I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany Chapter 38: Philips Radio

"Of course." Werner opened his briefcase and took out an exquisite portable radio.

It was the latest model from Philips, its silver casing glinting under the light. "The Philips L3X90, just imported from Hamburg."

Martin’s eyes lit up instantly.

He took the radio carefully, stroking its body.

"It’s beautiful," he exclaid. "Compared to this, our East German radios are like tractors."

The smooth tal casing and delicate frequency dial of the Philips L3X25T made Martin think of the clunky RFT radio he had at ho.

Not only was the latter clunky, but its tuning needle would always get "stuck" on certain frequencies. He knew the state did that on purpose to keep people from listening to stations they "shouldn’t hear."

Werner smiled but didn’t reply.

In East Germany, criticizing dostic products was dangerous, even as a joke.

"This machine’s best feature is its extrely high sensitivity," Werner began his sales pitch. "It can clearly receive all the West Berlin stations, including RIAS, SFB, and even the BBC’s German service."

At the ntion of these Western stations, Martin’s breathing grew ragged.

In East Germany, listening to Western radio was a sensitive issue. The governnt didn’t want its citizens tuning in, so it used technical ans, and even laws, to restrict it.

But this only made listening to Western radio a fashionable act of rebellion among the youth of East Germany.

Many young East Germans secretly listened to Western music and news, but due to equipnt limitations, the signal was always intermittent.

East German-made radios could pick up shortwave, but their reception was often poor on key frequencies. If you wanted to listen to Voice of Arica or Radio Free Europe, you had to put up with constant, grating static and signal drops.

"Can it really get RIAS?" Martin asked excitedly.

"Of course." Werner picked up the radio and tuned it to the right frequency.

Soon, a clear German voice ca from the radio:

"This is RIAS Berlin. And now for the latest pop music from the United Kingdom..."

Imdiately, an upbeat rock song began to play.

Martin’s eyes went wide, as if he were hearing music from the heavens.

"This is amazing!" He was so excited he almost jumped up. "It’s a hundred tis better than our ’Voice of the People’ radio!"

Werner secretly shook his head.

’This kid is too naive,’ he thought. ’If the Stasi heard him say that, his father’s career would be over.’

"Keep the volu down," Werner reminded him. "After all, this is a... special product."

"Right, right." Martin quickly lowered the volu, but his eyes were still full of excitent. "How much is this machine?"

"Nine hundred Marks," Werner stated the price.

The price was equivalent to three months’ salary for an ordinary worker, but for the family of a Party cadre, it wasn’t too expensive.

"Deal!" Martin barely hesitated. "I’ll go get the money."

He ran into the inner room and quickly returned with a stack of bills.

Werner took the money and counted it quickly. Exactly nine hundred Marks.

"Mr. Martin, I must remind you of a few things." Werner put the money away, his expression turning serious. "First, if anyone asks about the radio’s origin, please say it was a gift from a friend. Second, when listening to Western stations, you must control the volu, and it’s best to use headphones. Third..."

"Third what?" Martin asked.

"If any of your friends want a similar product, have them contact directly."

Martin nodded emphatically. "Don’t worry, I know the drill."

Just then, the sound of a key turning in the lock ca from the living room.

"My mother’s back," Martin said.

"Martin, are you ho?" Mrs. Schmidt’s voice ca from outside the door.

"I am, Mom," Martin replied.

Mrs. Schmidt walked into the living room. She was montarily taken aback when she saw Werner and the radio on the coffee table, but she quickly recovered with a smile.

"Mr. Betelich, you’re here." She gracefully removed her gloves. "How did business go?"

"Very smoothly, Mrs. Schmidt." Werner stood up. "Your son is very satisfied with the... product."

"That’s good." Mrs. Schmidt nodded, then said to her son, "Martin, have you finished your howork?"

Though reluctant to leave, Martin picked up the radio and obediently left the living room.

"Mr. Betelich, please sit." After her son was out of earshot, Mrs. Schmidt’s expression turned serious. "I’d like to talk to you."

"Please do." Werner sat down again.

"My husband works in the Ministry of Culture and often interacts with the families of high-ranking Party cadres," Mrs. Schmidt said, lowering her voice. "They are very interested in the products you provide. That coffee machine, in particular, has beco the talk of our circle."

An idea sparked in Werner’s mind.

’The social circle of Party cadres’ families... this is a gold mine.’

"What are you proposing?"

"If you have more similar products, I can introduce you to clients." A shrewd glint appeared in Mrs. Schmidt’s eyes. "Of course, I would need a little... referral fee."

"How much?" Werner asked directly.

"A ten percent commission on each transaction. How does that sound?"

Werner considered for a mont. A ten percent commission wasn’t low, but gaining access to the high-end clientele of Party cadres’ families was definitely worth it.

"Deal." He extended his hand.

Mrs. Schmidt shook it, a satisfied smile on her face.

"Then our partnership begins now," she said. "There’s a ladies’ gathering next Wednesday. If you have suitable products, I can introduce you to them."

"I’ll be prepared," Werner nodded.

As they were speaking, an excited voice suddenly ca from the inner room:

"Co listen! Co listen!"

It was Martin’s voice, coming from his room.

Mrs. Schmidt frowned. "What is that boy up to now?"

She stood up and walked toward her son’s room, with Werner following behind.

Pushing open the door, they saw Martin wearing headphones, his face flushed with excitent.

"Mom, listen to this!" Martin took off the headphones and turned up the volu.

An English song, upbeat and full of youthful energy, poured from the radio.

It was the kind of music you would never hear on an East German station.

"It’s the BBC, playing the latest pop music from the United Kingdom!" Martin said excitedly. "Mom, I’ve never heard music this good before!"

Mrs. Schmidt looked at her excited son, her expression complex.

As the wife of a Party cadre, she certainly knew the potential risks of listening to Western radio. But as a mother, she couldn’t bear to take away her son’s happiness.

"Just keep the volu down," she finally said.