I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Fatty Wolf smiled mysteriously. "You’ll find out when the time comes. But for now, I have to go take care of something."

He picked up the remaining coffee. "Remember, be careful. Don’t give anyone anything to use against you."

After Fatty Wolf left, Werner sat alone in the dilapidated room, his stomach beginning to growl.

He opened the cupboard. It was completely empty, without so much as a breadcrumb.

Werner felt his pocket. Inside were a few crumpled ration coupons—his share for the month.

From the original owner’s memories, Werner knew that in East Germany, 1961, life was governed by ration coupons. To buy even the most basic necessities, you needed them in addition to money.

Meat coupons, gas coupons, butter coupons, bread coupons... An entire system of coupons formed the very foundation of life in this era.

Without ration coupons, you couldn’t buy anything, even if you had money.

And the number of coupons distributed was limited, not nearly enough to meet a person’s basic needs.

Werner looked closely at the coupons in his hand. They included a bread coupon for 200 grams of bread, a meat coupon for 50 grams of meat, and the right to purchase some daily necessities.

Werner shook his head with a bitter smile. ’This isn’t even enough to last a week.’

No wonder so many people risked doing Black Market business or simply fled to West Berlin. Under this system, it was nearly impossible for an ordinary person to live a decent life.

His stomach was aching with hunger. Werner decided to go out and buy some bread.

He took his bread coupon and the money he’d earned today and headed to the nearby state-run store.

The German winter was bleak and gray—gray buildings, gray skies, even the people’s faces were gray. The display windows of the shops lining the street were empty, save for the occasional crude industrial product.

A long line had formed in front of the state-run bakery, with seventy or eighty people snaking from the entrance all the way to the street corner. Most of them were women and the elderly, their faces pale and their clothes patched, waiting in silence.

Werner got in line at the back and listened to the hushed whispers of the people ahead of him:

"I hear the people in the West get to eat white bread every day..."

"My son says he wants to go to West Berlin to find work. What should I do?"

"Three more young people fled yesterday..."

"Shh, don’t talk about that. Be careful someone doesn’t overhear you."

Just then, an argument broke out at the front of the line.

"Out of the way! I’m in a hurry!" A burly man shoved a frail woman aside and forced his way to the front of the line.

The woman staggered a few steps, nearly falling as she clutched the little boy in her arms.

"You bastard!" the woman said angrily. "We’re all waiting in line. What gives you the right to cut?"

"What gives me the right?" The burly man sneered, turning to reveal a vicious face. "These fists do!"

He was a typical local thug—nearly six feet tall, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with a tattoo on his arm. In this age of scarcity, men like him often bullied honest people.

The woman hugged the child in her arms tighter. Her eyes welled with tears, but she stood her ground stubbornly. "There are rules for lining up. You can’t do this!"

"Rules?" The thug grinned menacingly. "I *am* the rules!"

He raised his fist, looking as if he was about to strike the woman. The people around them shrank back, none daring to intervene.

Werner couldn’t watch any longer.

He took a closer look at the woman. She was about twenty-five or twenty-six, with delicate features, but her face was pale, a clear sign of malnutrition. Though her clothes were patched, they were clean, and her hair was neatly combed. Most importantly, while her eyes showed fear, they held no submission.

’This is one of those times. Even if it’s just for my own sense of justice, I can’t stand by and do nothing.’

"Hold on." Werner stepped out from the back of the line.

"Another meddler!" The thug spun around, glaring viciously at Werner. "Kid, I’d advise you not to mess with me!"

"I’m not trying to mess with you." Werner stopped about six feet away from the thug and flexed his wrists. "I just think a piece of scum like you doesn’t deserve to be in the same line as decent people."

"What did you say?!" The thug flew into a rage and charged, his fist swinging.

Werner was ready. He sidestepped the thug’s punch and simultaneously landed a straight jab, right on the man’s nose.

"ARGH!" The thug clutched his nose as blood streamed through his fingers.

"Want to go again?" Werner clenched his fists, taking a fighting stance.

’The body’s original owner was just an apprentice, but he grew up on the streets and had plenty of fighting experience. The reflexes and strength of this body aren’t half bad.’

"You... you just wait!" the thug said viciously, still clutching his nose. "I know people at the docks! You’re dead!"

At the mention of "people at the docks," the faces of the people in the crowd changed.

In East Berlin, the dockworkers were a special group. They handled all sorts of goods and often had intricate ties to the Black Market. More importantly, they stuck together and were not to be trifled with.

An idea struck Werner. He pulled a ten-Mark bill from his pocket and waved it around. "People from the docks? Perfect. I happen to know a few friends at the docks myself. Want me to put you in touch?" 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

He had just made a good bit of money flipping coffee, so ten Marks wasn’t a huge sum to Werner. But to an ordinary worker, it was equivalent to two days’ wages! And anyone who could casually flash that kind of money couldn’t have a simple background.

The thug’s bravado instantly deflated. He glanced at the money in Werner’s hand, then at the contemptuous stares of the crowd. Finally, he grit his teeth. "You win. Just my bad luck today!"

With that, he slinked away.

A soft ripple of applause and murmurs of approval went through the crowd.

The woman walked up to Werner, holding her child, her eyes filled with gratitude.

"Thank you," she said softly. "My name is Eva, Eva Honer. This is my son, Hans."

"Werner Betelich." Werner put the bill away and extended his hand.

Eva hesitated for a moment before extending her own hand to shake his. Her hand was cold, but soft.

"Why did you help me?" Eva asked. "That man didn’t look like someone to mess with."

Werner shrugged. "Maybe I just don’t like seeing bad people bully good people."

Eva studied Werner carefully. He was dressed in ordinary clothes, but the calm way he had pulled out the ten-Mark bill was clearly not something an ordinary person could do.

"What... what do you do for work?" Eva asked curiously.

"I’m a worker at the machinery plant," Werner answered truthfully.

"Then that money you had..."

"Got lucky with a small business deal," Werner said, not elaborating.

The two of them chatted as they waited in line.

Werner learned that Eva was a widow. Her husband had died in a factory accident three years ago, leaving her and her five-year-old son, Hans, to fend for themselves.

"Life must be very difficult," Werner said sympathetically.

"It’s manageable." Eva gave a bitter smile. "Thankfully, I found a job. Otherwise, I really don’t know what I would have done."

"What kind of job?"

Eva hesitated, then lowered her voice. "At a special kind of store. We sell... special products."