I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 144: Chapter 54: New Opportunity at the Port

He raised his glass and gently clinked it against Von Brown’s.

"Then here’s to a pleasant partnership, Lainer."

"To a pleasant partnership, Werner."

The two of them drained their glasses.

As they set their glasses down, the crisp clinking sound echoed in the private room.

Werner gazed at the night outside. Under the cloak of darkness, East Berlin resembled a giant cage—gray, heavy, and oppressive.

But even in this cage, there were always people who could find the cracks, people who could see the light in the darkness.

Von Brown thought he was playing a grand game of chess, but he didn’t know there were other players on the board.

This game had only just begun.

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

Werner sat in his secret office, a stack of ledgers and a cup of coffee on the desk. He took a sip of the coffee. Its rich, bitter aroma was a world away from the tasteless ersatz coffee of East Germany.

Outside, it was December in East Berlin. Snowflakes drifted down onto the dingy, gray buildings.

He opened a ledger and checked the figures, one entry at a time.

When he first arrived in February, he had only 12 Marks in his pocket. Now, his Swiss Bank account held 12,000 West German Marks, and his East German savings account had another 230,000 East German Marks. Although the East German Mark was only worth a tenth of the West German Mark on the Black Market, this was enough money for him to live the life of a high-ranking official in East Germany.

More important, however, were the intangible assets:

Border channel—Mathias Bauer was now the captain of Checkpoint Charlie. At a fixed time each week, his ’vision would get poor,’ and he’d fail to see the items hidden in the secret compartments of modified cars.

Official channel—the foreign trade quotas controlled by Klein, the section chief of the Ministry of Foreign Trade’s quota department.

Stasi channel—Vonke and Von Brown. One was an old fox, the other a nouveau riche. Werner walked a tightrope between them, feeding them intelligence in exchange for a fragile sense of security.

Church channel—the Church’s charity lane. On the surface, it transported relief supplies, but in reality, it was used to smuggle high-value goods.

Soviet Army channel—the military supply channel he received from Hans Mueller.

Black Market channel—After Krupp’s fall, his old subordinates came under Werner’s command. Werner now controlled 80% of East Berlin’s Black Market share.

Foreign trade store channel—Eva’s inside connections at the foreign trade stores allowed them to profit from arbitrage, bringing in a steady monthly income.

Werner closed the ledger and lit a West German cigarette.

The Berlin Wall had been up for four months, and the city had already adapted to the reality of its division. Those who once crossed between East and West Berlin daily could now only gaze at West Germany from behind barbed wire and concrete.

But to Werner, the Berlin Wall was not an obstacle. It was a business opportunity.

’The higher the wall and the stricter the prohibitions, the more demand there is on the Black Market.’

He stubbed out his cigarette. Just as he was about to leave, a system notification suddenly flashed in his mind:

[Next year, East Germany will tighten land border controls, constricting smuggling channels. However, a loophole will appear in port supervision. Sea-based smuggling will become the new golden channel. Key figure: Carl Schaefer.]

Werner froze for a moment.

’Carl Schaefer? He’d seen that name before.’

He hurried back to his desk and pulled a document from the drawer—it was the Black Market surveillance list Von Brown had given him last month. His finger stopped on a name.

Carl Schaefer, 57, Black Market boss of Rostock Port, former first mate of the East German merchant fleet, dismissed in 1958 for ’political reasons.’ Currently controls the port’s smuggling network.

Werner stared at the name, his brow furrowed.

When Werner had first received the list, he’d scanned it. The other black marketeers were all in East Berlin, making them easy targets.

But this Carl was in Rostock, over a hundred kilometers from East Berlin. He’d been entrenched in the port for decades and had a complex network of connections. Acting rashly against him was too risky.

So he had chosen to avoid Carl for the time being, dealing with the softer targets in East Berlin first.

But now, the system’s prompt had changed everything.

’The port. Sea transport. A new golden channel.’

Werner sat down again, lit a second cigarette, and his mind raced.

After the Berlin Wall was built, land borders became increasingly difficult to cross. Although Hans’s checkpoint was still usable, every crossing was a nerve-wracking affair; the slightest slip-up could attract attention. The same was true for the Church’s charity channel—overusing it would arouse suspicion.

But the port was a different story.

East Germany had a long coastline on the Baltic Sea. Rostock Port was the nation’s largest, with hundreds of cargo ships entering and leaving daily. If he could open up a channel there, he could use sea routes from Denmark, Poland, or even Sweden to bring in a continuous stream of Western goods.

The more Werner thought about it, the more excited he became.

’But there was a problem. Carl is on Von Brown’s surveillance list. If I go to cooperate with Carl, how do I explain it if Von Brown finds out?’

He pondered for a moment, then a slight smile touched his lips.

’The explanation was simple—he could say he was going to "investigate" Carl and assess the port’s smuggling situation at the same time.’

’If the cooperation was successful, it would mean he had "infiltrated" Carl’s network and gained intelligence on the port’s Black Market. If it failed, it would mean that during the "investigation," he discovered Carl was too tough a nut to crack and that it wasn’t the right time to make a move.’

’Either way, he would have a story for Von Brown.’

Werner crushed his cigarette butt in the ashtray and looked out at the snowy night sky.

’1961 was almost over. What would 1962 bring?’

’The port. Sea transport. A bigger chessboard.’

He stood up, walked to the map of East Germany on the wall, and placed his finger on Rostock.

’Time to head north.’

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

On the first weekend of January 1962, Werner was on a train to Rostock.

The carriage was packed, and the air was thick with the foul, mixed stench of cheap tobacco and sweat.

Across from him sat a couple with two children. The woman clutched a bundle in her arms, while the man gripped a worn briefcase, his wary eyes scanning everyone around them.

’This was East Germany—everyone was wary of everyone else.’

Werner wore a dark gray worker’s jacket and a flat cap, looking like an ordinary purchasing agent from a state-owned factory.

A copy of the New German Newspaper lay on his lap, but his eyes were fixed on the snowy landscape flashing past the window.

Before leaving, he had asked Keller to dig up some information on Carl through the Black Market.

Carl Schaefer, 57, was a former first mate in the East German merchant fleet. He had sailed the Baltic Sea route from Rostock to Leningrad and had also been to Hamburg and Copenhagen. In 1958, he was dismissed for "excessively close contact with the West." The reason was that while docked in Copenhagen, he’d had a drink and a chat with a Danish captain, which was noted in a report by the political officer on his ship.

After his dismissal, Carl wasn’t arrested, but he lost his official job and could only find odd jobs around the port.

Relying on decades of connections and experience, he gradually established himself in the Black Market. He gathered a dozen or so old sailors under him, all marginalized by the system like himself.

They controlled a third of the smuggling share in Rostock Port, mainly dealing in small-scale goods—West German cigarettes, coffee, and occasionally a bit of vodka.

But business had been tough lately.

After the Berlin Wall was built, the East German Government tightened controls in all areas, and the port was no exception. The Stasi had assigned more personnel to the docks, and customs inspections had become stricter.

Keller had also dug up a key piece of information: Carl was currently looking for new partners, but he was extremely cautious and would only meet people through trusted introductions.

Werner used his Black Market connections to contact Carl under the guise of being a "friend from Berlin." Carl agreed to a meeting, but insisted on setting the time and place himself.

The train pulled into Rostock station, and Werner got off carrying an old leather suitcase.

The port city smelled different from East Berlin—the air carried the salty tang of seawater, mixed with the smells of fish and diesel fuel.

The buildings lining the streets were mostly pre-war structures, their paint peeling and windows broken, showing scars of the war everywhere. Occasionally, one could spot a few newly built "socialist-style" apartment blocks.

Werner followed the address to a small tavern in the port’s warehouse district.

The sign read "The Baltic Anchor," its paint faded.

He pushed the door open and went inside.

The tavern was thick with smoke. A dozen or so men in heavy cotton coats were gathered around a few wooden tables, drinking cheap beer and telling crude jokes.

Yellowed nautical posters were plastered on the walls. In the corner, an old-fashioned radio was broadcasting news from the East German People’s Radio.

Werner walked up to the bar and said to the owner, who was wiping a glass, "A dark beer, and I’m looking for Captain Karl."

The owner, a bald, heavy-set man, glanced up and sized him up, then pointed to a corner. "Over there."

Werner carried his beer and walked over.

A man was sitting at the corner table. He was in his fifties, with neatly combed graying hair and a face weathered by sun and wind. He wore a faded navy pea coat and held a glass, his eyes sharp.

’This was Carl.’

Werner sat down across from him.

Carl didn’t look up. He took a slow sip of his drink, then spoke in a voice tinged with a North German accent, "From Berlin?"