I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 116: Chapter 26: The Crack

He drew the curtains, locked the door, and opened the paper bag under the dim light.

The list was categorized by department: Prison Administration, Immigration Bureau, Border Guard Logistics, Transportation Bureau... Beneath each department were anywhere from a few to a dozen names. After each name was their position, area of expertise, and a "flexibility price range."

Werner read every line carefully:

Friedrich Lang, Deputy Chief of Prison Administration, responsible for registering political prisoners. Scope of flexibility: minor political statements, small-scale smuggling. Price: 300-800 Marks.

Erich Schneider, clerk at the Immigration Bureau, responsible for approving passes. Scope of flexibility: short-term pass extensions. Price: 200-500 Marks.

Christian Mueller, quartermaster in Border Guard Logistics, responsible for resource allocation. Scope of flexibility: small-scale "loss" of supplies. Price: 100-300 Marks.

...

The more Werner read, the more excited he became. This list was practically a treasure map. Each name was a key that could unlock doors that were once firmly shut.

But he also noticed the last page of the list. A thick line was drawn in red pen, and below it was a handwritten note:

"The individuals listed above may only be used for handling minor cases. Any flexible arrangements concerning major cases—such as espionage, treason, large-scale smuggling, or organized escapes—constitute a serious breach of discipline. Upon discovery, the parties involved and any intermediaries will be subject to the most severe punishment."

Werner stared at the passage for a long time.

Then he picked up his lighter, lit the last page of the list, and watched the warning twist, blacken, and turn to ash in the flames.

He carefully folded the first two pages and tucked them into a close-fitting inner pocket.

He leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and his mind began to race.

This list could be used to get his subordinates out of trouble when they were caught for minor offenses. That would solidify his position in the Black Market.

But more importantly, the list gave him a clearer understanding of the government’s inner workings—who could be swayed, who was untouchable, and where the lines were drawn.

As for those "untouchable" major cases...

Werner thought of Joshua, of those who wanted to escape East Germany.

’If it were handled properly, if every step were meticulously planned, if all the parts could be made to look like a collection of "minor cases" instead of one "major case"...’

He stubbed out his cigarette, burying the thought deep in his mind.

’Now is not the time.’

’I have to solidify my position in the Black Market first. I need to make Vonke trust me completely.’

’One step at a time.’

Just as he was thinking, there was a knock on the door.

Werner quickly cleared the papers from his desk and emptied the ashtray into the trash can. "Come in."

A young man came in, looking to be in his early twenties. He wore a faded work shirt and carried a canvas bag.

His hair was a bit messy, and he had faint dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze was sharp.

"Are you Betelich?" The young man’s voice was a little nervous.

"I am. What is it?"

The young man looked left and right, confirming no one else was around, before lowering his voice. "My name is Erich. Erich Boman. I... I want to ask if you can help me get something special."

Werner narrowed his eyes. "What kind of thing?"

"A camera." Erich swallowed. "A Leica M3. It has to be brand new."

"A Leica?" Werner was a bit surprised. "That’s not cheap."

"I know." Erich pulled a wad of cash from his canvas bag and placed it on the desk. "Is this enough?"

Werner looked at the wad of cash, then back at Erich.

The bills were old but neatly stacked, as if they had been treasured and saved for a long time.

The young man’s hands were trembling slightly.

"Why a Leica?"

"I... I’m a journalist." Erich’s voice dropped. "I used to work for the New German Newspaper. I was fired last month."

"Why were you fired?"

Erich didn’t answer right away.

He stared at the money on the desk, silent for several seconds. Then he looked up, his eyes holding a hint of self-mockery. "Because I photographed something I shouldn’t have."

"What was it?"

"The Berlin Wall." Erich’s voice got even lower. "The night the Wall was first built, I was there. I took a lot of photos... soldiers putting up barbed wire, people crying and trying to rush through, an old woman kneeling on the ground, begging a soldier to let her go to West Berlin to see her daughter..."

He paused, clenching his fists. "I gave the photos to my editor. The editor gave them to his superiors, and then I was fired. The photos were confiscated, too."

Werner lit a cigarette and said nothing.

"But I still want to take pictures," Erich said, his voice laced with a stubbornness. "I want to photograph this city, the people on both sides of the Wall, their lives... I want to photograph... something real. I need a good camera. The newspaper took my old one."

Werner took a drag from his cigarette and slowly exhaled. "Do you know the consequences of doing that?"

"I know." Erich’s gaze was firm. "But I still want to do it."

Werner stared at the young man for a long time.

He saw something... something he didn’t often see in the eyes of East Germans—an almost naive persistence, a passion that disregarded the consequences.

’People like him don’t last long in East Germany.’

’But they’re also the most useful.’

"I can get the camera for you." Werner pushed the money back. "But not right now. The Wall just went up, so it’s hard to transport goods from West Berlin. You’ll have to wait a while."

Erich’s eyes lit up. "How long?"

"A month, two at most." Werner paused. "But I have one condition."

"What condition?"

"If I need you to photograph something for me in the future, you can’t refuse."

Erich froze for a few seconds. "Photograph what?"

"You’ll find out when the time comes." Werner didn’t elaborate. "So, do you agree or not?"

Erich bit his lip, then nodded forcefully. "Okay, I agree."

Only then did Werner take the money, writing down Erich’s name and address in his ledger.

After the young man left, he leaned back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully at the door.

A journalist cast out by the system, an idealist who wanted to photograph "reality."

Werner was already calculating how this person could be useful in the future.

’This Erich seems very naive, easy to control.’

’Just give him a camera, give him a chance to "photograph reality," and he’ll work for you with unwavering loyalty.’

Werner drew a small circle next to Erich’s name in the ledger and then turned to the next page.

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

Night fell once more, and the streets of East Berlin descended into a dead silence.

Werner locked his office door and walked down an alley toward his residence. As he passed a newsstand, he glimpsed the headline on the front page of the New German Newspaper, posted in the window: "Anti-Fascist Protection Wall" Safeguards the Achievements of Socialist Construction.

He sneered and kept walking.

His mind was already running through his plans for tomorrow.

’Talk to Pastor Weber about humanitarian corridors, check the border situation with Matthias, and then...’

’And then go see Joshua.’

Werner quickened his pace. A cold wind blew through the alley, kicking up a few withered leaves that swirled under the streetlights.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the folded list in his breast pocket.

’The Berlin Wall is up, but a wall will always have cracks.’

’And I’m the one who finds them.’

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

Werner sat in the textile factory warehouse, a cup of coffee in his hands.

Outside the window was an overcast East Berlin sky, with dingy gray clouds hanging low.

The door was pushed open.

When Joshua walked in, the look on his face was even fouler than the weather outside.

"Werner." Joshua’s voice was hoarse. "We need to talk."