"Not too often. I’ve been going to the West District more frequently for work lately." Werner tried his best to remain calm, an innocuous smile on his face.
"What’s in the box?"
"Samples and technical docunts." Werner patted the box. Inside, he had indeed placed so decoy docunts for inspection; he had long since fabricated an identity for himself.
The soldier seed convinced by this explanation and waved him through.
But Werner could feel that he had been placed on so kind of watchlist.
*******************
Back at his apartnt, Werner began to take stock of his haul.
Cigarettes were easy. That stuff was always in high demand on the Black Market. But Western magazines and records were a different story. They weren’t typical bestsellers on the Black Market; he would have to find potential buyers.
He sat in his small kitchen, thinking over the two problems before him under the dim light: a market for the Western goods, and the security of his smuggling operation.
Getting questioned by the soldier at the subway station today made him realize that traveling frequently between East and West Berlin would get him noticed sooner or later. It seed he’d have to switch up his routes from ti to ti.
In this country, being watched was not a good thing.
From outside ca the sound of the East German national anthem playing on a neighbor’s radio, mixed with the playful shouts of children—the standard soundtrack to an evening in East Berlin.
Werner was imrsed in these familiar evening sounds, pondering his next move.
Suddenly, a knock at the door shattered the evening’s tranquility.
Werner peeked through the crack of the door. It was a man of dium height, wearing a slightly worn-out gray overcoat—typical East Berlin street attire.
"Who is it?" Werner asked.
"A friend sent . Said you have so good stuff here," the man said in a low voice, his face showing the caution common on the Black Market.
Werner opened the door, and after confirming no neighbors were watching, let him in.
The man was in his thirties, with a gaunt face and sharp eyes.
"My na is Franz." The man extended his hand. "I hear you got ahold of so good stuff from the West?"
"What good stuff?" Werner didn’t shake his hand imdiately, instead sizing him up.
Franz smiled, not seeming to mind the wariness. "Smart. I like cautious people. But I’m not here to buy today. I’m here to sell."
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his overcoat. "Marlboros. Arican. And this." He then pulled out a small bottle of perfu. "Chanel, from France. A favorite of the ladies."
Werner took the cigarettes and examined them. The packaging was indeed exquisite, but inside, he was thinking, ’This guy’s timing is too convenient. I can’t just trust him.’
"Where’d you get them?"
"I have a stable supply line from West Germany," Franz said in a low voice. "Cigarettes, perfu, chocolate, I have it all, and the prices aren’t too steep. If you buy from and resell, there’s a good profit to be made."
Werner looked thoughtful on the surface, but in reality, he didn’t trust the man.
’A stable supply line? In this day and age, a truly stable supply line is more precious than gold. How could one just show up at my door so easily?’
"What are the prices?" he asked, feigning interest.
"This pack of Marlboros, eight Marks. The perfu, fifteen Marks," Franz said casually. "Much cheaper than running to the West District yourself, and no risk."
It was cheap. Abnormally cheap.
Werner grew more vigilant internally, but his face remained impassive. "Give so samples to try first. Two cartons of cigarettes and one small bottle of perfu."
"No problem! A man who knows what he wants!" Franz seed very pleased. "When will you need a larger order?"
"Let’s talk in a couple of days," Werner said, taking the items. "I need to check the quality first."
"Don’t worry, it’s all genuine," Franz said, patting his chest in assurance.
After Franz left, Werner looked at the "genuine goods" in his hand, the corner of his mouth twitching. ’This guy is highly suspicious. I need to find an expert to verify this stuff.’
The perfect person for the job was Eva.
*******************
Inside the International Store, the unique atmosphere remained—shelves lined with Western goods that ordinary East Germans could only look at, not buy, and the air filled with the mixed aroma of coffee and perfu.
This was a special store that East Germany opened for foreigners and its own citizens with special status. Ordinary people could only co in to window-shop.
Eva was tidying a shelf when she saw Werner walk in. A flicker of pleasant surprise crossed her eyes, but she quickly returned to a professional coolness—in a place like this, any overly familiar display could attract unwanted attention.
"Do you need any help?" she asked in a businesslike manner.
"I want to take a look at these." Werner took out the cigarettes and perfu Franz had sold him and said in a low voice, "Can you help tell if they’re real or fake?"
Eva glanced around, and after confirming no other custors or colleagues were paying attention, she nodded. "Co to my place after work. I’ll teach you how to tell the difference."
"One more thing," Werner continued in a hushed tone. "Western magazines, records, and things like radios... what do you think the market is like for them?"
Eva thought for a mont. "Magazines are hard to say, but there’s a market for records and radios. Especially among the families of the officials who shop here. They’re very interested in that stuff, but they’re too embarrassed to buy it directly in the store."
Just as she was speaking, another employee walked over. "Eva, a call just ca in. The coffee beans for Mrs. Schmidt have arrived—that’s Director Schmidt’s wife from the Cultural Bureau. They need you to deliver them."
"Right now?" Eva glanced at her watch.
"Yes. She said she’s having important guests over tonight. It’s a big order, so it might be a bit of work for you."
After the employee left, Werner imdiately volunteered, "I’ll help you deliver it."
*******************
Director Schmidt lived in a high-end residential area of East Berlin. The houses here were much grander than ordinary apartnt buildings and even had small gardens.
Werner and Eva, carrying two large bags of coffee beans and other Western foods, rang the doorbell.
The door was opened by a woman in her forties, wearing a good-quality sweater with an elaborately styled perm—a status symbol in East Germany, as appointnts at good hair salons required special connections.
"Comrade Honer, thank you for your trouble." Mrs. Schmidt’s tone was polite but carried the distinct aloofness of the upper class.
"It’s my duty, Mrs. Schmidt," Eva replied politely.
While carrying in the goods, Werner noticed a coffee machine in the kitchen, but it was currently making an abnormal CLUNK-CLUNK sound, as if sothing was stuck.
"This damn machine is jamd again!" Mrs. Schmidt walked over, annoyed, and slapped the coffee machine. "The ones made in East Germany are just no good. They’re always breaking down."
In East Germany during this era, the vast majority of ordinary families made coffee by hand using traditional thods—placing coffee grounds in a filter or brewing them directly with boiling water.
A "modern" appliance like a coffee machine could only be obtained by the privileged class, such as officials and executives of state-owned enterprises, through a quota system. Moreover, they were expensive, sothing an ordinary worker’s family could never afford.
Even so, the coffee machines produced in East Germany were of poor quality, prone to frequent breakdowns, and far less reliable and durable than their Western counterparts.
Werner took a closer look at the machine.
It had a drab gray casing and clunky lines, looking like a lump of iron. And judging by the sound, its internal chanics were probably very crude.
"How long have you had this machine?" Werner asked, feigning casualness.
"Only had it for half a year, and it’s already been repaired three tis." Mrs. Schmidt sighed helplessly, continuing to smack the useless machine. "It’s either a problem with the temperature control or the spout gets clogged. Sotis the water’s too hot, sotis it’s not hot enough. You can’t make a decent cup of coffee with it. It’s infuriating!"
She stopped and looked at Werner, as if she’d found soone to vent to. "You know, last year I accompanied my husband to a diplomatic reception and saw a real Swiss coffee machine at the state guesthouse. My god, *that* was a coffee machine! You press a button, and out cos fragrant, rich coffee. And it never broke down."
As she spoke, a look of longing flashed in her eyes. "That machine was beautiful, too. All shiny and silver, it looked like a work of art just sitting there."
She paused, a regretful expression on her face. "It’s a sha we can’t buy them here."
Suddenly, an idea struck Werner.
’Isn’t this the perfect business opportunity?’
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