I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 132: Chapter 42: The Light at the End of the Crack: But Not for Free

Peter looked up and saw a small, two-story building. The exterior was painted a pale yellow, already a bit mottled, but it still looked tidy enough. A few trees grew in the yard, and vines crawled all over the surrounding wall.

Werner got out of the car and pushed open the gate. "Follow me."

Peter followed him into the yard and then into the house. It was warm inside; the coal stove was burning brightly. The living room was filled with simple furniture: a table, a few chairs, and an old sofa.

"This is your room." Werner pushed open a door.

Peter walked in and froze.

Inside the room was a clean bed, covered with a thick blanket.

On the table sat a kerosene lamp and a few books. On the windowsill was a bar of soap from West Germany, a tube of toothpaste, and a brand-new towel.

What shocked Peter most of all was the plate of food also on the table: two white bread rolls, a pat of butter, a few slices of ham, and a tin of coffee.

Real coffee, not the ersatz kind made from chicory root.

"This... is all this for me?" Peter asked in disbelief.

"Yes," Werner said. "Get some rest for now. Eat when you’re hungry. Someone will bring dinner tonight."

"How... how long do I have to stay here?"

"I don’t know," Werner said honestly. "It could be a few weeks, a few months, or even longer. You’ve been released, but to go to West Berlin, you still need an exit permit. The paperwork is being processed, but it takes time."

"An exit permit..." Peter repeated the words, his mind still unable to process it all. "I... I don’t understand. Why was I released? Why do I need a permit? I..."

"I know you’re confused right now," Werner cut him off, "but you don’t need to worry. Your wife has already paid. I’m responsible for getting you safely to West Berlin. For now, you just need to rest here and get your strength back. Understand?"

Peter looked at Werner, his eyes filled with bewilderment.

"There are a few things you need to remember." Werner’s tone turned serious. "First, do not leave this house. There will be someone posted outside—not to watch you, but to protect you. Second, don’t tell anyone you’re here. Third, if anyone asks, just say you’re a distant relative of mine visiting family in East Berlin."

"Why?"

"For your safety, and for mine," Werner said. "Your status is sensitive right now. Even though you’ve been released, the Stasi could make trouble if they found out you were heading to West Berlin. So you have to keep a low profile, understand?"

Peter nodded, though he still didn’t quite understand.

"Get some rest." Werner turned to leave. "If you need anything, just call the men outside. They’ll help you."

"Wait," Peter called out to him. "When... when can I see Liesel?"

Werner stopped and looked back. "Soon. Once the permit comes through, you’ll be reunited."

He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Peter stood alone in the room, staring at the food on the table. His hand trembled as he picked up a white bread roll and took a bite. It was soft and sweet—the first real bread he had tasted in over a year.

He sat on the bed, clutching the bread, and began to cry again.

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

Over the next few days, the other four were also released one by one.

Werner personally went to the prison gates to pick them up each time.

Everyone had the same reaction: confusion, fear, and disbelief.

They didn’t know why they had been released or what would happen next. All they could do was follow Werner.

Hans Miller, the engineer, was trembling all over when he was let out.

He thought it was a Stasi trap and that Werner was an undercover officer. It wasn’t until Werner brought him to the safe house and showed him the clean room and plentiful food that he slowly began to relax.

Greta Schulz, the young female teacher, was silent when she was released.

She sat in the car with a vacant stare, like a puppet.

Werner knew she was deeply traumatized. He didn’t ask too many questions, simply placing her in a separate room and arranging for a female caregiver to look after her.

The other two, a technician and a shop clerk, were in similar states. They had all been worn down to shadows of their former selves by the prison, nothing but skin and bones, with eyes full of fear.

Werner placed them in three separate safe houses. Two people were housed in each, so they could look out for one another. He had Fritz and the other men take turns standing guard to ensure none of them wandered off and that they weren’t discovered by outsiders.

The food was indeed very good.

Every morning there was white bread and butter. Lunch was either potato and meat stew or sauerkraut with sausage, and dinner was boiled potatoes with ham. They even got chicken once a week.

Coffee, sugar, and milk—luxuries in East Berlin—were always in stock at the safe houses.

Werner also went out of his way to buy some old newspapers and books to help them pass the time. He knew that waiting was the hardest part. If people had nothing to do, their minds would wander, and that could lead to trouble.

A week later, Werner went to meet Joshua.

They met at their usual spot, an abandoned factory warehouse.

"I’ve picked them all up," Werner got straight to the point. "They’re all in a safe place now."

Of the five people released, three were political prisoners whose families had contacted Joshua’s side.

"How are they?" Joshua asked eagerly.

"They’re alive, but not in great shape," Werner said. "They were in prison for too long; their health is poor. I’ve arranged for people to take care of them, feed them well, and let them recover."

"When can you get them to West Berlin?"

"We still have to wait," Werner said. "The release orders have come through, but the exit permits haven’t been approved yet. That takes time."

"How long?"

"I don’t know either." Werner spread his hands. "This is official business. All I can do is wait. But I promise you, as soon as the permits are issued, I’ll send them over immediately."

Joshua was silent for a moment before speaking. "The families in West Germany are getting anxious. They want to know when they’ll be able to see them."

"Tell them they are safe, well-fed, and well-housed," Werner said. "But they need to be patient. You can’t rush this kind of thing. Rushing leads to mistakes."

"They’ve already paid the deposit," Joshua reminded him.

"I know." Werner nodded. "I received the deposit. But there’s another fee you need to make clear to them."

"What fee?"

"Room, board, and care," Werner said, lighting a cigarette. "These people are staying in safe houses I’ve arranged, with 24-hour supervision. They’re getting the best food and drink—sausage, coffee, bread. I’ve also provided them with clean clothes and toiletries. All of that costs money."

"How much?"

"Twelve hundred West German Marks per person, per week," Werner said matter-of-factly.

"What?" Joshua’s voice rose. "Twelve hundred? Werner, that’s robbery!"

"It’s not robbery, it’s the market rate." Werner exhaled a cloud of smoke, his voice calm. "Joshua, do you know what a private care facility in West Berlin costs? At least fifteen hundred a week. And that’s for regular patients. These are political prisoners, fresh out of jail, with sensitive identities. The risk I’m taking is far greater than any care facility’s."

"But..."

"Besides, I’m providing more than just care," Werner cut him off. "I’m providing security. These people are in a delicate position right now. Even though they’re released, the Stasi could start watching them at any moment. What if they wander around outside on their own and get caught again? Then the money’s wasted, and the person is gone."

Joshua fell silent.

"My safe houses have dedicated guards working 24-hour shifts," Werner continued. "The locations are discreet, the neighbors have been taken care of so no one will ask questions. And the men I’ve assigned are reliable; they won’t leak a thing."

"Twelve hundred is still too expensive," Joshua said, shaking his head.

"Then what’s your number?" Werner asked.

"Eight hundred, max."

Werner laughed. "Joshua, you’re insulting me. Eight hundred? That barely covers my costs. Rent, food, manpower, greasing palms... all that adds up to at least five hundred Marks in costs per week. And how much is eight hundred West German Marks in East German Marks anyway? I’m taking all the risk, arranging all the manpower, and you expect me to work for free?"

"One thousand, then," Joshua conceded a step.

"Twelve hundred, not a cent less." Werner’s stance was firm. "And besides, the families in West Germany won’t think that’s expensive. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because with me, their loved ones are safe and comfortable," Werner said. "They’re all in much better condition than when they first got out of prison. They have clean rooms, plenty of food, and people to look after them. Most importantly, they have hope. They know that after waiting a little longer, they’ll be able to go to West Berlin and see their families."

Werner flicked the ash from his cigarette.

"How much is that hope worth? Joshua, those families in West Germany would pay any price for that hope. Twelve hundred West German Marks a week? They’ll see it as the most worthwhile investment they could make."

Joshua looked at Werner and sighed. He knew Werner was right. The families in West Germany didn’t really care about the money; they only cared about getting their loved ones out.

"And think about it, how long will they have to stay with me?" Werner continued to apply pressure. "If the exit permits come through in two weeks, that’s just twenty-four hundred—twelve hundred times two. If they have to wait a month, it’s only forty-eight hundred. Compared to the fifty or a hundred thousand they’ve already paid in deposits to save them, what’s a small fee for their care?"