Night fell. The streets of East Berlin were left with only a sparse scattering of pedestrians and patrolling soldiers.
The dim yellow streetlights looked especially bleak amidst the swirling snowflakes.
Werner pulled his worn-out wool coat tighter and walked into the Golden Deer beer hall.
The mont he pushed open the door, he was hit not just by the sll of cigarettes, cheap beer, and sweat, but also by an oppressive, suffocating atmosphere—the unique flavor of East Berlin in 1961.
Under the dim lights, dozens of n sat crowded around greasy tables, talking in hushed voices. Soone was rolling dice in a corner, and the clinking of coins sounded particularly grating through the thick smoke.
"Werner, you still dare to show your face?"
The bartender, Old Claus, looked at Werner with pity as he wiped a glass.
The old man, in his fifties, had been working here for twenty years. He had seen too many young n like Werner and knew how they usually ended up.
"Fatty Wolf is in the back room," Old Claus said in a low voice. "I’d advise you not to go in. Tensions are high lately, and his temper has gotten even worse."
Werner sat down at the bar and ordered the cheapest beer.
While Old Claus poured the drink, he carefully observed the situation in the beer hall.
The tense atmosphere of this era was suffocating.
Ever since last year, the exodus of people from East Germany had been like a flood from a broken dam—hundreds, sotis thousands, fled to West Germany through Berlin every day. Better job opportunities, more plentiful goods, and a freer life awaited them there.
The governnt grew increasingly nervous, and its controls tightened.
"How’s business been lately?" Werner asked, feigning nonchalance.
"What do you think?" Old Claus gave a bitter smile. "Supplies are getting tighter, the governnt’s controls are getting stricter, but demand just keeps growing. See those guys over there?" He gestured toward the corner with his chin. "They’re all workers who snuck out of the factories, looking to buy so West German cigarettes and coffee."
Werner followed his gaze.
In the corner sat several n in rough work clothes, nervously discussing sothing in low voices. One of them kept glancing at the door, clearly worried about being discovered.
"What’s the price of coffee now?"
"It’s skyrocketing like crazy." Old Claus shook his head. "Last month it was 20 Marks a pound, now it’s up to 30. Real Brazil coffee is even more expensive, going for 50 Marks a pound. And you know what? The other day, the governnt reduced the import quota for coffee again, saying they need to conserve foreign currency."
Werner ntally filed this information away.
Under East Germany’s planned economy, the governnt controlled the import and distribution of most goods.
Basic necessities like bread and milk were still relatively plentiful, but "non-essentials" like coffee, cigarettes, and chocolate had beco rarities. And the scarcer the item, the higher its price on the Black Market.
"Any stir on the streets today?"
"A big one." Old Claus glanced around, and after confirming no one was listening, he lowered his voice. "Over at Alexanderplatz, a lot of Stasi agents showed up this afternoon, along with National People’s Army trucks. So say it’s for a surprise inspection, others say it’s a drill. In any case, the area is under heavy guard right now."
Werner took a sip of his beer, his mind racing to analyze the information.
Alexanderplatz was a major transportation hub for East and West Berlin and a frequent hotbed of Black Market activity.
Coupling this with the system’s vague hint from earlier today—"Cargo will face inspection at 21:00 tonight"—he knew it was likely no coincidence.
"What else?"
"Old John from Friedrichstrasse has been borrowing money all day," Old Claus continued. "I hear he’s really strapped for cash, doesn’t even have money for a drink. That old tir used to be quite the big spender."
Another crucial piece of information.
Werner knew that Old John was a Black Market middleman in this area. He specialized in acquiring all sorts of scarce goods and reselling them to wealthy clients. If he was short on money, it ant he wouldn’t be offering good prices.
"One more thing." Old Claus’s expression turned serious. "Sothing big happened at the border yesterday. They arrested several people and confiscated their goods. Word is they were trying to smuggle cigarettes and coffee from West Germany to sell here in East Germany."
A thought struck Werner. The original owner of this body had gotten into trouble while smuggling at the border just last night. But luckily, maybe because he wasn’t smuggling much, he was only beaten up and let go. It seed the others weren’t so fortunate.
"Who got arrested?"
"Don’t know the specifics, but people are saying it was soone from the Friedrichstrasse area. You know La Martin, right? I hear his n ran into trouble."
This piece of information made Werner’s eyes light up.
Martin was another major Black Market rchant, more powerful and cautious than Old John. If his n were in trouble, he must be desperate to restock now.
Just then, the door to the back room was shoved open forcefully.
A short, stout middle-aged man with a brutish face walked out. He wore a black leather jacket and several silver rings on his fingers. His leather shoes made heavy THUDS on the floor as he walked.
The entire beer hall fell silent in an instant.
This was "Fatty Wolf" Thomas Wolfgang, a local lord of the East Berlin Black Market.
In this era of scarcity, controlling the supply of goods ant controlling life and death. With his brutality and cunning, Fatty Wolf had built his own little kingdom in this gray zone.
"Werner Betelich." Fatty Wolf’s voice was like scraping, rusted steel, every word laced with nace. "You actually dared to co."
Everyone turned to look, their eyes filled with the anticipation of a good show.
In this era, everyone knew what happened to those who didn’t pay their debts.
"Of course I had to co." Werner put down his glass and stood up, perfectly composed. "Debts must be paid, but business must also be done."
Fatty Wolf narrowed his small eyes, carefully sizing up the young man before him.
’The Werner Betelich I rember was a timid little errand boy. How is he like a completely different person today?’
"Business?" Fatty Wolf sneered. "I think you’ve lost your mind. Follow ."
The back room was even dimr than the front, with only a single desk lamp illuminating a table covered with an oilcloth. An East Berlin map was pinned to the wall, marked with countless red dots—those were Fatty Wolf’s territories and transaction points.
Fatty Wolf sat down heavily in a chair, making the ashtray and liquor bottle on the table tremble.
Besides Fatty Wolf, there were two other n in the room—a tall, skinny man with red hair who was counting money, and a burly, dark-complexioned man who was fiddling with a dagger.
"Sit." Fatty Wolf pointed to the chair opposite him, then slowly pulled a sharp boning knife from a drawer and placed it on the table. "Five hundred Marks, not a penny less. If you can’t pay up, you’ll leave a hand behind as a souvenir."
Werner slowly sat down, his gaze sweeping over the knife on the table before landing on the two henchn.
There were a few small, brown specks on the left breast of Red Hair’s jacket—traces left by the powder of ground coffee beans. Judging by how fresh the specks looked, they must have gotten there this afternoon.
The burly, dark-complexioned man kept looking at the wall clock, then subconsciously patting his pocket. From his nervous expression, he clearly had sothing urgent to attend to.
"Boss Wolfgang." Werner deliberately used Fatty Wolf’s real na. "Before we discuss cutting off hands, I’d like to ask you a question."
Fatty Wolf’s hand paused on the knife’s handle, his eyes turning dangerous. "What question?"
"Are you planning to move a shipnt of goods tonight?"
Fatty Wolf, Red Hair, and the burly, dark-complexioned man froze simultaneously.
"Don’t be nervous." Werner calmly picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table, pulled one out, and lit it. "I just think that instead of taking one of my hands, you’d be better off letting help you make more money."
"What are you talking about?" Fatty Wolf frowned.
Werner pointed at Red Hair’s jacket. "Red Hair, those brown specks on your chest are traces of powder from high-quality ground coffee beans. Judging by the color and sll, it’s Brazil beans, and they’re fresh from this afternoon."
Red Hair’s expression changed, and he instinctively looked down at his clothes.
Werner turned to the dark-complexioned man. "And you, you’ve been watching the ti ever since I ca in, which ans you have sothing urgent to do. Combine that with the fact that he’s been handling coffee, and it’s obvious you’re moving a shipnt tonight."
Werner paused, letting his analysis sink in, then continued, "Given the current market, the price of coffee has gone up by almost half. It’s the perfect ti to sell. So my judgnt is, you’re planning to transport a shipnt of coffee for a deal tonight."
The room was silent for a few seconds. The three n exchanged surprised glances.
Fatty Wolf nodded slowly, his eyes looking at Werner in a completely new light. "Not bad analytical skills. How co I never noticed you were so sharp?"
"People grow." Werner flicked the ash from his cigarette. "And I also know sothing more important—you’re going to run into trouble tonight."
"What trouble?" the burly man asked.
Werner stood up, walked over to the map on the wall, and tapped his finger on Alexanderplatz. "Here. There’s going to be a temporary checkpoint tonight."
"How do you know?" Red Hair demanded.
Werner turned around and began his detailed analysis. "This afternoon, there was a sudden increase in Stasi personnel at Alexanderplatz, along with National People’s Army trucks. This isn’t a coincidence."
He walked back to the table and continued, "Lately, the governnt has been getting more and more nervous about the exodus of East Germans. They desperately need to make a show of force to intimidate the populace. And what is Alexanderplatz? It’s the most important transport artery between East and West Berlin, and it’s also the most active area for the Black Market. Setting up a checkpoint here lets them catch lawbreakers and make an example of them at the sa ti."
Fatty Wolf listened intently, nodding from ti to ti.
"More importantly, it’s the timing." Werner glanced at the clock on the wall. "It’s eight o’clock now. According to your usual habits, you should be leaving around nine and arriving at the drop-off point before ten. That ti fra is precisely the peak for nocturnal activities, and also when an inspection would be most effective."
"Assuming you’re right," Fatty Wolf said after a mont’s thought, "can’t we just take another route?"
"The route is only part of the problem." Werner shook his head. "The bigger problem is the buyer. Who are you planning to sell to?"
The three fell silent again.
"Let guess again." Werner sat back down. "It’s Old John, isn’t it?"
Red Hair couldn’t help but nod.
"That’s even worse." Werner sighed. "Old John has been borrowing money all day, which ans he’s extrely tight on cash. How could a buyer who’s broke give you a good price? At best, he’ll buy it at cost. He might even try to lowball you."
Fatty Wolf’s expression grew uglier and uglier.
They had indeed planned to sell the coffee to Old John for 40 Marks per pound. While not a loss, the profit margin was already quite thin at that price.
"So what’s your suggestion?" Fatty Wolf finally asked.
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