I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 172: Chapter 82: The Transmigrator’s Scheme

When Werner pushed open the wooden door of the Song of the Workers restaurant, the smell of sauerkraut and boiled potatoes hit him.

The restaurant was on a corner of Friedrichstrasse. Its facade was dilapidated, and the red paint on its sign was mottled and peeling.

Handwritten on a small blackboard by the entrance was the day’s menu: stewed beef, blood sausage with sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes.

Werner knew there were three private, soundproofed rooms on the second floor, which Stasi agents frequented.

"Comrade Betelich, second floor, first room on the left." The waitress was a woman in her fifties. Her face was sallow, but her eyes were sharp. She gestured toward the stairs with her chin, not even bothering with a menu.

Werner nodded and ascended the creaking wooden stairs. Several propaganda posters hung in the hallway—"Socialism Will Triumph," "Oppose Imperialism"—their oil paint faded and their corners curled.

The door to the private room was ajar, and Lainer’s gentle voice drifted from within. "Come in, Werner. I’ve just ordered. You haven’t eaten dinner yet, have you?"

Major Lainer von Brown sat by the window. Before him were two bottles of beer, a plate of black bread, a small bowl of lard, and a few slices of pickled cucumber.

He had taken off his uniform jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. Dressed only in a crisply ironed white shirt, sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrists, he looked more like a gentle, scholarly teacher than a secret police officer.

"Sit, sit." Lainer gestured to the opposite chair with a warm smile and personally poured Werner a beer. "I remember you like pilsner. I had them dig two bottles out of the storeroom just for you. They aren’t easy to come by."

"You’re too kind, Comrade Lainer." Werner took off his overcoat, sat down, and accepted the glass.

"Just call me Lainer. There’s no need to be so formal in private." Lainer adjusted his glasses, used a knife to spread a thick layer of lard on a slice of bread, and passed it to him. "Try it. Their lard is excellent—made with onions and black pepper. Tastes just like I remember from when I was a kid."

Werner took the bread and had a bite. The savory aroma of the lard mingled with the sourness of the dark bread—a true East German staple.

"Well? Better than that Western butter, isn’t it?" Lainer asked with a slight smile, his eyes fixed on Werner from behind his glasses.

"They each have their merits," Werner said noncommittally.

Lainer laughed, his smile warm. "You’re always so cautious. Then again, in your line of work, carelessness gets you killed."

The waitress brought up two plates—one of pork and sauerkraut stew, and one of fried blood sausage with mashed potatoes. There wasn’t much meat, but the portion of sauerkraut was generous, and a dark brown gravy was ladled over the potatoes.

"Don’t be shy, eat up." Lainer picked up his knife and fork, elegantly slicing his blood sausage. "In times like these, we’re lucky to be eating meat at all. Wouldn’t you agree?"

"Yes." Werner also picked up his knife and fork.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Suddenly, Lainer set down his utensils and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Werner, how long have we known each other?"

"Four months and three days."

"You remember that precisely?" Lainer seemed surprised.

"In my line of business, you have to be precise with dates," Werner said.

"True enough." Lainer picked up his utensils again and spoke slowly. "We’ve had a very pleasant partnership these past four months. The Walter case... it earned me some points with Director Schmidt."

He looked up, his gentle gaze passing through his lenses to meet Werner’s. "Do you know what the Director’s evaluation of you was?"

Werner shook his head.

"He said, ’This Betelich is a smart man. And a smart man knows which side to stand on.’" Lainer smiled. "That’s high praise."

"I just did what had to be done."

"’What had to be done.’" Lainer repeated the words, his smile deepening. "Well then, there are a few more things that have to be done, and I need your help with them."

He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Instead of handing it over immediately, he placed it on the table beside him and went back to cutting the blood sausage on his plate. "Werner, what do you think is the greatest threat facing our country right now?"

’Alarm bells screamed in Werner’s mind,’ but his expression remained calm. "Imperialist infiltration?"

"Exactly." Lainer nodded, his tone earnest. "But the greater danger is the rot from within. Those intellectuals poisoned by Western ideology, those dissidents... they are like termites, slowly eating away at our very foundations."

He gestured out the window with his knife and fork. "Look at this city. You can see the scars of reconstruction everywhere. We rose from the ashes of war to build a socialist New Germany. It wasn’t easy. But there are always those who are never satisfied, who are always drawn to the Western way of doing things."

Werner took a sip of his beer, saying nothing.

Lainer chuckled, his smile still gentle. "I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m just spouting party doctrine, don’t you?"

"I wouldn’t dare."

"Relax." Lainer waved a hand. "I’m not one of those fools who just parrots slogans. I know this country has its share of problems. Shortages in the shops, low wages. But—"

He paused, adjusting his glasses. "It’s precisely because we have problems that we must maintain stability. If we let these dissidents stir up trouble, the country will be finished. When that happens, it won’t be that West Germany gets better; it will be that everyone here gets worse. Do you understand?"

Werner nodded.

’He’d heard this line of reasoning countless times—"for the greater good, some must be sacrificed." In any totalitarian state, that was how the rulers justified their actions to themselves.’

Lainer, seemingly satisfied with Werner’s reaction, picked up the piece of paper and handed it to him. "So, I need your help."

Werner took the paper and unfolded it.

Five names were written neatly on the paper:

Peter Weber—Lecturer, Department of Philosophy, Humboldt University

Lucas Becker—Writer

Marcus Wolf—Priest, Saint John’s Church

Hans Zimmerman—Technician, Printing Plant

Monica Stein—Translator, Ministry of Culture

Werner’s fingers tightened slightly on the paper before he consciously relaxed them.

He looked up, his expression puzzled. "Comrade Lainer, these people..."

"They’re all dissidents," Lainer said gently, as if discussing the weather. "Or, suspected dissidents, I should say. Some of them are organizing private reading groups to discuss banned Western books. Others are writing subversive articles, trying to get them published in West Germany. And some are helping political prisoners escape."

He tapped the table lightly with the tip of his knife. "However, we don’t have sufficient evidence at the moment. Previously, Lorentz’s faction was protecting them, hoping to save them for their own scorecard."

"So," Werner began slowly, "you want me to..."

"Surveil them," Lainer cut him off, his smile never wavering. "Make contact, learn about their activities, and gather evidence. When the time is right, we’ll round them all up in one fell swoop."

Werner stared at the paper, his mind racing.

’Shit.’

He cursed inwardly.

’When he’d been asked to surveil Black Market profiteers like Walter, he could live with it. Men like that were criminals, plain and simple, getting rich off the country’s misery. Catching them was one thing.’

’But these people...’

His gaze swept over the five names on the list.

’Peter Weber. Pastor Weber’s nephew.’

’Werner had met him a few times. A tall, lanky young man with round glasses, always clutching a stack of books. The last time they’d run into each other at the church, the kid had eagerly wanted to discuss Sartre’s existentialism with him.’

’He just wanted to read some books and discuss philosophy. Was that a crime?’

’Werner had lived in the 21st century. He knew that in the world he came from, existentialism and liberalism were standard topics for open discussion in any university classroom.’

’But here in East Germany, in 1961, discussing them was subversive.’

’This, right here, was true fucking absurdity.’

’He couldn’t touch Peter. Absolutely not. If he went after him, his connection to Pastor Weber would be severed, and his access to the Church would disappear.’

’More importantly, Werner didn’t want to be an accomplice in the persecution of intellectuals.’

’He knew how history would judge people like them.’

’Twenty-seven years from now, the Berlin Wall would fall, and these "dissidents" would be hailed as heroes.’

’Their books would be published, their stories written into textbooks. They would be called "pioneers of freedom" and "champions of democracy."’

’And the ones who arrested them?’

Werner glanced across the table at the gently smiling Lainer.

’He thinks he’s defending national security right now, but how would history remember him?’

’"Secret police." "Thought police."’

’Werner had no desire to be nailed to that pillar of shame.’

He went back to the list.

’Lucas Becker—Writer. Werner had heard the name; he had a small reputation in West Germany’s underground literary scene.’

’Marcus Wolf—Priest, Saint John’s Church. Werner had met him once, at Pastor Weber’s. A middle-aged man with a square face and a very determined gaze. He didn’t know much else about him.’

’Hans Zimmerman—Technician, Printing Plant.’

’Monica Stein—Translator, Ministry of Culture.’

’He didn’t know these last two.’

’In his past life, sitting in a university lecture hall, Werner would have called these people "the conscience of their generation" without a moment’s hesitation.’

’But now, he was being asked to send them to prison.’

Werner looked up at Lainer’s gentle, smiling face.

"Well?" Lainer asked gently. "Any problems?"

Werner looked up. "Comrade Lainer, may I ask... why me?"