I'm a Profiteer in Cold War Germany

Chapter 268: Chapter 51: The Night Crushed by Tanks

Prague, 11:45 PM.

Werner was startled awake by the sound of engines outside his window.

It wasn’t the sound of ordinary cars. It was a deep, continuous rumble, accompanied by the clatter of metal treads—tanks.

He shot up in bed and rushed to the window.

At the end of the street, a column of armored vehicles was slowly approaching.

The Soviet Red Star was painted on their hulls, and their barrels reflected the cold gleam of the streetlights.

On the lead armored vehicle, a Soviet Army soldier stood on the turret with a submachine gun, his expressionless gaze sweeping over the buildings on either side.

Werner’s heart began to pound violently.

’They’re here. They’re really here.’

He quickly threw on his coat and grabbed the briefcase from his bedside table, which contained all his important documents and cash. Then he pulled a small-caliber pistol from the bag and tucked it into the small of his back.

He’d had Von Brown get the gun for him, originally for self-defense. Now, it looked like he might actually need it.

He pushed open his door. In the hallway, other guests were already poking their heads out, their faces filled with confusion and panic.

"What’s going on?" a middle-aged man asked, grabbing his arm. "Those tanks outside are..."

"The Soviet Union’s," Werner said, shaking off the man’s hand and striding toward the stairs. "I suggest you go back to your room and lock the door."

"Oh my God..." A woman’s shriek came from behind him.

Werner didn’t look back.

He rushed down the stairs, pushed open the hotel’s main doors, and stood on the side of the street.

By now, all of Prague had been woken up.

Lights switched on in one window after another. Some people poked their heads out to look, while others ran downstairs clutching their children.

The armored column continued to advance, its treads grinding harshly against the cobblestone streets.

A Soviet Army truck stopped in front of the hotel.

Several soldiers jumped out. One of them, an officer, shouted to the crowd of onlookers in broken Czech:

"Back to your rooms! Curfew! No one is allowed on the streets!"

The crowd began to disperse, but a few young men remained, glaring angrily at the Soviet Army soldiers.

"Go back to Moscow!" shouted a young man in jeans. "You’re not welcome here!"

The officer turned his head and stared at him coldly. Then he raised his submachine gun and fired a shot into the air.

The gunshot cracked through the night sky.

The crowd scattered in an instant.

The young man froze for a second, then turned and ran as well.

Werner stood motionless in the shadows.

He watched the Soviet Army soldiers get back in their vehicles. He watched the armored column continue toward the city center. He watched the street fall back into a deathly silence.

A thought suddenly flashed through his mind—

’This isn’t a movie.’

’This isn’t a book.’

’This is real history, unfolding right before my eyes.’

’And I’m standing right in the middle of it.’

He took a deep breath, turned, and walked quickly toward his car, which was parked in the hotel’s rear courtyard.

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

At 2:00 AM, Werner drove into downtown Prague.

The streets were filled with tanks and armored vehicles.

The Soviet Army had already occupied all major intersections and set up machine-gun nests.

A few helicopters circled at low altitude, their searchlights sweeping the streets like giant eyes.

Werner was stopped three times.

Each time, he took out Koko’s work ID and travel papers and said to the Soviet Army officer in fluent Russian:

"I’m a business representative from East Germany, responsible for customs clearance for goods. These are my credentials."

The Soviet Army officer glanced at the credentials, then back at him, and finally waved him through.

Werner breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a good thing he had prepared these documents in advance; otherwise, he might have been thrown into a detention center by now.

He parked the car in a small alley near Wenceslas Square and then walked toward the square.

A thousand people had already gathered in the square.

Most of them were young people—students, workers, artists.

They held Czech flags, and some carried placards with messages painted in red: "Soviets Go Home!", "Long Live Freedom!", "Long Live Dubcek!"

But most people just stood there, silently watching the line of tanks in the center of the square.

The tanks formed a semicircle, their cannons aimed at the crowd.

Soldiers stood beside the tanks with their guns at the ready, their faces devoid of any expression.

Werner squeezed into the crowd and found a spot near the edge.

He took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag.

"Brother, got a light?"

A young man next to him leaned over, holding a crumpled cigarette.

Werner handed him his lighter.

The young man lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and then said with a bitter smile:

"What the hell is going on? Last night I was drinking in a bar, and I wake up this morning to streets full of Soviet tanks."

"What do you think?" Werner said lightly.

"I think..." The young man trailed off, looking at the tanks in the center of the square.

Werner didn’t reply.

He knew there was no point in saying anything more.

The wheels of history were already in motion, and no one could stop them.

The crowd grew restless.

Someone started singing—the Czech national anthem.

The singing spread from one corner of the square, with more and more people joining in, until the entire square was singing in chorus.

The Soviet Army soldiers looked at each other, unsure of what to do.

Then, a girl stepped forward.

She looked to be in her early twenties, wearing a white dress and holding a bouquet of flowers.

She walked to the nearest tank and offered the flowers to the Soviet Army soldier standing on the turret.

"Please go home," she said in Russian. Her voice was soft, but in the quiet square, everyone could hear her. "We don’t need you here. We just want to live our own lives."

The soldier was stunned.

He looked at the flowers, then at the girl, completely at a loss.

Werner noticed the soldier was very young, probably in his early twenties as well, with a still-boyish face.

The square erupted in applause and cheers.

But in the next second, a Soviet Army officer strode over, shoved the girl aside, and shouted something at the soldier.

The soldier immediately pulled back his hand and raised his gun again.

The girl fell to the ground, the bouquet scattering across the pavement.

The crowd’s mood instantly exploded.

Some people rushed forward to help the girl, others started throwing stones at the Soviet Army, and still others began to shout curses.

The officer raised his pistol and fired a shot into the air.

"Everyone! Leave! Now!" he roared in Russian.

Werner knew it was time to go.

He turned, pushed his way out of the crowd, and quickly left the square.

More gunshots sounded from behind him—he couldn’t tell if they were warning shots or if they were firing into the crowd.

He heard screams, cries, and the roar of tank engines.

But he didn’t look back.

He wasn’t a journalist, a revolutionary, or a hero.

He was just a businessman who wanted to survive.

Although, in that moment, he suddenly felt a little envious of those who dared to stand up.

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

At 4:00 AM, Werner returned to his hotel room.

He had just closed the door when the phone in his room started ringing.

He froze for a second, then walked over and picked up the phone.

"Werner?" It was Von Brown’s voice on the other end. "Are you still alive?"

"Of course," Werner said, leaning against the desk and lighting a cigarette. "But Prague is in chaos. The Soviet Army is everywhere, citizens are protesting in the square, and the situation is very unstable."

"I know." Von Brown paused. "Listen, I need you to do something for me."

Werner’s heart sank. "What is it?"

"We have an informant in Prague who has a very important list," Von Brown said, his voice turning serious. "You need to rendezvous with him and bring the list back."

"Now?" Werner frowned. "Von Brown, the Soviet Army is all over the place. A conflict could break out at any moment. You want me to go meet him now?"

"This chaos is precisely why it’s the best opportunity," Von Brown said. "The Soviet Army is busy trying to control the situation; they won’t have time for anything else. Besides, the informant’s identity is sensitive. If he’s discovered by the Czech authorities, he’ll be executed immediately."

Werner was silent for a few seconds. "Where?"

"Old Town, the cemetery behind Saint Vitus Cathedral. Six in the morning," Von Brown said. "The code phrase is ’The winters in Moscow are cold.’ The response is ’But the spring in Prague is shorter.’"

"Understood."

"One more thing," Von Brown added after a pause. "I’m sending a colleague to you. His name is Erich Neumann. He’s one of our senior agents in Eastern Europe. He’ll be waiting for you at the cathedral entrance."

Werner raised an eyebrow. "Erich Neumann? I’ve never heard that name before."

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