

They met in a noisy little tavern near Alexanderplatz.

Werner sat at a corner table and watched as Fritz pushed open the door, a tense expression on his face.

Fritz sat down across from him and said in a low voice, "They came to see me."

"What did they say?"

"They want me to fake a photo of you meeting with a ’Western Spy.’ They gave me your picture, and one of another man."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I agreed," Fritz said. "But I’m going to do it your way."

Werner nodded with satisfaction. "How long will it take?"

"A week. They’re pushing for it to be done quickly, but you can’t rush this kind of work. Doing it too fast makes it easier to spot the forgery."

"Be careful," Werner said, then stood and left the tavern.

He walked down Friedrichstrasse and lit a cigarette.

Workers on their way home from their shifts trudged along wearily. A public notice board by the street displayed a poster that read, "Beware of Infiltration by Western Agents," showing a furtive-looking man in a black hat.

The irony was, a real frame-up was brewing in the shadows, and those posters were completely oblivious.

**************

In Fritz’s darkroom, the red safelight dyed the entire room an eerie crimson.

He stood before the enlarger, carefully adjusting the lens.

On the enlarger’s easel were two negatives—one was a photo of Werner standing on some street corner, the other was of the unknown man in the act of handing over a document folder.

What Fritz had to do was combine these two negatives onto a single sheet of photographic paper, making it look as if the two were having a secret meeting.

He first placed Werner’s negative, then used a precisely cut piece of black cardstock to cover half of it, exposing only Werner’s figure onto the photographic paper.

It had taken him two hours to cut the cardstock, piece by piece. He switched off the enlarger’s lamp, swapped in the second negative, and used another precisely cut piece of cardstock to mask the already exposed portion. This allowed the image of the unknown man to be printed onto the paper’s remaining blank space.

This was the most technically demanding step.

The cardstock masks had to be perfectly aligned, and the exposure time had to be precise to a tenth of a second. Otherwise, the tonal values of the two images would be inconsistent.

But Fritz was an old hand; this was no problem for him.

Except, he was introducing a few deliberate flaws.

While positioning the second negative, he adjusted the enlarger’s angle by three degrees.

This deviation was minuscule, completely unnoticeable to the naked eye. But if one were to use professional tools to measure the angles of the shadows in the photo, they would discover a subtle difference in the direction of the light sources for the two subjects.

He placed the photographic paper into the developing solution, watching as the image slowly emerged.

Tiny bubbles frothed on the liquid’s surface, and the pungent smell of chemicals filled the air.

In the photograph, Werner and the unknown man stood in a dim alleyway, appearing to be in conversation.

The man was holding a document folder, as if in the process of handing it to Werner.

The composition was perfect, the lighting natural, the subjects sharp.

If not for a professional’s careful inspection, no one would ever know it was a composite photograph.

But Fritz knew this photo wouldn’t withstand the scrutiny of the Stasi’s forensics department.

During the developing process, he deliberately soaked the composite area for an extra five seconds.

This would cause the residual developer concentration in that section to be slightly higher than in other areas—a difference small enough to be negligible, but detectable by chemical analysis instruments.

He lifted the photo with a pair of tongs and placed it in the fixer bath.

Then he took an extremely fine scalpel from a drawer and gently scraped the composite edge of the photo a few times.

The scratches were as fine as a strand of hair, invisible even up close, but under a microscope, the scraped silver halide grains would show clear signs of fracture.

Fritz clipped the photograph onto a drying rack and switched off the darkroom’s red light.

From outside the window came the sound of a passing tram.

*******************

Krupp’s office was on the fourth floor of an old apartment building.

The room was elegantly furnished.

A yellowed old map of Berlin hung on the wall. The bookshelf held a few hardcover German books, and a silver tea set sat on the desk—a rare luxury in supply-starved East Germany. Outside the window, a vista of old red-brick buildings puffed grayish smoke from their chimneys.

Krupp sat behind his desk, slowly polishing an old-fashioned pocket watch.

His graying hair was neatly combed, his face deeply wrinkled, but his eyes were still sharp.

He wore a well-tailored, dark gray suit. Though the fabric was somewhat worn, it was still impeccably pressed.

Schneider stood before him and placed a manila envelope on the desk. "Boss, the photos are ready."

Krupp didn’t reach for it immediately, instead continuing to polish his watch.

After he finished, he placed the watch in his pocket, then deliberately opened the envelope and took out the five photographs.

He laid the photos on the desk one by one, took a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, put them on, and examined each one carefully.

The office was silent, save for the TICK, TOCK of the wall clock.

After a full five minutes, Krupp finally took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. "Well done. The man from the photo studio is a professional."

"Yes, Boss," Schneider said. "Fritz is an old hand. He used to do work for people in the West."

Krupp nodded, took a cigar from the humidor on his desk, carefully clipped it with a cutter, and then slowly lit it. He took a puff, the smoke rising lazily in the dim light.

"Schneider," he said, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather, "do you know the secret to gardening?"

Schneider froze for a second. "Boss?"

"When I was young, my family had a garden." Krupp exhaled a cloud of smoke. "My father taught me that if you want to keep a garden tidy, you can’t let the weeds grow. But you also can’t just pull every weed the moment you see it—that’s exhausting, and you risk damaging the good plants."

He paused.

"The right way is to wait until the weed has grown to a certain height, before its roots run too deep. Then you pull it up, root and all. Clean, thorough, with no loose ends."

Schneider swallowed. "I understand, Boss."

"This young man, Werner Betelich," Krupp continued, his tone still placid, "has some talent, I’ll admit. But he’s too hasty, and too greedy. The Black Market is a place with rules. Newcomers need to learn some respect."

He placed his cigar in the ashtray, picked up the five photos, and stacked them neatly. "Now, it’s time for him to learn that lesson."

Krupp took a sheet of fine stationery and a fountain pen from his drawer.

He slowly began to write on the paper:

"To the Stasi Counter-Espionage Division:

I am writing to report Werner Betelich (male, 23, residing in the Mitte District) on suspicion of colluding with Western spies. This individual is highly active on the Black Market. His recent movements have been suspicious, and he has been meeting secretly with multiple unidentified persons. Enclosed are several photographs as conclusive proof. I trust your department will investigate this matter thoroughly.

A Loyal Citizen"

He folded the letter, placed it along with the photos into a new manila envelope, and carefully sealed it.

"First thing tomorrow morning," Krupp said, handing the envelope to Schneider, "go to the post office and mail it. Remember, wear a hat, pull the brim down low, and don’t let anyone see your face."

"Yes, Boss." Schneider took the envelope.

"One more thing," Krupp said, picking up a small envelope from beside the humidor and handing it to Schneider as well. "This is the final payment for Fritz. Tell him this business is concluded. He is not to speak of it again."

Schneider nodded and turned to leave.

"Schneider," Krupp called after him.

"Boss?"

"Remember," Krupp said, picking up his cigar again, his voice still calm, "only after the weeds are cleared can the garden truly flourish. What we’re doing is for the sake of order in the Black Market."

Schneider stood up straight. "I understand, Boss."

After he had left, Krupp sat alone in his office, slowly smoking his cigar.

Outside, the sky gradually darkened. One by one, the streetlights flickered on, casting a sallow, yellow glow on the street below.

He thought of his younger self. Back then, he too had been as ambitious as Werner, wanting to carve out a place for himself in a world of chaos.

But in the end, he had learned a truth: this world did not belong to the smartest, nor to the bravest, but to the most patient.

Werner Betelich was too young; he didn’t understand that yet.

But he would learn soon enough.