I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 193: Chapter 103: The Photographer’s Value

"For you?"

"I need a photographer," Werner said, "to take some... special photos. Not like today, not every time. But when I need it, you have to help. Just like that last time."

Erich’s expression shifted slightly. Of course he remembered—those candid photos had directly led to Walter’s downfall and Major Sokolov’s investigation. He had always worried if those photos would implicate him.

"In exchange," Werner continued, "I’ll guarantee your family has enough food every month, and not that black bread from the state-run stores. What’s more, as long as you do as you’re told, no one will ever investigate the origin of those photos in the future."

The last sentence was both a threat and a promise.

Erich lowered his head, his fingers drumming unconsciously on the table.

The radio in the diner was playing the news: "...industrial and agricultural production has increased by fifteen percent..."

"Can I think about it?" Erich asked.

"No need." Werner stood up, leaving a ten-Mark bill on the table. "Day after tomorrow, two in the afternoon, come to Karl Marx Avenue 127. Major von Brown of Stasi Division Five will see you. Remember: show remorse, show gratitude, and show loyalty to the Party."

He patted Erich’s shoulder. "Don’t be nervous, Erich. This isn’t an interrogation. It’s a redemption."

**************

Two days later, Werner was waiting for Erich in a hallway of the Stasi Building.

Erich showed up on time. He had shaved and put on his only suit, the cuffs of which were worn shiny.

"Nervous?" Werner asked.

"I’m about to puke." Erich wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Don’t worry, Major von Brown is a friend of mine." Werner pushed open the office door. "Go on in."

Reiner von Brown sat behind his desk, dressed in a crisply ironed military uniform. He was in his early thirties, with meticulously combed short blond hair and blue eyes as cold as a frozen lake.

A portrait of Ublis and the national flag hung on the wall. The bookshelves were neatly lined with the Complete Works of Marx and Engels and various policy documents.

"Erich Boman?" Von Brown asked, looking at a file.

"Yes, Comrade Major." Erich stood at attention.

"Relax, sit." Von Brown gestured to a chair, then looked at Werner. "Comrade Betelich, you said this man is usable?"

"I guarantee it." Werner nodded.

Von Brown opened the file and read a line aloud: "July 1961. Since engaged in manual labor, performance has been good." He looked up. "Comrade Bauermann, have you recognized your mistake?"

Erich swallowed. "I have, Comrade Major. I have deeply reflected on my mistakes."

His voice was trembling, but every word was clear.

Von Brown stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled. "Not bad. You’re smarter than I thought."

He took a document from his drawer. "The agency has approved a project. We need to shoot a series of photographs showing the happy lives of the East German people to refute the West’s attacks. You, Comrade Bauermann, will be the chief photographer for this project."

Erich was stunned. "Chief... photographer?"

"With conditions, of course." Von Brown’s smile vanished. "First, all your work must be submitted for review. Second, you are not to photograph any unapproved content on your own initiative. Third, you will report your work progress to me regularly."

He paused. "If you make another mistake, the consequences will be far more severe than last time. Understand?"

"I understand!" Erich’s voice cracked.

Von Brown signed the document and stamped it. "Starting today, you are reinstated at the New German Newspaper. The personnel department will arrange your position and salary. Remember, the Party has given you a second chance. Don’t let us down."

"I won’t, Comrade Major! I will certainly contribute all my strength to the Party’s cause!"

Erich took the document, his hands shaking. The paper was light, but to him, it felt as heavy as lead.

Walking out of the Stasi Building, Erich leaned against a wall, gasping for air.

"How’d it go?" Werner asked, handing him a cigarette.

"I’m still alive." Erich lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. "God, I thought he was going to send me to prison."

"Von Brown doesn’t like to waste talent," Werner said. "Besides, you’re useful to him now."

’And useful to me,’ Werner added in his mind.

With Erich at the newspaper, he’d have a legitimate darkroom and equipment.

In the future, whatever photos were needed—whether for the Stasi or for the West German Intelligence Agency—it would be much more convenient.

Besides, with the label of "model of re-education," Erich was actually less likely to arouse suspicion. Who would think that a man just "saved" by the Party would continue to do such shady business?

Erich looked at the appointment document in his hand and suddenly laughed. It was a laugh of post-disaster relief, mixed with an indescribable sadness.

"I’ve become the Party’s photographer," he muttered. "I’ve become a fucking propaganda machine."

"You’ve become a photographer with a darkroom, equipment, and a salary," Werner corrected him. "Erich, in this country, it’s not easy to live like a human being."

Erich fell silent.

"Report to the newspaper office tomorrow." Werner patted his shoulder. "Do a good job. Remember, you don’t decide where the lens is pointed, but how you shoot—that’s your art."

Erich looked up. "What do you mean?"

Werner just smiled and didn’t answer.

**************

The next evening, Werner received a message from Erich.

The newspaper had accepted him. It wasn’t his old position, but at least he was back in the system. The editor-in-chief met with him personally, spoke at length about "re-education" and "loyalty," and then assigned him a small darkroom and a set of old equipment.

"The comrades don’t quite trust me," Erich said over the phone. "They think I’m an informant sent by the Stasi."

"You are," Werner said. "Don’t worry about what others think. Do your job, take the photos you’re supposed to take, and leave the rest to me."

After hanging up the phone, Werner looked out the window at East Berlin.

Night fell, and the streetlights came on one by one.

The gray buildings looked even more oppressive in the twilight, but warm yellow light shone from the windows. People were living there, struggling, adapting to this absurd world.

Getting Erich back into the newspaper office was just one move on the board.

But it was a critical one.

A photographer, a darkroom, a set of equipment—these things might not mean much to others, but in Werner’s hands, they could become part of an intelligence network, a tool to document things that "shouldn’t be documented."

More importantly, Erich owed him a favor.

A huge one.

And the photos that had already been sent to West Germany should now be in the filing cabinets of the Federal Intelligence Agency.

Word from Reynard was that the people over there were very satisfied and wanted to establish a long-term partnership. Werner had agreed. After all, the living conditions in East Germany were what they were; taking a few pictures was no big deal. The key was that once this line of communication was established, it could serve as an escape route to West Germany if real trouble ever arose.

Werner lit a cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Welcome back, Erich," he whispered to the night outside his window. "I hope you enjoy your new job."

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