I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Werner arrived at the small church behind Marx-Engels Square.

It was an old brick building that had been shelled during World War II. Scars from the blasts were still visible on its walls, but it stood firm after being repaired.

The church’s steeple looked particularly stately against the gloomy sky. A few pigeons were nesting under the eaves.

The small square in front of the church was paved with irregular flagstones. A few elderly people were feeding pigeons, while residents occasionally hurried past.

This place was much quieter than Alexanderplatz, a rare pocket of tranquility in this tense city.

Soon, Werner spotted John—an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a stocky, medium build. He was wearing a US Army jacket that looked to be of good quality, though it was showing its age. A faded unit patch was still visible, hinting at the man’s military past.

He was sitting on a bench in front of the church, talking in low voices with a priest in a black cassock, letting out hearty laughs from time to time.

Werner watched for a moment, noticing John’s sharp, alert gaze. He periodically scanned their surroundings—a habit clearly honed by years in the business.

The priest appeared to be in his fifties, with a gentle face. From the way he and John conversed, they were clearly old friends.

Werner straightened his clothes, walked over, and greeted them politely. "Excuse me, are you John? Fatty Wolf Wolfgang sent me."

John looked up at him, a flicker of vigilance flashing in his blue eyes before being quickly masked by a friendly smile. A mouthful of gold teeth glinted in the sunlight. "Well now, a friend of Wolfgang’s. You’re the young man who can get his hands on Swiss goods?"

"That’s me." Werner nodded, then looked at the Priest. "And this is?"

"Pastor Weber, he runs this church," John said, gesturing to the priest beside him. He then turned to the pastor. "Martin, this is the young man I told you about. Word is he’s quite capable."

Pastor Weber stood up and extended his hand to shake Werner’s.

His grip was warm and firm, and his eyes held a unique wisdom and kindness. "Young man, John says you are very capable. In this day and age, capable young people are few and far between."

"You’re too kind, Pastor," Werner said humbly. "I’m just trying to survive in these chaotic times."

John patted the bench, gesturing for Werner to sit. "Wolfgang mentioned on the phone... said you were in need of some storage?"

"Yes." Werner sat down. "I have a shipment of goods I brought back from West Berlin that needs to be stored safely. It’s a sizable amount, and it’s not safe to keep it at my place."

"What kind of goods?" John asked directly. As an old hand, he needed to know what kind of items he was dealing with.

"Coffee beans, cigarettes, liquor, and some small Western goods," Werner answered truthfully. "The total value is around fifteen hundred Marks."

John whistled. "That’s no small sum. You sure you have that kind of capital? And why store so much? Planning to hold onto it for the long term?"

Werner took out his wallet, letting John see the thick wad of Mark bills inside. "The capital’s not an issue. As for why I’m stockpiling..." He paused. "I just get the sense that things are getting tense. I want to hoard some hard assets, just in case."

John and Weber exchanged a glance.

The explanation was perfectly reasonable. Many experienced merchants would hoard goods that retained their value whenever the political situation became uncertain.

"Your instincts are sharp, young man," Pastor Weber said with an approving nod. "These are indeed turbulent times. The future is full of uncertainty."

"I can offer three places: my basement, a friend’s auto repair shop, and..." John looked at Pastor Weber.

"The Church’s storage room," Pastor Weber said calmly. "We sometimes help people in need by storing their things."

"What’s the fee?" Werner asked.

"Fifty Marks per month, per location. Security guaranteed," John quoted. "But there’s one condition—your goods can’t be weapons."

"Of course not," Werner agreed readily. "I’m only in business. I don’t touch weapons."

Pastor Weber nodded approvingly. "Young man, in times like these, knowing how to protect yourself is a sign of wisdom."

"It’s a deal, then." John extended his hand. "Three months’ fees in advance. Four hundred and fifty Marks."

Werner counted out the money and handed it to John. "When can I start?"

"You can start now," John said, pocketing the money. "But I suggest you store it in batches. Don’t move too much at once, you’ll attract attention."

Werner nodded. "I understand."

Just then, the sound of rhythmic marching footsteps echoed from the distance.

The three of them looked back and saw a squad of East German Border Guards on a routine patrol. They wore green uniforms and carried submachine guns, their expressions grim.

"It’s happening more and more often," Pastor Weber sighed softly.

John nodded as well. "My friends in West Berlin say the Americans are also increasing their patrols. Both sides are preparing for something." 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

Werner said nothing, merely watching silently as the squad of soldiers marched away.

He knew better than anyone what this tense atmosphere would mean for East Germany.

However, as a Transmigrator, Werner knew that things on the western side weren’t exactly relaxed, either.

Although West Berlin enjoyed relative freedom, as an "isolated island" surrounded by East German territory, its people lived with a different kind of tension—fear of the Soviet military threat, worry about the outbreak of conflict, and doubts about whether the Western world could truly protect them.

West German Chancellor Adenauer had even given speeches on television and other media, warning of the Soviet Union’s "expansionist ambitions."

’Two different kinds of tension,’ Werner thought. ’East Germans fear the watchers at their side, while West Germans fear the bombs that might fall from the sky.’

’One is an internal suffocation, the other an external threat.’

But for him, a Transmigrator, this tension was precisely an opportunity.

"Mr. John, Pastor, I’ll be taking my leave now," Werner said, standing up. "Starting tomorrow, I’ll begin bringing the goods over in increments."

"Remember," John advised, "in batches, small amounts, and don’t rush."

After returning to his residence, Werner took out a small notebook and started drafting a detailed stockpiling plan.

Stockpiling Plan:

Target Goods: Coffee beans, cigarettes, liquor, watches, cosmetics

Projected Investment: 1,500 Marks

Storage Locations: John’s basement, the auto repair shop, the Church storage room

Expected Return: Value to increase 5-10x after the Wall is built

Closing the notebook, Werner walked to the window and gazed out at the night view.

In a few months, when the Berlin Wall shot up from the ground, when East and West Berlin were completely divided, these goods he had positioned in advance would transform him from a petty runner into a new magnate of the Black Market.

And his contact with Pastor Weber today had opened another door for him.

The Church’s humanitarian channels could prove to be of even greater use in the future.

’Just a few more months...’ A faint smile touched the corners of Werner’s lips.

The wheels of history were turning along the track he foresaw, and he had already begun to place his pieces on the board.