I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

"Krupp’s men have been asking around about you lately." Matthias glanced around, made sure no one was paying attention, and then continued, "I heard all his channels have been cut off. His whole crew is just getting by on their remaining stock now."

Werner’s eyes flickered slightly. "Has he approached you?"

"No. But his men have been seen hanging around the border a few times, and they’ve tried to approach the soldiers at our checkpoint, looking to see if they can re-establish contact." Matthias stubbed out his cigarette. "Be careful, Werner. I’ve heard about this Krupp fellow. He’s dangerous. He’s been in the Black Market for over a decade and has a lot of tricks up his sleeve."

"I know," Werner said. "Thanks, man."

"Of course." Matthias smiled. "You’ve helped me so much. It’s the least I can do."

Watching Werner leave, Matthias stood at the entrance of the checkpoint, his eyes following Werner’s back until it disappeared around the corner.

’A vague sense of unease settled in Matthias’s heart. Who exactly is Werner? How can he predict things so accurately every time?’

Matthias shook his head, pushing the questions down.

’Regardless, he was already on this ship. All he could do now was see it through to the end.’

* * *

「Evening. The church basement.」

Werner pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the smell of damp mildew mixed with burning wax washed over him. The basement was dimly lit, with only a few candles flickering on a table.

Pastor Weber sat behind a simple wooden table, stacks of letters and parcels piled before him. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes, the crow’s feet at their corners deepening in the candlelight.

"Werner, you’re here." His voice was a bit hoarse.

"Pastor." Werner sat down across from him. "How are things?"

Weber didn’t answer right away.

He slowly put his glasses back on, picked up a letter, and unfolded it for Werner to see.

"Do you see all this? It’s only been three days, and the Church has received more ’donation’ requests than in the last three months combined."

Werner looked at the letters.

Some were on proper stationery, others on torn-out notebook pages, and some were even on napkins.

The handwriting varied as well—some was neat cursive, some was a messy scrawl, and some was blurred by tears.

"This one is from an old woman," Weber said, picking up a letter. "Her husband is in West Berlin. The night the Wall went up, he happened to be over there visiting their son. Now he can’t come back. She wants us to send a sweater over, one she says she knitted herself."

Weber slowly unfolded the letter, showing Werner the shaky handwriting. "She says her husband has rheumatism and suffers terribly in the winter. She’s afraid he has no one to look after him in the west and wants to at least get this sweater to him."

"And this one." Weber picked up another. "A mother whose daughter married a man in West Berlin. After the Wall was built, her grandson was born, but she can’t see him. She wants to send a set of baby clothes and a Bible."

He put the letter down and removed his glasses. "Werner, in three days, I’ve received one hundred and twenty-three letters like this. Behind every single one is a family torn apart."

Werner looked at the letters and was silent for a moment.

The shaky handwriting and blurred tear stains did stir something in him.

He could picture the old woman, her hand trembling as she wrote those words under a dim light.

But that feeling was quickly suppressed by a colder, more calculated line of thought.

’As a Transmigrator, he knew the full scope of this period of history. He knew the Berlin Wall would stand for twenty-eight years, that countless families would be separated for a long time because of it, and that it would eventually fall.’

’From that perspective, the individual joys and sorrows before him, while real, were merely a fragment in the grand sweep of history.’

’What was more important to him was that these letters revealed a massive gap in demand—and demand meant opportunity.’

He recalled something: historically, the official trade of political prisoners between East and West Germany wouldn’t begin until 1964.

But before that, small-scale, private exchanges had already taken place, secretly orchestrated by the Church.

Although they didn’t last long and didn’t involve many people, it was the success of these early attempts that convinced the West German Government to take over and conduct the official trade of political prisoners on a much larger scale.

Now, the Church’s charity channel was taking shape in his hands.

’Pastor Weber and the others hadn’t yet considered what this channel could be used for—they could only think of sending family letters, sweaters, and baby clothes.’

’But Werner saw further.’

’If he could convince the Church to extend this channel to political prisoners now, to proactively open up this trade, then in the future, when this business truly matured, he would already be an indispensable part of it.’

’When the official trade began, he would be in an even better position to get a piece of the pie.’

This was the perfect time for him to intervene.

’But he had to take it one step at a time.’

"Pastor Weber," he finally said, "this is an opportunity."

Weber looked up, a trace of confusion in his eyes.

"I mean," Werner said, putting down the letter, "we can use our charity channel to help these people."

"What are you planning to do?"

"You’ve seen the situation," Werner said. "The higher-ups have softened their stance on religion. Why? Because they need the Church’s help to stabilize public sentiment. The Wall is up, and people are panicking, desperate, and angry. The government needs someone to soothe these emotions, and the Church is the most suitable candidate."

Weber slowly nodded.

He had sensed this as well.

In the past few days, officials had been constantly visiting the Church to offer "condolences" and express "understanding" and "support."

This was an attitude rarely seen in previous years.

After all, under an ideology like that of East Germany, the Church’s position was still very sensitive.

"If we can, under the name of a ’humanitarian channel,’" Werner paused, looking at Weber, "help those who have been forcibly separated, to pass along some items and information..."

Weber put his glasses back on and looked at the letters on the table.

"By doing this," Werner’s voice softened, "we can at least genuinely help some people. That old woman’s sweater can actually reach her husband. That mother’s baby clothes can actually get to her grandson."

"But that isn’t your true purpose." Weber looked up, meeting Werner’s eyes.

Of course, he knew that Werner had been using this charity channel for his own business all along—the smuggled goods, the extra commissions. He wasn’t completely unaware.

But Weber chose to turn a blind eye.

Because Werner had indeed provided a great deal of help to the Church’s charitable work. Many things simply couldn’t have been done without him.

"That’s not my only purpose, it’s true," Werner admitted frankly. "But that doesn’t mean I’m deceiving you. Pastor, we can do both—we can perform real charity and do business at the same time."

Weber stared at him for a long time.

"You know, Werner," the pastor finally said, "I’ve been in this position for thirty years. I’ve seen all kinds of people—devout believers, hypocritical liars, greedy merchants, idealistic revolutionaries."

He paused. "But you are the most unique one. You don’t feign piety, nor do you hide your motives. You’re frank—so frank that it makes a person wonder whether they should trust you."

Werner smiled. "So, what’s your answer?"

Weber sighed and looked back at the letters. "I am willing to continue our cooperation—but on certain conditions."

"Name them."

"First, every genuine family letter, every genuine gift from a family member, must be delivered untouched," Weber’s voice grew stern. "I will not allow anyone to profit from the grief of these families."

"Agreed," Werner said without hesitation.

"Second, if there are people who genuinely need help, you must assist them first," Weber said, looking into Werner’s eyes. "Regardless of whether there’s money to be made."

Werner was silent for a moment, then nodded. "I can do that. But I need to be the one to assess the risk. If it’s too great, I will refuse."

"That’s understandable." Weber nodded. "Third, and most important—Werner, you must remember, no matter what you do, to hold on to a shred of your humanity. Don’t let this business turn you into a machine that only recognizes money."

Werner looked at the old man, at the weariness and conviction in his eyes.

"I promise," he said earnestly. "At least, within the scope of my abilities."

Weber slowly stood up, walked over to Werner, and extended his hand.

"Then let’s continue working together."

Werner shook the hand, calloused and wrinkled with age.

"Pastor Weber," he said, "I need you to do something for me. Go to the higher-ups and apply for an official ’Humanitarian Goods Channel’ permit. Just say the Church has received too many requests and needs a legal, organized system to handle them."

Weber thought for a moment. "That will take time, and connections."

"I know," Werner said. "But with the Wall up, people are in a panic. Now is the best time. The higher-ups need to calm things down. If the Church applies for this, they will give it serious consideration."

Weber nodded slowly. "I’ll see what I can do."

"Also," Werner added, "it can’t just be from East to West. We need to open a channel from West to East as well. Many families in the west also want to send things to their relatives in the east. That would make it a truly ’humanitarian’ effort, and it would be easier to get approved."

Weber’s eyes lit up. "You’re right. That would indeed be more persuasive."

"Then I’ll leave it in your hands, Pastor." Werner turned to leave.

"Werner," Weber called out suddenly. "How long do you think this wall will stand?"

Werner turned back, looked at the letters, and was silent for a long time.

"A long time," he finally said. "Longer than most people imagine."