I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

They walked into a nearby, nearly empty tavern.

The decor was dated, the wooden wainscoting had blackened, and the air was thick with the smell of stale beer.

When the bartender saw the Soviet Army officer enter, he immediately gave a respectful nod and then shrewdly disappeared into the back kitchen.

"Two vodkas," Ivanov shouted, then sat down at a corner table.

Werner sat across from him, his mind already working on a counter-strategy. ’I must remain calm,’ he thought, ’and find an opportunity to fight back.’

"Now that no one’s here to disturb us, we can speak frankly." Ivanov pulled a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his inner pocket and leisurely lit one. "Werner Betelich. Twenty-three years old. A worker at the machinery plant. Your standard of living has seen a marked improvement recently. Your neighbors are all very curious how you’ve gotten your hands on all those Western goods."

"Maybe I just got lucky," Werner said calmly.

"Luck?" Ivanov roared with laughter, the sound echoing harshly in the empty tavern. "Young man, I’ve been in this line of work for fifteen years. I’ve seen every kind of person there is. You think I’m going to believe that bullshit about luck?"

The bartender nervously brought over two glasses of vodka, placed them carefully on the table, and then retreated just as quickly.

Ivanov picked up his glass, downed it in one go, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Listen here, kid. I don’t want to make things complicated." His voice turned more menacing. "You have two choices. Either you cooperate with me and hand over fifty percent of your monthly revenue as a ’protection fee,’ or I give your file to the Stasi and let them deal with you." 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

"Fifty percent?" Werner raised an eyebrow, though inwardly he sneered.

’This greedy Soviet Army officer’s appetite was even bigger than he’d imagined.’

"It’s a protection fee!" Ivanov slammed his hand on the table, making the glasses rattle. "With my protection, you can do your business more safely. Without it, you won’t last a single day here!"

Werner pretended to consider it, while actually planning his counterattack.

’I need to reveal the information I have piece by piece. Dumping it all at once would just make Ivanov lash out in desperation.’

"Comrade Major, fifty percent is a bit steep," Werner said slowly. "I think we could find a more... mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Mutually beneficial?" Ivanov sneered. "What right does a German smuggler have to talk about mutual benefit with a Soviet Army officer?"

"Because we’re both intelligent men," Werner’s tone remained even. "And we’re in the same line of business."

Ivanov’s expression shifted slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, Comrade Major, that you control a much larger supply of goods than I do," Werner said, slowly reaching into his inner pocket. "I think instead of threatening each other, we should consider a true partnership."

Ivanov instantly grew wary, his hand instinctively moving toward the pistol at his hip. "What do you think you’re doing?"

"Relax, Comrade Major." Werner slowly pulled out a small box. "I just wanted to show you something."

He placed the box on the table and gently slid it toward Ivanov.

It was a box of standard-issue Soviet Army iodine, its packaging clearly printed with Russian lettering.

Ivanov’s expression grew complex the moment he saw the box.

He picked up the box and examined it closely, finding the familiar number on the bottom: 79-MED-031.

"Where did you get this?" His voice had taken on a strained quality.

"From a scrapyard," Werner answered truthfully. "The owner said a middle-aged woman sold it to him. She claimed it was surplus material her husband had gotten from the army."

Ivanov’s face turned even uglier.

Of course he knew where the iodine came from—it was part of a batch of medical supplies he had disposed of through a middleman just last month.

"Th-this doesn’t prove anything," he said, trying to sound tough. "Maybe someone else..."

"Perhaps," Werner agreed with a nod, then pulled a small notebook from his pocket. "But what about when you add this to the picture?"

He flipped open the notebook to a marked page and slid it in front of Ivanov.

"March 1961, Soviet Army 79th Logistics Regiment." Werner pointed to the writing in the notebook, his voice as calm as if he were reading a weather report. "Medical supplies dispatched: 8 crates. Recorded use: 3 crates. Shortfall: 5 crates."

Ivanov’s face instantly turned pale.

He glared at the notebook as if he could set it on fire with his eyes.

"You... Where did you get these numbers?" his voice began to tremble.

Werner didn’t answer, simply turning a page. "February: twelve crates of canned food dispatched, five recorded as used, a shortfall of seven. January: four batches of pharmaceuticals dispatched, one recorded as used, a shortfall of three."

With each item Werner read aloud, Ivanov’s expression grew uglier.

’These were the exact figures from his operations; there was no way an outsider could have guessed them.’

"The interesting thing," Werner said, closing the notebook, "is that these inventory discrepancies only appear under your material management. The records for inventories managed by other officers are perfectly normal."

Ivanov shot to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor.

His hand was already gripping the butt of his pistol, and he looked like a cornered animal.

"Are you threatening me? A petty German smuggler dares to threaten a Soviet officer?"

But Werner noticed that the confidence had vanished from Ivanov’s voice, replaced by a hysterical panic.

This panic was not without cause. Not long ago, Soviet Army command had launched a "strict rectification campaign" targeting officers who were privately selling military supplies. A dozen officers had already been court-martialed, handed heavy sentences, and sent back to the Soviet Union—a colonel among them.

’Ivanov knew full well that what he was doing was playing with fire.’

"No, Comrade Major, I’m not threatening you." Werner remained seated, even taking a moment to lift his glass and take a sip.

The harsh vodka burned his throat, but his mind was preternaturally calm. "I’m talking business with you."

"Talking business?" A flicker of confusion crossed Ivanov’s eyes.

"Yes." Werner set down his glass and looked Ivanov straight in the eye. "You have the supply, I have the distribution. You have the protection, I have the network. Why should we threaten each other, when we could have a win-win partnership?"

"Cooperation?" Ivanov sat back down, but he remained on high alert. "How do you want to cooperate?"