I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

"It’s me, Betelich, from next door."

The door opened a crack, and an old lady poked her head out. "Young man, what is it?"

"Mrs. Schmidt, I heard the coffee rations are being reduced. I have a bag of real coffee here and wanted to ask if you need any."

"Real coffee?" The old lady’s eyes lit up, but they dimmed just as quickly. "How much?"

"Twenty-five Marks."

"That’s too expensive, way too expensive." The old lady shook her head repeatedly. "My monthly pension is only eighty Marks. I can’t afford something so pricey."

Werner was prepared for this. "Mrs. Schmidt, you have relatives in West Germany, don’t you?"

The old lady looked at him warily. "How do you know that?"

"I wasn’t trying to pry, I just happened to see you receive letters from West Germany," Werner explained. "What I mean is, with relatives in West Germany, you must have seen plenty of good things, and you must know how precious real coffee is. This bag isn’t the best quality, but it’s a hundred times better than the substitute coffee. Now that the rations are being reduced, it might be even harder to buy in the future."

The old lady was silent for a moment. "But twenty-five Marks..."

"How about this," Werner said, pretending to concede, "for the sake of being neighbors, twenty-two Marks. What do you think?"

The old lady hesitated for a long time before finally nodding. "Alright, but you have to guarantee it’s real coffee."

The second sale was made, but it was obvious the old lady was pained by the expense.

Last was the small shop across the street. The owner was a middle-aged man named Herman.

"Boss Herman, how’s business?" Werner asked as he walked into the shop.

"Don’t even ask," Herman said with a grimace. "People ask me for coffee every day, but where am I supposed to get any?"

"Oh, really?" Werner feigned surprise. "Is the demand from customers that high?"

"You bet. Especially after the news that rations are being reduced. I just had three customers come in and ask." Herman shook his head. "If I had any in stock, I could definitely make a killing."

"So, if I had some real coffee, would you be interested in buying it?"

Herman’s eyes lit up. "Really? What’s the quality like?"

Werner took out the coffee and showed it to him. "Coffee beans from Africa. The quality is average, but it’s definitely real coffee."

Herman examined it carefully, then frowned. "The quality of this coffee really isn’t great, and the beans are all different sizes."

"Boss Herman, you’re a businessman. You should understand the current market situation," Werner said unhurriedly. "The rations have been cut, and customers are desperate for coffee. Are they really going to be picky about quality? Besides, you can repackage it into smaller bags. One of these can be split into four or five smaller ones. Sell each for six or seven Marks, and that’s a hefty profit."

A shrewd glint flashed in Herman’s eyes. Werner had hit the nail on the head—repackaging it was indeed a great idea.

"How much?" Herman asked.

"Twenty-five Marks."

"Too high. For coffee of this quality, the most I’ll pay is twenty Marks."

Werner shook his head. "Boss Herman, starting tomorrow, the market price for coffee is going to go up. My price is already very fair."

After a round of haggling, they finally settled on twenty-three Marks. Herman bought two bags.

In less than two hours, he had sold a total of four bags of coffee, earning ninety-three Marks.

Werner returned home. Just as he was feeling excited about his success, there was a knock at the door.

"Werner, open up, it’s me."

It was Fatty Wolf’s voice.

Werner opened the door, and Fatty Wolf walked in, a complex expression on his face.

"I heard you went to Klaus’s place to buy coffee today?"

"Yes, Boss Wolfgang," Werner admitted frankly.

"And you started preparing before the government even announced the ration cuts?"

Werner nodded.

Fatty Wolf suddenly laughed. "Kid, I really can’t figure you out anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard that this morning at Klaus’s place, those two idiots were laughing at you for buying coffee from Africa." Fatty Wolf sat down in a chair. "And then this afternoon, they came looking for me, wanting to know where you got your information."

"What did they say?"

"They said you must have an inside source, otherwise you couldn’t have been so accurate." A shrewd glint shone in Fatty Wolf’s eyes. "And now I’d like to know, where exactly did you get your information?"

Werner was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly:

"Big Brother Wolfgang, some things can’t be explained in detail. But I can tell you, this is just the beginning."

"What do you mean?"

"The coffee crisis is just the tip of the iceberg. There will be even bigger opportunities to come." A mysterious light flashed in Werner’s eyes. "If you trust me, we can..."

Before he could finish his sentence, the sound of hurried footsteps came from downstairs.

Werner and Fatty Wolf exchanged a glance, both becoming alert.

"The Stasi?" Fatty Wolf asked, lowering his voice.

The footsteps stopped and were immediately followed by a knock on the door.

"KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK—"

Fatty Wolf’s hand instantly went to his waist, his eyes sharp with vigilance.

Werner walked to the door and peered out through the crack.

A thin, middle-aged man stood in the hallway, holding a worn-out canvas bag and cautiously looking from side to side.

"It’s the neighbor from downstairs," Werner said quietly to Fatty Wolf, then opened the door.

"Comrade!" The middle-aged man’s face was plastered with a sycophantic smile. "I heard you have... that..." He made a coffee-drinking gesture, his eyes darting between Fatty Wolf and Werner.

Werner’s expression didn’t change. "What coffee? Comrade, I don’t have anything like that."

"Don’t play dumb," the middle-aged man said, leaning closer. He pulled a few crumpled East German Marks from his bag. "I have 10 Marks here, and this." He opened the canvas bag, revealing a pair of leather shoes that looked relatively new. "These are the work shoes I was issued last year. I’ve barely worn them."

Werner glanced at the shoes, his mind racing.

’On the Black Market, a pair of leather shoes could sell for 20 Marks. Add the 10 Marks in cash, and that’s a total value of 30 Marks, while my low-quality coffee beans only cost 10 Marks. No matter how you slice it, this deal is profitable.’

"Sorry, Comrade." Werner shook his head. "It’s all sold out."

In reality, he still had one small bag of coffee left, but Werner decided to save it for Fatty Wolf. In these dangerous times, maintaining a relationship with a Black Market boss was more important than making a little extra money.

The hope in the middle-aged man’s eyes instantly faded. "Is it really all gone? Not even a little bit..."

"Really, it’s all gone, Comrade." Werner spread his hands, his tone sincere. "But if I get my hands on anything good in the future, you’ll be the first to know."

The middle-aged man disappointedly put his money away and walked off, muttering, "Sigh, when will these days ever end..."

Fatty Wolf watched all of this coldly from behind, saying nothing, but a hint of approval flashed in his eyes. ’The kid handled that well.’

Werner closed the door. Fatty Wolf nodded. "Kid, you’ve got quick wits. But remember, neighbors like that are the most troublesome. They’re greedy but cowardly. They might just go and report you."

"I understand. I’ll be careful," Werner said.

"Smart." Fatty Wolf nodded again. "Since you know what you’re doing, I’ll let you in on some good news. In a few days, I’m going to introduce you to some real business, not this small-time stuff."

"What kind of business?"