I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 173: Chapter 83: The Meaning of Transmigration

"Because you have channels." Lainer cleaned his glasses and put them back on. "You do business on the Black Market, so you know all sorts of people. Intellectuals need to eat and buy things, too. It would be natural for you to interact with them. And—"

He smiled. "You’re not one of the Stasi, so they’ll be less guarded around you."

Werner was silent for a few seconds. "I’ll do my best," he said.

"Not ’do your best.’ It’s a must." Lainer’s tone was still gentle, but his meaning was crystal clear. "Werner, which part of your current business could withstand scrutiny? Any single offense is enough to land you in prison for ten years."

He paused. "I protect you because you’re useful. If you become useless—"

He didn’t finish the sentence, just smiled at Werner.

A cold sweat broke out on Werner’s back.

’This is the real Lainer. Beneath that gentle, refined exterior is a cold, calculating heart. He isn’t asking for my cooperation; he’s giving me an ultimatum.’

"I understand," Werner said. "I’ll cooperate."

"Good." Lainer nodded, satisfied, and picked up his knife and fork again. "I’ll give you one month. First, make contact with these people and get a feel for the situation. Then, we can discuss the next step."

He cut a piece of blood sausage, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. "Oh, right. If you find they’re actually not a problem, you have to tell me that, too. I don’t want to frame an innocent man."

’The words sounded righteous, but Werner heard the subtext: If you say they aren’t a problem, I’ll suspect you’re covering for them.’

"Understood." Werner lifted his beer mug and took a large gulp.

The bitter beer, tasting of rust, flowed down his throat.

Lainer put down his knife and fork. "Werner," he said suddenly, "do you feel sorry for these people?"

Werner froze.

Lainer chuckled, an unreadable quality to his smile. "I know what you’re thinking. You think they just want a little freedom, to read some books, to speak their minds. That they haven’t done anything really wrong, right?"

Werner didn’t answer.

"When I was young, I used to think the same thing," Lainer said slowly. "I even secretly read Hemingway and Orwell. I also wondered why we couldn’t be like the West—read what we want, say what we want."

He paused. "But then I understood. Freedom is a luxury, a privilege of the strong. Our country just crawled out of the ruins. We’re still on shaky ground; we can’t afford any turmoil. Someone has to maintain order. Someone has to do the dirty work."

"And I," Lainer said, pointing to himself, "am the one who does the dirty work."

He looked at Werner, a raw sincerity in his eyes. "I don’t see myself as a hero, and I don’t see myself as a villain. I’m just doing what has to be done. Just like you—doing business on the Black Market, smuggling, scalping... you don’t think you’re a bad person either, do you?"

Werner fell silent.

"We’re the same kind of person, Werner," Lainer said. "We both know the world isn’t perfect, but we’ve chosen to survive in this imperfect world—and to live a little better."

He stood up and patted Werner’s shoulder. "So don’t feel guilty. You’re not hurting anyone; you’re protecting yourself. Remember, in this country, you either hurt others, or others will hurt you."

Werner stood up as well and put on his overcoat.

Lainer walked him to the door. "I’ll be waiting for your report in a month," he said gently before they parted. "By the way, I’ve already paid for the meal, so you can just go."

"Thank you."

"Of course." Lainer smiled. "We’re friends, after all."

Werner walked out of the restaurant. The cold wind cut at his face like a knife.

He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and then slowly started walking back.

Lainer’s final words echoed in his mind: ’We’re the same kind of person.’

’Are we the same kind of person?’

Werner didn’t have an answer.

He only knew that if he did what Lainer asked, he would truly become "that kind of person."

’But do I have a choice?’

’If I don’t cooperate, Lainer will destroy me.’

’If I cooperate, I’ll have to betray those innocent people.’

Werner walked along Under the Bodhi Tree Street. The road was flanked by post-war, rebuilt matchbox buildings, all gray and drab, like rows of tombstones.

He remembered a movie he had seen in his past life: *Schindler’s List*.

Schindler was also a businessman who only started helping the Jews to make money. But in the end, he saved over a thousand lives.

’Can I become a Schindler?’

Werner gave a bitter smile.

’Don’t be ridiculous. Schindler had money, connections, and the protection of his Nazi Party membership.’

’What do I have? I’m just a dealer on the Black Market, someone who could be arrested at any moment.’

’I can’t save everyone.’

* * *

Back home, Werner didn’t turn on the lights. He walked straight to the window and lit a cigarette.

Outside the window lay the Berlin nightscape. In the distance, beams from searchlights swept back and forth across the night sky, originating from the watchtowers along the Berlin Wall. The Wall split the city in two: the east, gray and oppressive; the west, ablaze with light.

Werner stared at the Wall, and a thought suddenly surfaced.

’This Wall is going to fall.’

’On November 9, 1989, the Berlin Wall will fall.’

’That’s still twenty-seven years from now.’

’Twenty-seven years from now, the people now called "dissidents" will be heroes.’

’The people arresting them now will be nailed to the pillar of shame in the annals of history.’

Werner took a drag from his cigarette and slowly exhaled.

’So, the choice I make now will determine which side of history I’m on in twenty-seven years.’

’An accomplice?’

’Or a savior?’

He recalled Lainer’s words: "We’re the same kind of person."

’No.’

Werner stubbed out his cigarette.

’You and I are not the same.’

’You think this system will last forever, so you choose to be its lapdog.’

’But I know it will collapse.’

’I know that the people you want to arrest represent the future.’

’And you represent the past, destined to be swept into the dustbin of history.’

He suddenly recalled a phrase, he thought from the Talmud: "Whoever saves a single life saves the entire world."

’Maybe I can’t save everyone, but I can save a few.’

In the distance, the searchlights continued their cold, mechanical sweep of the night sky, as if they would never stop.

But Werner knew they would.

It would just take time.

And before that time came, he could work within the cracks of history to save a few people who were meant to be crushed.

’It’s not because I’m some great hero.’

’It’s just because I happen to have the ability, and I’m choosing not to be a complete bastard.’

’Perhaps this is the purpose of a Transmigrator.’

Werner pulled out the list and examined it under the light of a streetlamp.

Five names.

Five lives.

He slowly folded the list and put it back in his pocket.

’Alright. Let’s figure out how to save as many of them as possible... without getting myself killed in the process.’