I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 174: Chapter 84: Reading Club, Existentialism

Three nights later, Werner stood outside the philosophy department building at Humboldt University, gazing up at the light shining from a third-floor window.

Peter Weber’s reading group was meeting here tonight.

He patted the list in his pocket and stepped into the stairwell.

Only half the lightbulbs in the stairwell were still working, casting mottled shadows on the walls with their dim, yellow light. Werner climbed the worn stone steps, each footfall a muffled thud that echoed in the empty corridor.

The door to Classroom 307, at the end of the third-floor corridor, was ajar. From within came the low murmur of discussion.

Werner paused at the door for a few seconds, straightened his collar, and then knocked softly.

"Come in," said a young man’s voice.

He pushed the door open. Seven or eight people sat in the room, all young, in their twenties.

They were gathered around several desks that had been pushed together. On the desks lay a few tattered books and an enamel teapot. The slogan on the wall, "Study Marxism-Leninism, Build Socialism," had faded and yellowed with age.

Peter Weber was sitting by the window. He was twenty-six, tall and thin, wearing round-framed glasses and a sweater with patched elbows.

He froze for a moment when he saw Werner, then stood up. "Mr. Betelich? What are you—"

"Pastor Weber asked me to bring you something," Werner said, pulling a paper bag from his satchel. "Brazilian coffee. He said you like it."

Peter took the paper bag, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. "How thoughtful of my uncle." He turned to the others. "Everyone, this is Mr. Werner Betelich, a friend of my uncle’s."

The young people nodded in greeting, their eyes wary.

Werner understood. In East Germany, a stranger suddenly appearing at a private gathering would make anyone nervous.

"Well, I won’t disturb you," Werner said.

"Since you’re here, why don’t you stay for a cup of tea?" Peter suggested, pushing up his glasses. "We happen to be discussing Camus’s *The Myth of Sisyphus*. If you’re interested—"

"I don’t know much about philosophy," Werner said with a smile, "but I’d be happy to have a cup of tea."

Peter poured Werner a cup of tea and continued the introductions. "This is Marta; she works at the Ministry of Culture. This is Thomas, a mechanical engineer. And this is—"

Werner nodded as he listened, mentally memorizing their names and faces.

Seven people. Besides Peter, there were two university teachers, one engineer, a junior clerk from the Ministry of Culture, and two students. All intellectuals. All part of the system.

"Shall we continue?" The female teacher with the black-rimmed glasses—Marta—glanced uneasily at Werner.

"Yes, let’s continue." Peter opened the book on the desk. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The metaphor of Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the mountain—"

"Camus says we must imagine Sisyphus happy," Thomas chimed in. He was about thirty, with traces of machine oil on his fingers. "Because he found his own meaning in absurdity, refusing to surrender to his fate."

"But that’s not quite the same as Sartre’s point of view," another young teacher said, pushing up his glasses. "Sartre emphasizes engagement, using action to change the world. Camus, on the other hand, seems to be saying we should accept the absurd itself."

Peter nodded. "In *Existentialism is a Humanism*, Sartre says that existence precedes essence, that people must define themselves through their choices and actions. But the question is—" He paused, his voice dropping low. "When your choices are confined to such a narrow scope, how much meaning does that freedom really have?"

The room fell silent for several seconds.

"Perhaps that’s where Camus is more realistic than Sartre," Marta said carefully. "Sartre was too idealistic, believing people could truly choose and act freely. But the reality is—" She glanced out the window. "The reality is that you have to be careful about what books you’re even allowed to read."

Werner held his teacup, listening quietly.

Such talk was certainly sensitive in 1960s East Germany, but he knew perfectly well that these young people were just discussing philosophy, just trying to make sense of their own situation.

They weren’t plotting to overthrow the government, they weren’t distributing flyers, they weren’t organizing demonstrations—they were just reading, and thinking.

From his perspective as a Transmigrator, Werner knew all too well what this all meant.

Thirty years from now, when the Berlin Wall came down and the East German archives were opened to the public, what would history remember? Would it remember these young people, who pursued freedom of thought? Or would it remember the informants, the Stasi officers who persecuted intellectuals?

Lainer would be pilloried by history, while these people—who only wanted to read forbidden books and discuss ideas freely—would be seen as heroes, as victims.

But at this very moment, Werner was sitting right here, with the list Lainer had given him, supposed to be carrying out his surveillance mission.

"Camus and Sartre eventually had a falling out," Peter continued. "In 1952, over their views on the Soviet Union. Sartre defended the Soviet Union, while Camus criticized its totalitarianism—"

"That’s too sensitive a topic," Thomas cut in, shooting another glance at Werner.

Peter seemed to realize something as well and cleared his throat. "Right, let’s get back to *The Myth of Sisyphus* itself. In the book, Camus discusses the problem of suicide. He argues that in an absurd world, suicide is not the solution. Rebellion is—"

"Not political rebellion," Marta quickly added. "He means it in a philosophical sense. A spiritual rebellion."

Werner almost laughed. ’How careful these people are,’ he thought. ’Weighing every word, terrified of crossing a line.’

’They aren’t dissidents. They just want to maintain their intellectual independence. That’s it.’

’And these are the exact people Lainer wants to arrest.’

An indescribable emotion surged within Werner. Anger? Sadness? A sense of powerlessness?

He recalled the cold look in Lainer’s eyes.

’What should I do?’ he wondered.

Werner’s fingers unconsciously traced the rim of his teacup.

The rest of the discussion proceeded with extreme caution.

They talked about Sisyphus’s boulder, about absurdity and rebellion, about existential philosophy. But every few minutes, someone would shoot him a wary glance, and the conversation would be reined in just as it threatened to go deeper.

Werner said nothing, simply sitting in silence as the scales of his conscience swung back and forth.

’Conscience versus survival, justice versus self-preservation... is there a middle ground?’

The meeting ended at nine o’clock. As people began to file out, Werner also stood to take his leave.

"Mr. Betelich, please wait a moment," Peter called out to him.

Once everyone else had gone, Peter closed the door and turned to face Werner. "Was there a particular reason you came tonight?"

Werner lit a cigarette. "Pastor Weber asked me to bring you some coffee."

"Just for coffee?" Peter’s gaze was direct.

Werner exhaled a plume of smoke, silent for a few seconds before meeting Peter’s eyes. "Peter, how long has this reading group of yours been meeting?"

"A year and a half." The color drained from Peter’s face. "Why do you ask?"

"You’re being watched," Werner said, his voice low. "By the Stasi."

Peter stiffened, his face instantly paling. "How—how do you know that?"

"Don’t ask how I know," Werner said, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "I’m just warning you to be careful. The things you’re discussing... they see it all as subversive."

Peter leaned against a desk, his hands trembling slightly. "We’re just reading books, just talking—"

"I know," Werner said. "You haven’t done anything wrong. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is how *they* see it."

Peter looked up. "Then what are we supposed to do? Stop reading? Stop thinking? Just live like machines?"

Werner looked at him. The young man’s defiance reminded him of something.

"I don’t know what you should do," Werner said. "But at the very least, you need to know you’re being watched. Be more discreet when you meet. Be more careful about what you discuss. Don’t give them anything they can use against you."

Peter gave a bitter laugh. "Mr. Betelich, in this country, just breathing is enough to give them leverage against you."

Werner didn’t argue, because he was right.

He stubbed out his cigarette and turned toward the door. He paused at the threshold without looking back.

"Remember what I told you."

He pushed the door open and left, leaving Peter to stand alone in the empty classroom.

* * *

Outside Humboldt University, the cold wind cut at his face like a knife. Werner pulled his greatcoat tighter around himself and started walking back along Under the Bodhi Tree Street.

Werner thought about the evening’s events as he walked.

Warning Peter was necessary, but it wasn’t enough. Lainer wanted results, a solid case he could present. If Werner couldn’t produce anything after a month, Lainer would definitely get suspicious.

’I have to give him something, then.’

Werner turned into a small alley where a public telephone booth stood. He dropped a coin in the slot and dialed Anna’s number.

"Hello?" Anna’s voice sounded drowsy.

"It’s me," Werner said. "I need you for something."