I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

East German coffee machines were of such poor quality that they broke down often, while Swiss coffee machines were clearly more technologically advanced and reliable.

Most importantly, the families of these wealthy and influential officials had a strong demand for them, but there was virtually no supply on the market.

"Are Swiss coffee machines really that good?" Werner continued to probe.

"Of course!" Mrs. Schmidt gushed. "Not only is the quality good, but they’re beautiful too. It’s like having a work of art in the kitchen; it really elevates the whole room. The best part is, they’re simple to operate, unlike this piece of junk. I have to fiddle with it for ages every time."

Hearing this, a plan began to form in Werner’s mind.

’If I can get my hands on genuine Swiss coffee machines from Reynard, they’ll be a hot commodity in East Berlin. Besides, the profit margin on such a big-ticket item would be huge. One machine could be worth the profit from several cigarette smuggling runs.’

This deal wasn’t just lucrative; the risk was manageable. The potential buyers were all from the powerful and influential class, so the transactions would be more discreet and safer.

"Aren’t they sold on the Black Market?"

"Most of them are just East German products with a Swiss label slapped on. Some are just plain broken," Mrs. Schmidt said, shaking her head. "You can’t find a trace of the real Swiss ones."

Werner nodded thoughtfully.

’A monopoly. That’s the best kind of business.’

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

That evening, in Eva’s small living room under the light of a dim desk lamp, Eva began to teach Werner how to authenticate Western goods.

It was a very practical skill for the East German Black Market. In this resource-scarce country, counterfeits were rampant, and the uninitiated were easily duped.

"Werner, look at this." Eva picked up the pack of Marlboros that Franz had sold him. "What does the country of origin say on the box?"

"Made in West Germany," Werner read aloud.

Eva shook her head, her brown curls catching the light with a soft sheen. "That’s the problem right there. Marlboro is an American brand. A genuine pack should say ’Made in USA.’ Counterfeiters make this kind of basic mistake all the time."

It dawned on Werner. He took the cigarette pack and examined it closely.

The packaging looked exquisite, and the red-and-white color scheme seemed authentic, but now that he knew what to look for, he could easily spot the flaws.

"Are there other ways to tell?"

"Of course," Eva said, opening the pack. "Smell it."

Werner leaned in and sniffed. A harsh, low-quality tobacco smell, mixed with the strange odor of chemical additives, assaulted his nostrils. It was nothing like the light fragrance a Western cigarette should have.

"The real ones have a lighter scent, and the paper quality is better." Eva took a genuine Marlboro from another pack for comparison. "Look at this filter. A real one is pure white and uniform. The fake one..."

She tore open one of the fakes. The filter was noticeably yellow and the paper was coarse, deforming with just a light squeeze.

"Shit, these counterfeiters really put a lot of effort into this," Werner couldn’t help but curse.

"They put in the effort, but the details don’t hold up to scrutiny." Eva then took out the bottle of "French perfume." "Chanel No. 5. It looks high-end at first glance, but there are problems if you look closely."

Werner took the bottle. The glass was indeed elegantly shaped and the label was exquisite, but at Eva’s prompting, he began to examine the details.

"Wait, why is there an extra ’n’ in ’Chanel’?"

"Exactly! Spelling mistakes are one of the most common giveaways." A flash of approval appeared in Eva’s eyes. "And this." She pointed to the bottom of the bottle. "A real bottle of Chanel has a batch number and detailed origin markings. This has nothing."

Werner unscrewed the cap and smelled it. A sharp smell of alcohol rushed out, like cheap liquor.

"What does real Chanel No. 5 smell like?"

"Floral. Very light and elegant, with complex layers." Eva’s expression turned a little somber, and her voice softened. "I smelled it once in a department store in West Berlin. The feeling... it was like a spring garden. It makes you yearn to have it."

She didn’t say any more, but Werner understood how she felt.

For people living in resource-starved East Germany, Western luxury goods were like things from another world—a beautiful symbol of something desirable yet unattainable.

For the next two hours, Eva taught Werner how to authenticate a dozen or so "Western products": coffee, soap, toothpaste, cosmetics, chocolate... Each had its own unique authentication techniques and details to watch out for.

Werner took out a small notebook, filling it with densely packed notes on the key points:

"Marlboro: Origin label USA vs. Germany, filter color, complexity of tobacco scent."

"Chanel perfume: Brand spelling, batch number markings, complexity of fragrance."

"Nestle coffee: Uniformity and sheen of granules."

"Lux soap: Richness and longevity of lather, strength of scent."

"That’s a good habit you have, taking notes." Eva watched him writing diligently, a hint of admiration in her eyes. "The goods on the Black Market change quickly, and the counterfeiters’ techniques are constantly ’improving.’ Only by accumulating enough experience can you avoid losing out."

"Experience is truly worth its weight in gold." Werner closed his notebook and looked up at her. "By the way, tomorrow I want to look into that business with the coffee machines."

"Coffee machines?" Eva asked, puzzled.

"It’s about what I saw today at Mrs. Schmidt’s house." Werner’s eyes glinted with contemplation. "I think this could be a great business opportunity. East German coffee machines have so many problems, and Swiss ones are so hard to come by..."

"Swiss coffee machines are definitely in high demand, but for such a big-ticket item..." Eva frowned. "The risk and the investment are both substantial."

"The risk is big, but so is the profit margin." A certain confidence filled Werner’s voice. "The key is to find the right buyers—clients who have a real need and the ability to pay."

Just then, footsteps echoed from outside, sounding especially loud and hurried in the silent hallway.

The two of them immediately froze, holding their breath.

In East Germany at that time, unusual noises late at night often meant trouble.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, followed by a knock.

"Who is it?" Eva asked in a low voice, her tone thick with tension.

"It’s me, Hans," a little boy’s voice came from outside, though it sounded panicked. "Mama, someone’s here to see you."

Eva immediately opened the door and let her son in.

Five-year-old Hans stared with wide eyes, his face etched with the kind of worry only a child can show.

"Who’s looking for me? What time is it?"

"Men in uniform. They said they’re from the city government," Hans reported dutifully. "There’s another one who looks like a police officer. They said they have something important to discuss with you."