I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

"If he wants to retaliate, I’m ready anytime." Werner picked up his beer, drained it in one gulp, and set the mug down with a sharp CLINK. "I’m not afraid of any challenge."

Fatty Wolf gave Werner a long, hard look, then nodded. "Good man. You’ve got guts. But remember, in this line of work, guts aren’t enough. You need brains, too."

"I get it," Werner said, wiping his mouth. "Thanks for the reminder. I won’t do anything reckless. But if someone comes looking for trouble, I won’t go easy on them. This city has room for the ambitious, but not for fools."

Fatty Wolf nodded. "Alright, I’m heading out. You watch yourself." With that, Fatty Wolf stood up, clapped Werner on the shoulder, and left the tavern.

Werner sat alone at the table, slowly sipping the remaining half-mug of beer and mulling over the information Fatty Wolf had just revealed. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

Just then, the tavern door was pushed open and a skinny young man walked in.

He was about twenty years old, wearing a jacket covered in patches, but his eyes were sharp.

He scanned the room as if looking for someone. When his gaze landed on Werner, he walked straight toward him.

"Excuse me, you must be Mr. Werner, right?" the young man asked nervously, his voice filled with obvious reverence. "I’m Keller Robin. I heard you’re often here... I was thinking, maybe you need a gofer or an errand boy? What do you think of me?"

Werner set down his mug and sized up the young man.

Keller wasn’t tall and still had a baby face, but his eyes burned with a desire to prove himself.

"Why do you want to work for me?" Werner asked, not answering the question directly.

"I... I hang around the Black Market a lot, and I’ve heard you’re a big deal," Keller said, wringing his hands, clearly nervous. "I think I could learn a lot from you and make some money, too. I used to work at the state-run textile factory, so I know the situation there really well. Even though I was fired, I can really be useful!"

"Why were you fired?" Werner continued to probe.

Keller’s face reddened. "I stole a bit of fabric to make clothes for my mom. She raised me all by herself, and I couldn’t stand seeing her in rags... Can you understand?"

Werner looked into Keller’s eyes. The young man wasn’t lying.

"What can you do for me?" Werner asked.

"I know a lot of owners of small workshops, and I know who needs what raw materials," Keller said, growing more excited. "And I’m a decent talker, I can help you negotiate deals. Most importantly... I really admire you!"

"Admire what about me?"

"Your ability!" Keller’s eyes shone with adoration. "I heard that not only can you get goods from West Germany, but you also have a good relationship with the Stasi. Even the Priests at the Church are polite to you. Lately on the Black Market, everyone’s been talking about you. It’s incredible!"

Werner was pleased by the flattery but kept his expression calm. "This line of work has its risks."

"I’m not afraid!" Keller said immediately. "You have to take risks to make money, I know that. Besides, following someone capable like you is a lot safer than fumbling around on my own."

Werner considered it for a moment. "Alright. Be at the Church entrance tomorrow morning at eight. And remember, I don’t hire people who are late on the first day."

"Yes, sir! I definitely won’t be late!" Keller was so excited he nearly jumped. "Thank you, Mr. Werner! I won’t let you down!"

After Keller left excitedly, Werner sat alone in the tavern, gazing out at the streets of East Berlin at night.

In the distance, he could hear the footsteps of night-shift workers. Occasionally, a military vehicle would roar past, its headlights cutting beams of light through the darkness.

East Berlin was at a critical juncture in history. The Soviet Union and the United States were at loggerheads over the Berlin issue, the East German Government was tightening its control over the border, and everyone could feel the tense urgency of a coming storm.

But Werner didn’t care about political winds. ’Chaos breeds opportunity; crisis is a turning point. As long as you’re smart enough and decisive enough, you can establish a firm foothold in this city on the brink of massive change.’

’Otto was just the first sacrificial lamb. If the Mole really doesn’t watch his step, he’ll be the second. And this newcomer, Keller, might just become a useful pawn.’

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

The streets of East Berlin in the early morning were filled with the smell of coal smoke and baking bread.

A long line had already formed in front of the ration station. People wrapped in heavy coats waited silently in the cold wind. As Werner passed by, he could hear whispers from the queue.

"I heard that corrupt official, Otto, got caught..."

"It’s about time! My second kid got sick and needed medicine, but he insisted we trade him cigarettes and liquor for it..."

"I wonder who was capable enough to report a government official..."

A faint smile played on Werner’s lips.

As he was walking, a group of people approached him head-on.

Leading them was a tall, thin young man of about twenty-five or twenty-six, wearing a black leather jacket that was clearly from West Germany and had slick, shiny hair. He had three flunkies trailing behind him, and he walked with a swagger, like he owned the world.

’Joseph Hoffman. The Mole.’ Werner recognized him instantly.

In the ecosystem of the East Berlin Black Market, merchants were divided into clear tiers.

"Scalpers" like Werner primarily made money from information and supply-demand gaps—buying scarce consumer goods at low prices in West Berlin and selling them at high prices in East Berlin.

While the profits from this business were limited, the risks were relatively manageable, at most resulting in a fine or confiscation of goods.

But dealers in dangerous goods like the Mole were playing a completely different game.

The military-grade chemicals they sold cost them almost nothing—most of it was "scrap" or surplus from military factories.

Buying chemicals through official channels required approvals and permits, and the prices were sky-high.

But these chemicals, resold on the Black Market as "scrap," required no paperwork and cost only a third of the official price.

The income from one or two such deals could exceed what an ordinary "scalper" made in several months or even years.

But correspondingly, the risks of dealing in such dangerous chemicals were far greater than those for ordinary scalpers. Some of the chemicals could be used to print political pamphlets or even as raw materials for explosives.

These dealers in dangerous goods didn’t just face simple economic penalties but serious political accusations and even risked their lives.

To put it simply, Werner was running a small business, while the Mole was gambling with his life.

"Well, well, if it isn’t our ’people’s hero,’ Werner," the Mole said, blocking Werner’s path with a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Heard you’re the one who took down Otto? Impressive."

The surrounding pedestrians stopped in their tracks but kept their distance to watch.

In East Berlin, public confrontations like this were rare, especially when they involved the Black Market.

Werner stopped and coolly sized up the legendary new star of the Black Market.