I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 205: Chapter 115: The Stubborn Priest

A rustling sound came from inside the cell.

The warden opened the door to reveal a room less than ten square meters in size.

An iron bed, a small table, and a toilet. A few books were piled in a corner, all officially approved reading material—*The Theory of Socialist Construction* and *Selected Works of Marx and Engels*. A calendar hung on the wall, countless dates crossed out in pencil.

Hans Mueller sat on the bed in a gray prison uniform, his hair long and his beard scruffy. When he saw the people outside the door, a flicker of wariness flashed in his eyes before he quickly lowered his head.

"You’re being released," the warden said. "Get your things. Be at the gate in five minutes."

Hans froze. He looked up at the warden, then at Vogel and Werner.

"What?"

"Are you deaf?" the warden said impatiently. "Release! A humanitarian release! The West German Government paid to buy you back!"

Hans’s expression shifted several times, from shock to suspicion, and finally to disbelief. His lips moved, but no words came out.

"Five minutes." The warden turned and walked out.

Hans got to his feet, his hands trembling. He looked at Werner and Vogel as tears suddenly welled in his eyes.

"Really... can I really leave?"

Vogel nodded.

"Get your things ready. They’ll let you change back into your own clothes shortly."

Hans covered his face, and his shoulders began to tremble. He wept, the sobs choked and quiet, as if he were afraid of being heard.

Werner stood in the doorway, watching the emaciated middle-aged man.

The man had been imprisoned for two years.

The serious, bespectacled engineer from the photograph was now a gaunt prisoner with haunted, terrified eyes.

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

The next cell belonged to Peter Krause.

The warden repeated the same routine: knock, open the door, announce.

Peter was younger than Hans but in worse shape. He had a scar on his face that ran from his eyebrow down to his chin—an old wound, healed but still leaving a dark line. Hearing the word "release," he leaped from his bed and rushed to the door.

"Is it true? Can I really go? Can I go home?"

"Let go of the doorframe!" the warden roared. "Five minutes! Pack your things!"

Peter’s hands clutched the doorframe. He looked at Vogel, then at Werner, his eyes a mixture of terror and hope.

"You’re not lying to me, are you? This isn’t... you’re not playing a trick on me?"

"No," Vogel’s tone was calm. "You are being released. Get your things."

Peter released his grip and retreated into the cell, standing there in a daze. After a few seconds, he suddenly squatted down, pulled a small cloth bundle from under his bed, and clutched it to his chest.

"This is it... this is it..." he muttered. "This is all I have left..."

Werner glanced at the cloth bundle. It was small, likely holding only a few personal items like letters or photographs.

The warden closed the door and walked on.

"The priest is next." His voice grew colder. "A real stubborn old coot."

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

The last cell was at the end of the hall.

A sign on the door read: C-31, Hans Weber.

The warden walked up and knocked on the door.

"Weber! You have visitors!"

There was no sound from the cell.

The warden knocked again. Still no response.

"This old bastard," he muttered, taking out his keys and unlocking the door.

The cell was slightly larger than the other two, but just as spartan.

Father Hans Weber was sitting on the bed with his back against the wall, holding a Bible—its cover so worn the title was illegible.

He glanced up at the men in the doorway, then looked back down and continued turning the pages.

"Weber!" The warden strode in. "Stop playing deaf! You’re being released! Be at the gate in five minutes!"

The priest didn’t look up.

"I heard you," he said, his voice as calm as if he were reciting scripture. "But I am not leaving."

The warden froze for a second.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I am not leaving." The priest closed the Bible and laid it on his knees. "I have committed no crime."

The warden’s face flushed red.

"No crime? You organized illegal border crossings and helped traitors escape to West Germany. Is that not a crime?"

"In the eyes of God, helping others seek freedom is no crime." The priest looked up at the warden. "The crime is that you keep people locked in here."

"You—" The warden raised his baton.

"That’s enough." Vogel stopped him. "Let me handle this."

He walked into the cell and sat down at the small table across from the priest.

"Father Weber, I am a lawyer sent by the Ministry of Justice. Your release papers have been processed. The West German Government is willing to pay the price for your freedom."

"I do not need to be ’released’," the priest said. "I never should have been imprisoned here."

"I understand how you feel." Vogel adjusted his glasses. "But the fact is, you have an opportunity to leave this place and start a new life in West Germany. Your parishioners are waiting for you."

"Then let them wait." The priest opened his Bible again. "I am fine here. God is with me."

Vogel glanced at Werner.

"Comrade Werner, let’s step outside." Vogel stood up. "Let’s give the Father some time to think."

The two men stepped out of the cell. The warden slammed the door shut and turned the key with a vicious twist.

"Stubborn old bastard," he cursed. "Two years wasn’t enough for him? He wants to stay here until he dies."

Vogel didn’t respond. He just stared at the door, his brow deeply furrowed.

"What do we do if he refuses to go?" Werner asked.

"Then we have a problem," Vogel said in a low voice. "West Germany specifically requested him by name. If he doesn’t go, the entire deal could fall through."

"Can we force him?"

"No." Vogel shook his head. "The documents specify that it must be ’voluntary.’ If he doesn’t sign, we can’t compel him."

Werner lit a cigarette and stared at the door at the end of the hallway.

’This is a problem.’

’A big one.’

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

At four in the morning, they brought Hans and Peter to the prison’s reception room.

It was an empty room containing only a few chairs and a table. A portrait of Ublis hung on the wall, with the words "Socialism Will Triumph" written beneath it.

The warden tossed a paper bag to each of the two men.

"Your personal effects. Change into your own clothes."

The two men took the paper bags and went into the adjacent changing room.

A few minutes later, they emerged, having changed their clothes.

Hans wore an old suit with a frayed collar. Peter wore a worker’s jacket and jeans. The clothes were two years out of style and hung loosely on their frames—not because the clothes had shrunk, but because the men had lost so much weight.

"Sit and wait." The warden gestured to the chairs.

The two sat down, huddled close together. Peter’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so Hans took one of them in his own. Neither man spoke.

Vogel moved to a corner and gave Werner a meaningful look.

The two men walked over to the window and spoke in hushed tones.

"What about the priest?" Vogel asked.

"I’ll go talk to him," Werner said. "Alone. You wait here."

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

"We’ll see."

Werner turned to leave. At the doorway, he glanced back at Hans and Peter.

The two men sat there like a pair of statues.

’They were free now.’

’For now, at least.’

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

Werner walked back down the corridor of Zone C.

A guard followed behind him, keys in hand.

"You sure you want to go in alone?" the guard asked.

"I’m sure."

"That old coot’s got a nasty temper. Be careful."

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