I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 176: Chapter 86: Gray Life

The next afternoon, Werner stood before an old apartment building in the Prenzlauer Berg District.

The area hadn’t been severely damaged in the war. The red brick buildings from the late nineteenth century still lined the streets, though their walls were peeling, their window frames were rotting, and the scars of time were everywhere. The bakery downstairs had only a few hard, dark loaves in its window, and a notice on the door read, "Limit two per person."

Lucas Becker lived on the fourth floor.

Werner climbed the narrow staircase, the wooden steps creaking under his weight. The hallway was filled with the smell of boiled potatoes and sauerkraut, and the paint on the walls had yellowed and cracked. He found apartment 402 and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" a hoarse male voice called from inside.

"I’m looking for Mr. Becker. A friend sent me."

The door opened a crack, and a haggard face peered out. He looked to be in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair disheveled over his shoulders. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were sunken, but they were bright, holding a sharp, wary glint.

"What friend?"

"Mark Toller." Werner gave the West Berlin publisher’s name.

He had used his connection with Reynard to contact Lucas’s publisher in West Germany. It was the publisher who had given him this address—after all, they were also anxious to get their hands on the new manuscript.

Lucas’s eyes narrowed as he sized Werner up. "Toller never mentioned you."

"Because this is my first time here." Werner pulled an envelope from his pocket. "He asked me to bring you something."

Lucas hesitated for a moment before taking the envelope. He opened it, glanced inside, and his expression changed. The envelope contained a stack of West German Marks—at least five hundred.

"Come in," he said, opening the door wider.

The apartment was small, just one room and a living area, with simple furniture. The desk by the window was piled high with books and manuscript pages. An old-fashioned typewriter sat in the middle, next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. A few clippings from the literary sections of West German newspapers were taped to the wall.

"Sit." Lucas pointed to the only sofa and sat down at his desk. "What’s your name?"

"Werner Betelich."

"What do you do?"

"I run a few small businesses."

Lucas lit a cigarette, his eyes scrutinizing Werner. "If Mueller sent you with money, it can’t be just about the money."

"That’s right." Werner lit a cigarette as well. "He said you have a new work to be published and need someone to help get the manuscript out."

Lucas took a drag from his cigarette. It was a long moment before he spoke. "I’ve written a novel about life on our side. Mueller’s publishing house is willing to print it, but the manuscript has to be delivered to them."

"How long is it?"

"About two hundred thousand characters." Lucas stood up and pulled a thick stack of manuscript pages from a bookshelf. "It’s all here. Can you get it out?"

Werner took the manuscript and weighed it in his hands. At least two or three kilograms. He calculated mentally—’With this thickness, I could hide it in the layers of a car seat. The Border Guards at the checkpoints usually don’t search that thoroughly. Technically, it’s doable.’

But the question was, should he really help him?

The risk was too great. If the Stasi found out, not only would the manuscript be confiscated, but he would also be in serious trouble. Lainer was still waiting for him to provide intelligence, and Lucas was a ready-made target.

He needed to read the novel first before making a decision.

"Is this novel important to you?" Werner asked.

"It is," Lucas said, his voice trembling slightly. "I spent three years writing it and revised it five times. It’s the best work of my life."

He walked to the window and looked out at the dreary gray sky. "Do you know what it’s like to be a writer here? With every word you write, you have to worry about being arrested. Every plot point, every line of dialogue, you have to weigh whether or not you’ve crossed a line."

"But I don’t want to compromise. I want to write about real things. About people’s real lives, their real pain, their real—" He paused. "Their real despair."

Werner looked at him, and suddenly this haggard, middle-aged man seemed a tragic figure.

In this country, writing should have been an act of freedom, but now it had become the most dangerous of acts.

"Mr. Becker," Werner said slowly, "I have to ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

"If this book is published, what will the consequences be?"

Lucas let out a bitter laugh. "Consequences? I’ll probably be arrested, interrogated, and maybe thrown in prison."

"Then why do you still want to publish it?"

"Because it’s proof that I exist," Lucas said. "I live, I think, I write, therefore I am. If I give up even this, then what’s the difference between me and a walking corpse?"

Werner was reminded of what Peter had said last night. It was almost exactly the same.

’These intellectuals,’ he thought, ’they all have a near-paranoid level of conviction, preferring to take risks rather than compromise.’

He looked at Lucas’s deeply lined face and was suddenly overcome with an indescribable emotion.

If he just handed him over to Lainer, let the Stasi arrest him, the man would likely spend the rest of his life in prison.

And his book, the one he had poured three years of his heart and soul into, would be thrown into a shredder and turned into a pile of confetti.

Werner cursed himself internally.

’When the fuck did you get so sentimental?’

But a conscience, sometimes, just has a way of popping up at the most inconvenient times.

"I’ll take it back and have a look first," Werner said. "I’ll contact you again after I’ve read it."

"Read it?" Lucas was taken aback.

"That’s right. I need to know what I’m transporting." Werner stood up. "I have your address. I’ll come find you in a couple of days."

Lucas hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded.

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

After leaving Lucas’s apartment, Werner didn’t go straight back. Instead, he turned into a small, nearby diner.

The place was called "The Workers’ Canteen," but it was really just a mom-and-pop shop that sold simple food—potato soup, fried sausages, and sauerkraut with stewed pork. There weren’t many customers, just a few laborers in work clothes drinking beer in a corner.

Werner ordered a sausage and a beer, sat down at a table by the window, and took out Lucas’s manuscript to start reading.

The first page. The title was *A Life in Gray*.

He read on, gradually becoming engrossed in the content.

The novel told the story of an ordinary working-class family in East Berlin. The father worked at a factory, repeating the same tasks every day for a meager salary. The mother was a clerk at a state-run store and had to maintain an ambiguous, intimate relationship with the store manager just to get a few extra rations for her family. The son was being pressured at school to join the Young Pioneers, but he didn’t want to, because he saw his parents’ hypocrisy and suffering and didn’t believe in the slogans.

Lucas’s writing was incredibly realistic. There was no melodrama, no condemnation—just a calm description of this family’s daily life. But it was precisely this dispassionate tone that made one’s chest tighten while reading.

Werner turned page after page, his sausage growing cold, untouched.

One scene in the novel left a deep impression on him: the mother, in order to get an extra two pounds of potatoes, spent half an hour in the store manager’s office. When she came home, she said nothing. She just silently put the potatoes in the cupboard, then went to the kitchen to wash her hands, washing them for a very, very long time. The son stood in the doorway watching, wanting to ask something, but in the end, he asked nothing at all.

This silent suffering was more powerful than any outcry.

Werner set the manuscript down and lit a cigarette.

He wondered, ’If this book were published, how many people would see themselves in its pages? How many would realize that their so-called ’paradise’ was nothing but a colossal lie?’

As a Transmigrator, Werner knew how this country’s story would end.

He knew the Berlin Wall would fall in 1989, and that East Germany would disappear into the river of history.

But sitting here in this bleak little diner, watching the pedestrians hurry past the window, he suddenly felt that he couldn’t just be a bystander.

History would remember the great men—the leaders, the politicians, the revolutionaries.

But who would remember these ordinary people? Who would remember the mother who sold her dignity for two pounds of potatoes? Who would remember the father who performed the same repetitive labor in a factory for thirty years?

Lucas’s book was the record of these people.

Werner stubbed out his cigarette. He had made a decision.

This book had to be sent out. It had to be published. It had to be preserved.

No matter how the Stasi tried to ban it, no matter how the regime tried to suppress it, one day people would want to know the truth of this period in history. And Lucas’s book was a part of that truth.

But that complicated things.

Getting the manuscript out was the easy part, but what about Lucas? Once the book was published in West Germany, the Stasi would definitely come for him. With their methods, even if Lucas didn’t die, he’d be put through hell.

The safest solution was to get Lucas to escape to West Germany as well.

Werner sighed internally.

His original plan had been to turn over both Marcus and Lucas to Lainer. That way, he could complete his assignment and build trust with the Stasi.

Well, so much for that. The Lucas lead was gone, leaving only Marcus to placate Lainer.

But it couldn’t be helped. Since he had decided to help, he had to see it through to the end.

He paid his bill, picked up the manuscript, and headed back.