I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

March 5th, 1961, 4:00 PM

Werner stood at the entrance of the Alexanderplatz Subway Station. In his pocket was the "timetable" he had bought from the retired veteran, Andrew—a crumpled slip of paper with the border guards’ shift change times hastily scrawled on it in pencil.

"Mathias Bauer, 20 years old, blond hair, blue eyes, acne scars on his chin. On duty from 4 PM to 10 PM, responsible for the Alexanderplatz checkpoint. Mild-tempered but lacks experience." Werner silently recited the information on the slip of paper, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

He had noticed this young border guard half a month ago.

Although he had managed to pass through without incident, Werner had keenly sensed the young man’s gaze lingering on him for a few extra seconds. He might have already memorized his face.

In this era, the slightest anomaly could be fatal. ’Better to take the initiative than to wait for trouble to find you.’

The subway station was bustling with people.

At this time, the East Berlin subway, while not as modern as West Berlin’s, was still the most important transportation artery in the divided city.

Werner wore a dark gray worker’s jacket, looking just like any other ordinary laborer heading home after a shift.

He had deliberately chosen this time—just after 4:00 PM, right when Matthias had started his shift.

Based on his experience, guards just starting their shifts were usually at their most vigilant, but also the most easily swayed by small favors.

Sure enough, Werner spotted the familiar figure in the subway station.

Mathias Bauer stood by the inspection booth. He wasn’t tall, but he was sturdy, the very picture of a typical German youth—short blond hair, blue eyes, and the lingering acne scars of adolescence on his chin. He wore a crisp border guard uniform with a pistol at his hip. He looked serious, but his eyes still held a hint of immaturity.

’This kid looks like an easy target,’ Werner calculated internally.

He didn’t approach Matthias directly. Instead, he bought a copy of the *New Germany Newspaper* from a nearby newsstand, then leaned against a wall, pretending to read it.

In reality, he was carefully observing Matthias’s work habits.

When Matthias checked documents, his movements were by the book but clearly lacked experience.

When faced with well-dressed citizens, he was always a bit reserved; with people dressed as workers, he became overly strict, as if trying to prove his authority.

’A typical rookie,’ Werner thought, shaking his head inwardly. ’These are the easiest to buy.’

Just then, something unexpected happened.

A middle-aged man in a worn-out coat walked into the subway station.

Werner could tell at a glance that something was wrong with this guy—his posture was too tense as he walked, his eyes darted about nervously. A classic sign of a guilty conscience.

Sure enough, Matthias stopped him and asked to see his papers. As he took the documents and examined them closely, the middle-aged man began to sweat.

"Where are you coming from?" Matthias asked.

"From... from Prenzlauer Berg," the middle-aged man stammered in reply.

"What are you going to West Berlin for?"

"To... to visit relatives."

Matthias frowned.

As a border guard, he had to deal with all sorts of people trying to cross illegally every day. This middle-aged man’s behavior was far too suspicious.

Just as Matthias was about to question the suspicious man further, an old woman with a stooped back, carrying two heavy shopping bags, struggled toward the stairs at the subway station entrance.

She tottered along, then suddenly stumbled and nearly fell.

Werner’s eyes lit up. ’An opportunity.’

He strode forward. "Careful, ma’am! Let me help you."

With that, Werner took the shopping bags from the old woman’s hands.

The bags were indeed heavy, filled with potatoes, bread, and some canned goods—typical rationed items.

"Thank you so much, young man," the old woman said gratefully. "There aren’t many kind people like you around anymore. These old arms and legs of mine are really useless now."

The old woman’s voice trembled a little, and she did seem to be in poor health.

Werner helped her slowly up the stairs, thoughtfully reminding her to watch her step.

Hearing the old woman’s cry of alarm, Matthias instinctively turned his head toward the stairs.

Seeing Werner carefully helping the old woman, his attention was completely captivated.

At that crucial moment, the middle-aged man saw his chance.

While Matthias was distracted, he quickly blended into the crowd and slipped away from the other side of the checkpoint.

By the time Werner returned after helping the old woman upstairs, Matthias realized the suspicious man had vanished.

"Damn it!" Matthias slapped his hat in frustration. "Another suspicious one got away."

Werner walked up to the checkpoint, and Matthias spoke first. "I saw you helping that old woman just now. Good on you."

"It was nothing," Werner replied with a smile, then took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. "Sorry, could I get a light? My lighter’s broken."

Matthias studied Werner, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "I feel like... I’ve seen you somewhere before. Do you take the subway often?"

Werner’s heart skipped a beat, but his expression remained calm. "Probably. I do take the subway a lot. For work, I need to travel between East and West Berlin often."

"Right, that’s it!" Matthias said, realization dawning on him. "I see you passing through here all the time with a briefcase. What do you do for work?"

"A buyer for the Third Machine Factory," Werner explained. "I have to run around a lot, discussing business on both sides. Mainly purchasing agricultural machinery parts."

The story was plausible.

At this time, although East and West Berlin were politically opposed, there was still some economic exchange, especially for the procurement of certain technical parts.

Matthias took out his lighter, and Werner took it to light his cigarette.

Just then, Matthias noticed the packaging of Werner’s cigarettes.

"Is that... Camel?" Matthias’s eyes lit up, his voice tinged with a hint of envy.

Werner took a deep drag and said nonchalantly, "Yeah, a colleague in West Berlin gave them to me. They’re definitely a better smoke than what we have over here."

With that, he took another cigarette from the pack and offered it to Matthias. "Have one. Thanks for the light. Besides, you must be in a bad mood after that suspicious guy got away."

Matthias hesitated.

As a border guard, he knew it wasn’t exactly appropriate to accept such a "small favor." But the temptation of the cigarette was just too great—in ration-based East Germany, this kind of high-end cigarette was nearly impossible to buy.

"Is... is this appropriate?" Matthias asked, but his eyes couldn’t leave the cigarette.

"What’s not appropriate about it?" Werner said with a smile. "It’s just a regular cigarette, just a different brand. Besides, you complimented me for helping others, and that made me happy. Think of it as a small token of appreciation. It’s nothing."

Matthias glanced around, and after confirming there were no superiors nearby, he took the cigarette. He lit it carefully and took a deep drag.

"This is really good!" he couldn’t help but exclaim. "So much better than an F6."

F6 was the most common cigarette brand in East Germany. It was crudely made, but it was all ordinary people could afford.

Werner nodded to himself. Matthias’s reaction confirmed his assessment—the young man was dissatisfied with his current situation and easily tempted by material goods.

"My name is Werner. Werner Betelich," Werner introduced himself. "I work at the Third Machine Factory."