Werner listened to the complaints, recalling his past life when he’d seen this car in an automobile museum in Germany.
The Trabant. In East Germany, the na was the stuff of legend—a source of both pride and helpless resignation.
When this little car first rolled off the production line in 1957, its designers were quite ambitious.
Front-wheel drive? At the ti, even many Western car companies were still taking a wait-and-see approach.
A unibody fra? That was definitely considered black magic back then. You could say the Trabant’s starting point wasn’t low.
But what happened next was nothing short of a miracle in automotive history—for thirty years, the car saw virtually no substantive improvents.
Imagine driving a car in 1990 that was nearly identical to its 1957 model. The feeling was like wearing Qing dynasty robes to a modern wedding.
The most unique thing about the Trabant was its body material.
Workers privately called it a "mix of cardboard and plastic." It might sound like a joke, but it wasn’t too far from the truth.
The car wasn’t made of steel, but of a miraculous material called "Duroplast"—a compressed concoction of cotton fibers, wood chips, wool, and phenolic resin.
It wasn’t that the East German engineers were deliberately trying to be fancy; they simply had no other choice. Steel was in short supply, so they had to find an alternative.
The car made from this "scrap material combo" really did feel like cardboard to the touch. No wonder that’s what people called it.
But even a car like this was a hot commodity in East Germany.
In an era where you had to queue for everything, owning a Trabant was a status symbol.
Even if it was made of "scrap material," even if it spewed black smoke, even if its engine could wake up half the neighborhood—having a car was better than not having one at all.
Many East Germans waited in line for years just to buy a Trabant. The excitent of finally getting the order form was understandable.
But after the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, East Germans got their first up-close look at West Germany’s automotive industry.
In that mont, the Trabant went from a source of "pride" to a "joke."
When they saw the rcedes-Benzes, BMWs, and Volkswagens, and then looked back at their own "cardboard car," they must have felt like a Nokia 3310 user of ten years seeing an iPhone for the first ti.
Werner splashed so water on his face. The tap water in East Germany always had a rusty taste, but at least the supply was stable.
At eight o’clock sharp, Werner appeared at the entrance of the People’s Friendship Printing and Dyeing Plant.
The factory was located in the East Berlin Industrial District. Its towering smokestacks billowed white smoke, and the air was filled with a pungent chemical sll.
"Comrade Betelich!" a short, heavyset middle-aged man called out, waving at him.
The speaker was Krar, the assistant plant director. He was in his early fifties, with a beer belly that looked like he was pregnant with twins.
Werner had t him through an introduction from Keller. Krar had a particular trait—he was greedy. As long as the price was right, anything was negotiable.
He was in charge of procuring chemical raw materials and often fretted about not being able to buy the right reagents. Over ti, he had learned to be "flexible."
"Comrade Krar, I’d like to discuss a business proposition with you," Werner said, handing him a pack of West German cigarettes.
Krar carefully took the cigarettes, stuffed them into his pocket, and glanced around before speaking. "What kind of business? You know the rules at our plant. All procurent has to go through state-run channels."
"I know, I know." Werner lowered his voice, a harmless smile plastered on his face. "I want to buy so of your plant’s waste materials. Specifically, the leftover cleaning agents."
"Waste materials?" Krar looked at him, his chubby face filled with confusion. "What’s that stuff good for? Besides, according to regulations, waste can’t be sold to private individuals."
Werner took out a fifty-Mark bill and discreetly slipped it into Krar’s hand. "I have a cousin who runs a small workshop. He cleans and resells second-hand clothes and needs so cheap additives. You know how it is—the stuff in the state-run stores is expensive and hard to get."
Krar felt the bill in his pocket, the temptation tangible, and the expression on his face visibly softened.
"Well..." He glanced left and right, making sure no one was watching, then lowered his voice. "It’s not entirely impossible. But what specific materials are you looking for?"
Werner said with feigned casualness, "Hydrogen peroxide, and so acidic additives. Not too much. Ten kilograms of each should be enough."
’Ten kilograms...’ Krar calculated in his head.
The printing and dyeing plant did have a lot of waste. Its chemical solutions were originally used for adjusting the pH of the dye baths and for bleaching. After the dyeing process, however, the leftover sulfuric acid, nitric acid, and hydrogen peroxide were supposed to be disposed of according to regulations. In reality, most of it was just poured down the drain.
’Selling it to Werner would not only make money but also reduce disposal costs. Why wouldn’t I do it?’
"You na the price. I won’t haggle," Werner added.
Krar’s heart pounded. Where else would he find such a good deal? He cleared his throat. "This waste was going to be thrown out anyway, so selling it to you is a form of recycling. But you’ll have to bring your own containers. You can’t have the plant’s barrels."
"No problem. When can I pick it up?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. Co in through the back gate and find directly. Rember, the back gate!"
The two shook hands, and Werner turned to leave. After a few steps, he looked back and added, "Oh, and Comrade Krar, let’s handle this privately. Don’t let too many people know. The rules, you know."
Krar nodded in understanding and patted his pocket. "Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. For things like this, the fewer people who know, the better."
Werner left the printing and dyeing plant, satisfied.
’People like Krar are the easiest to deal with—greedy but cowardly. He’ll suck up to anyone who offers a benefit, but he wouldn’t dare cause any real trouble. He’s the perfect partner for what I need.’
Werner was in high spirits after leaving the printing and dyeing plant.
The first step of his plan was complete. Next was to prepare the "props."
At six in the evening, Werner returned to his apartnt.
He neatly arranged the chemicals he had bought on the table, then took out a pen and paper and began to record the properties and uses of each reagent.
The chemistry knowledge from his past life played a crucial role at this mont.
Hydrogen peroxide, sulfuric acid, nitric acid... These seemingly harmless chemicals could have extrely dangerous consequences when combined. More importantly, he knew how sensitive the Stasi were to such substances.
The Stasi had dedicated chemical experts capable of identifying all sorts of dangerous materials.
If they discovered anyone hoarding these items, they would show no rcy.
Joseph and his crew clearly didn’t realize they were playing with fire.
They thought they could sell anything a custor needed, oblivious to the fact that every single bottle of chemicals could beco evidence used to convict them.
Werner put down his pen, walked to the window, and lit a cigarette.
On the street outside his window, a few children were kicking a tattered soccer ball. The ball was covered in patches, but the kids were still having a great ti. Won were queuing at the water tap downstairs, chatting about this and that.
Werner took a deep drag from his cigarette, a complete plan beginning to form in his mind.
P.S. There might only be one update tomorrow, or none at all. A family mber is sick, and I’ve caught it too. I’ve been taking care of them and have been sick myself these past few days, so I don’t have the energy to write. I’ve been getting by on my backlog of Chapters. My backlog is almost empty now, so if I’m not feeling better tonight, I won’t be doing a double update tomorrow. Please understand.
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