I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Werner was inwardly delighted, but his voice was full of sympathy. "I can understand how you feel. For people who truly love photography, the limitations of their equipment are genuinely painful."

"Yeah," Conrad nodded.

Werner nodded thoughtfully, then changed the subject. "Conrad, you work at a printing press. You must come into contact with quite a few friends in cultural circles, right?"

"Yes, I often interact with some writers, artists, and some amateur photographers," Conrad said. "Actually, more people like photography than you might imagine. It’s just that everyone is struggling without good equipment."

"That’s a real shame," Werner said, feigning regret. "People with such cultural refinement would surely be better able to appreciate the value of a good camera."

"Exactly!" Conrad grew excited. "Just last week, our factory took a printing order for a photography exhibition, and the photos were incredible. But the photographer was still using an old, pre-war Leica. The lens even had fungus spots, but he couldn’t bear to replace it."

Werner’s eyes lit up. "A photography exhibition? Where is it being held?"

"The Worker’s Palace of Culture. They have one every month." Conrad thought for a moment. "Oh, right, next Saturday night, there’s also a ’Youth Art Salon’ that will feature a photography exhibition. The attendees are all from cultural circles—writers, painters, musicians, and even some cultural officials from government departments."

"Sounds very interesting," Werner asked casually. "Do many people attend gatherings like that?"

"A good number, maybe twenty or thirty. And those people..." A hint of envy crept into Conrad’s voice. "To be honest, their financial situations are a bit better than us workers. If there were actually good cameras available, they could probably afford them."

Werner was secretly pleased but remained calm. "That certainly sounds like a good circle. But Conrad, do you think these people would be willing to spend a lot of money on a Western camera?"

"Of course they would!" Conrad said confidently. "Just the other day, I heard a professor from the conservatory complaining that he’d pay any price for a Leica, but he just has no way to get one. And there’s a department director from the Ministry of Education who collects a ton of photography magazines. He can list off all the different models by heart but can’t buy the actual cameras."

Werner nodded thoughtfully. "It seems the demand is definitely there."

A glint of hope suddenly flashed in Conrad’s eyes. "Werner, you know a lot about camera equipment... You don’t happen to have a way to get them, do you?"

Werner gave a mysterious smile, not answering directly. "This art salon... can outsiders attend?"

"Of course. As long as you’re interested in art," Conrad said at once. "How about I take you?"

"That would be great," Werner nodded. "I’d really like to see what the cultural scene in East Berlin is like."

Conrad looked thrilled. "Great! Then let’s meet at the entrance of the Worker’s Palace of Culture at seven on Saturday night?"

"No problem." Werner thought for a moment. "By the way, can you give me your address? That way I can contact you if there’s any news on the photography front."

"Of course," Conrad said without hesitation. "I live in the Prenzlauer Berg District, 47 Linden Street, third floor on the left. I’m usually home after six in the evening."

"Okay, I’ve got it down," Werner nodded.

As Werner left the cafe, he knew exactly what to do.

Conrad wasn’t just an ideal target customer; he was also the perfect guide into that exclusive cultural circle.

He now knew Conrad’s address. When the time was right, he’d know exactly where to find this buyer who was so desperate for a good camera.

But now wasn’t the time to rush a sale. Once the Berlin Wall was actually built, these people would grow even more desperate, and the value of his goods would multiply.

For now, he needed to go to that art salon and scope things out, to see if he could find more potential buyers like Conrad who were desperate for a good camera.

「Saturday night.」

The lights in the Worker’s Palace of Culture were dim and yellow. A few portraits of Marx and Engels were posted on the walls, and beneath them hung a red cloth banner: "Struggle for the People’s Artistic Cause."

Werner followed Conrad into this so-called "cultural salon" and inwardly shook his head. ’This isn’t any salon. It’s just a few mismatched tables surrounded by a dozen or so middle-aged people holding coffee cups.’

"Comrade Conrad!" A tall, thin man wearing gold-rimmed glasses stood up and waved. "Come over here, we’re discussing the art of Soviet photography."

Conrad pulled Werner over. "This is my friend, Werner Betelich. He’s a photography enthusiast, too."

Werner nodded politely, his gaze sweeping quickly over the scene.

These people were all dressed respectably and occasionally dropped a few Russian phrases into their speech. They were clearly not ordinary workers.

His business instincts immediately tingled. ’There could be potential customers here.’

"What kind of camera do you use, Comrade Betelich?" the man with the gold-rimmed glasses asked.

"A Zeiss Contax II," Werner said offhandedly. It was a model he had recently gotten from Reynard.

The room instantly fell silent.

"My god, a Contax II?" a young woman exclaimed, her eyes wide. "That’s from West Germany! It must cost over a thousand Marks, right?"

Werner’s interest was piqued, but he kept his expression placid. "It was a gift from a friend. Said he brought it back from West Berlin."

"West Berlin..." A flash of envy crossed the eyes of the man with gold-rimmed glasses. "Trying to get your hands on a camera like that these days is next to impossible."

A man of medium build sitting in a corner suddenly spoke up. "Even if you could get to West Berlin, you can’t buy anything good."

Everyone else turned to look at him.

The man was about forty, wearing a suit that had faded from many washings, and he looked tired.

"Dominic Schiller, Foreign Trade Department," he introduced himself blandly. "I deal with Western merchants often, so I’ve seen plenty of nice things. But buy them?" He gave a bitter laugh. "Our Mark is just waste paper in West Berlin. They only recognize the West German Mark, and where are we supposed to get foreign currency?"

A young man asked resentfully, "Then why not just go to West Berlin and exchange it yourself?"

Schiller shook his head. "Young comrade, you’re thinking too simplistically. Carrying large amounts of East German Marks out of the country is illegal, and the border police check very carefully. Even if you got lucky and took some over, nobody in West Berlin would be willing to trade their West German Marks for our Marks. The exchange rate is atrocious."

"But there has to be a way, right?" someone else insisted, not ready to give up.

"A way?" Schiller sneered. "Unless you have relatives in the West sending you West German Marks, or..."

Schiller glanced at Werner, obviously speculating about who he was. "...or you have special channels. But even then, a camera brought back from West Berlin is supposed to be declared at customs. If you can’t prove its origin, it’ll be confiscated anyway."

Listening to all this, Werner understood perfectly. ’It’s precisely these restrictions that give my smuggling business a reason to exist.’

He nonchalantly took out a pack of American cigarettes and offered them to the people nearby.

The others stared wide-eyed, but Schiller only glanced at the pack, his expression unchanging.

"American?" the young woman exclaimed.

"A friend brought them from West Berlin." Werner struck his lighter, the flame flaring brightly in the dim room.

Schiller glanced from the cigarette in Werner’s hand to his face, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

A few minutes later, the topic of conversation drifted—some began discussing a recent play, while others debated literary works.

Werner noticed Schiller seemed distracted, his eyes darting toward him from time to time.

While everyone was absorbed in a heated discussion about the works of Goethe, Schiller quietly stood up, coffee cup in hand, and slowly made his way over to Werner, pretending to reach for the sugar bowl on the table.

"Comrade Betelich," Schiller said suddenly, his voice so low only Werner could hear, "that Contax II you mentioned earlier... was it really a gift from a friend?"