I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 129: Chapter 39: An Unexpected Turn

He stayed in the bookstore for half an hour, pretending to browse but actually watching the street outside.

The man in the gray overcoat had returned. He was standing across the street, smoking, but his eyes were fixed on the bookstore’s entrance.

Werner knew he couldn’t leave through the front door.

He found the bookstore owner, said he wanted to leave through the back, and slipped him a few bills.

The owner glanced at the money, asked no questions, and pointed to a small door in the back.

Werner slipped out the back door, cut through a few alleyways, and finally reached a public phone booth. He dropped in a coin and dialed Anna’s number.

The phone rang for a long time before Anna picked up. "Hello?"

"It’s me," Werner said, his voice low. "I need to see you."

"What’s wrong?"

"Vonke talked to me. And I’m being followed."

There was silence on Anna’s end for a few seconds. "Where are you?"

"The phone booth on Stelitz Street."

"Don’t move. I’ll be right there," Anna said. "Fifteen minutes."

Werner hung up and hid in the corner of the wall next to the phone booth. The snow was falling harder, and the streets were nearly empty. He lit a cigarette, trying to calm himself down.

Fifteen minutes later, a black Lada sedan pulled up to the curb. Anna was in the driver’s seat, and she waved him over. Werner walked over quickly, pulled open the door, and got in.

"Drive," he said.

Anna put the car in gear, and they pulled out into the street.

She didn’t ask where they were going. Instead, she circled the block a few times to make sure they weren’t being tailed before driving to an abandoned factory district.

"Alright, what’s going on?" Anna asked, killing the engine and turning to face him.

Werner quickly recounted his meeting with Vonke. As he finished, Anna’s brow furrowed even more deeply.

"He’s onto you," Anna said. "And he’s having you followed. That means he’s very suspicious, he just hasn’t found any proof yet."

"Can you do something to distract him?" Werner asked.

Anna shook her head. "I’ve tried, but it’s no use. Vonke is serious this time, and the higher-ups are watching. The most I can do is try to delay his investigation, but you need to keep a low profile."

"How low a profile?"

"Halt all transport operations," Anna said. "For at least a month. Don’t do anything. And especially don’t contact Joshua. Vonke is definitely investigating all of Joshua’s contacts right now."

Werner knew Anna was right. ’With things this tense, continuing to smuggle people out would be suicide.’

"I know what you’re thinking," Anna said. "But you have to understand, if Vonke really gets something on you, it won’t just be you who’s finished. Your partners will be dragged down with you. And then no one will be able to save you."

Werner nodded. "I understand. I’ll put a stop to it."

"Remember, do not contact Joshua," Anna stressed again. "Vonke is certainly monitoring all of Joshua’s activities. The moment you two make contact, you’ll be exposed."

"I’ve already told him not to come looking for me," Werner said.

"Good," Anna said. "For the time being, just stick to your Black Market business. Don’t touch anything sensitive."

Werner looked at her. "What about you? Will you be in danger?"

Anna smiled, but it was a bitter smile. "I’m always in danger."

They sat for a while longer before Anna started the car and drove Werner back near his apartment.

After Werner got out, he watched the car disappear around the corner before turning to walk home.

The snow had stopped, but the sky was still a dreary gray. The streetlights came on, casting a dull yellow glow on the accumulated snow.

Werner wrapped his overcoat tighter, his mind racing.

’I have to pause the transport plan. At least on the surface.’

Werner quickened his pace.

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

「A few days later.」

Werner sat in his secret office. The ledger on his desk was open, but he couldn’t read a single word.

The numbers should have been satisfying—this month, he had earned over forty thousand East German Marks through various channels, which converted to eight thousand West German Marks. But now, these figures only made him uneasy.

’Vonke is still watching me.’

Although he had narrowly escaped a few days ago, Werner knew Vonke wouldn’t just give up.

He closed the ledger and took a deep breath.

’I have to pause. More than a dozen people have already been sent out through Joshua; the rest will have to wait.’

With things this tense, taking another risk would be like sticking his neck in a noose.

Werner rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a wave of exhaustion.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The knocking interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Lawyer Vogel strode in, looking travel-worn but with a rare smile on his face.

"Werner, an opportunity has come up!" Vogel said in a low voice, closing the door behind him. "Director Hopter is willing to see you."

Werner looked up. "Hopter from the Ministry of Justice?"

"That’s the one." Vogel sat down in a chair and pulled a slip of paper from his briefcase. "Hopter oversees the review of political prisoner cases. He has the authority to issue release orders. I mentioned our idea to him, and he... he didn’t outright refuse."

Werner took the note. It had a time and place written on it: three o’clock this afternoon, at the Workers’ House restaurant on Friedrichstrasse.

He glanced at the wall clock. Two hours to go.

"Not refusing outright doesn’t mean he’ll agree," Werner said, folding the note. "This isn’t something a mere director can decide on his own."

"I know," Vogel nodded. "But his willingness to meet means there’s a chance. Klein said Hopter is short on cash lately. His daughter wants to learn piano, and he’s looking for ways to make extra money."

Werner stood up and took a small leather pouch from a drawer. Inside were five hundred West German Marks, all in small denominations.

"Take this," he said, handing the pouch to Vogel. "A little gift."

Vogel took it, weighed it in his hand, and a knowing smile spread across his face.

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

The Workers’ House restaurant was tucked away in a small alley off Friedrichstrasse.

A faded slogan was painted on the gray exterior wall: "Labor Creates a Happy Life."

The windows were plastered with thick newspapers, blocking any light from getting through. A few burlap sacks of potatoes were piled by the entrance, emitting a musty, rotting smell.

Werner pushed the door open. A few scattered customers sat in the dim restaurant, the air thick with the smell of sauerkraut and boiled potatoes.

In a corner, a middle-aged man with glasses was reading the New German Newspaper.

Vogel walked over and said quietly, "Comrade Hopter."

The middle-aged man looked up, his gaze sweeping between Vogel and Werner.

He wore a dark blue official’s uniform, the collar buttoned flawlessly. His hair was combed back neatly, with streaks of gray at the temples.

"Sit." His voice was level, carrying the distinct cadence of a bureaucrat.

Werner pulled out a chair and sat. "I’m Werner Betelich."

Hopter folded his newspaper and set it aside. "I’ve heard of you. The new face on the Black Market, making quite a name for yourself lately."

"You flatter me, Director," Werner said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Camels, from West Germany. He offered one to Hopter.

Hopter waved a hand. "I quit. The doctor said it’s bad for the lungs."

Werner lit one for himself and took a long drag. "A shame. These are good."

The waitress, a woman in her fifties with a grease-stained apron, walked over. "What can I get for you, comrades?"

"Three coffees," Hopter said.

The old woman nodded and turned away.

"Lawyer Vogel told me about your idea," Hopter said, getting straight to the point, his voice very low. "It’s bold."

Vogel was about to speak, but Werner touched his arm lightly and spoke first.

"And realistic," Werner said, pulling a neatly folded file from his pocket and sliding it across the table to Hopter. "Director, I’ve done my homework."

Hopter glanced at it but didn’t pick it up immediately.

"These are the statistics for political prisoners held in East German prisons over the last three months," Werner said, his voice steady. "I compiled them from public records. There are roughly eight thousand political prisoners nationwide. At the standard cost of five Marks per person per day, that’s forty thousand Marks a day for eight thousand people. Over fourteen million a year."

"But what about the value they create?" Werner paused. "Almost zero. The output from prison labor doesn’t even cover a tenth of the cost. So, in reality, these eight thousand people drain the state of at least ten million Marks a year. A pure drain, with no output."

"As the Director must know, the state’s foreign currency reserves are tight. Industrial equipment, raw materials, medicine—which of these doesn’t require West German Marks? But where does that money come from?"

Hopter picked up the coffee that had just arrived, took a small sip, and frowned. He didn’t speak, just watched Werner.

"If some of these political prisoners could be exchanged for foreign currency, it would be a great thing for the state." Werner lit a cigarette and took a puff. "Even if we only release a thousand, at an average of sixty thousand West German Marks per person, that’s sixty million West German Marks."

Hopter was silent for a moment before speaking. "It’s not that I haven’t considered what you’re saying. But the questions are: Who does it? How is it done? And who takes responsibility when something goes wrong?"

"That’s why it needs official backing," Werner said. "If it’s just me, a Black Market merchant, doing this secretly, something will go wrong sooner or later. But with an approval document from the Ministry of Justice, it’s a different story."

"An approval document?" Hopter asked, pushing his glasses up.

"Release orders," Vogel interjected. "Based on humanitarian considerations, to grant early release to certain political prisoners with lesser offenses. The procedure would be legal, the paperwork complete. As for where they go after their release... that’s their personal choice."

Hopter fell silent.

He picked up his coffee cup, but this time he didn’t drink. He just held it.

"This matter..." he finally said, his voice even lower, "is not something I can decide on my own."