Chapter 314 - 97: The Mysterious Mr. K

Chapter 314: Chapter 97: The Mysterious Mr. K

He opened it to the inner pages and skimmed through them.

Peter was a good writer. He had brought their conversation to life.

He hadn’t used the word "hero." Instead, he’d used phrases like "a pragmatist within the system," "an effort within a limited space," and "imperfect goodwill."

Most importantly, the entire article contained no details that could confirm his identity.

No name, no position, no specific work unit.

"Mr. K" was like a phantom existing within the East German bureaucracy, but no one knew who he was.

"Not bad," Werner said, closing the magazine. "He didn’t paint me as a saint, nor did he paint me as a villain. It’s just right."

Anna sat down beside him, staring at the magazine. "Is this enough?"

"It’s enough for now." Werner lit a cigarette. "Right now, all I need to do is plant the seed, to let the West know someone like this exists. In the future—when the wall falls, when the reckoning begins—I’ll let them know that I am ’Mr. K.’ By then, this report, along with the testimonies of the political prisoners who were released, will be my protective talisman."

"What if no one believes you then?" Anna asked. "What if they think you’re just putting on an act, using these people?"

"Then I’ll present the evidence." Werner exhaled a puff of smoke. "Lists, approval documents, transaction records—I’ll keep a copy of everything that can prove what I’ve done. I will prove that ’Mr. K’ did indeed save people, that he did what he could from within the system. As for my motive—" He shrugged. "By then, motive will be irrelevant. The results are what matter."

Anna leaned on his shoulder, and they quietly watched the city outside the window.

"What will happen after the report is published?" she asked.

"In West Germany, they’ll discuss it, they’ll speculate," Werner said. "But no one will be able to confirm who ’Mr. K’ is. Over here in East Germany—if anyone sees it, they’ll just dismiss it as propaganda from the Western media. No one will suspect me."

"You’re so sure?"

"I’m sure," Werner said. "Because in their eyes, I’m just a tool for making money, an official who’s good at business. No one would think I have any humanitarian spirit, and no one would think I’m secretly saving people. That’s my cover—their disdain for me, their stereotypes, will become my protection."

They sat by the window for a long time, until night had completely fallen and East Berlin was plunged into darkness.

***********

Just as Werner had predicted, the report caused a sensation after it was published.

Major media outlets in West Germany reprinted it, television stations held special discussions, and politicians quoted it in debates.

"East Germany’s Schindler" became a hot topic. Everyone was speculating about who "Mr. K" really was.

But no one could figure it out.

The report was too cautious, the details too vague.

Hundreds, even thousands, of East German officials were involved in the political prisoner exchanges. Any one of them could have been "Mr. K."

In East Germany, the reaction was more subtle.

The *New German Newspaper* published a critique, calling the *Der Spiegel* report "the Western media’s usual trick of trying to smear the socialist system with fabricated stories." The article pointed out that the so-called "humanitarian official" was a complete fiction, nothing more than a Western propaganda tool.

The Stasi also discussed the report internally, but most just scoffed, believing it to be another one of the West’s psychological warfare tactics.

Werner sat in his Koko office, a faint smile on his lips as he looked at the copy of *Der Spiegel* on his desk.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in."

Gunter walked in, also holding a copy of the magazine. "Did you see this?"

"I did." Werner put the magazine down. "The Western media is making up stories again."

"They made it sound pretty convincing," Gunter said, sitting down across from him. "All that ’conscience of East Germany’ and ’redemption from within the system’ stuff sounds like a fairy tale."

"It does sound like a fairy tale." Werner lit a cigarette. "But it’s not bad for us. Over in West Germany, they’re now more interested in the political prisoner exchanges, and the prices they’re willing to pay are higher. The more public opinion heats up, the more money there is to be made."

Gunter laughed. "You’re right. Sometimes I have to admire the naivety of Westerners, thinking a few reports can change anything."

"It really can’t change anything," Werner said, exhaling smoke. "But it can make us more money, and that’s enough."

Gunter stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Keep up the good work. Anger is very pleased with you, says you’re a great asset to Koko. Foreign currency earnings hit a new high last month."

"It’s my honor to serve the state," Werner said.

After Gunter left, Werner picked up the magazine again, turned to the article, and reread it, word for word.

’This seed has been sown.’

’For now, it’s a secret, one known only to him and Anna.’

’But in the future—when the wall falls, when the reckoning begins, when all East German officials face trial—this seed will sprout, grow into a great tree, and become his shelter.’

’By then, he would step forward and tell the world, "I am that ’Mr. K’."’

’By then, the political prisoners he’d released would step forward, vouch for him, and say, "Yes, he’s the one who saved us."’

’By then, this report would become irrefutable proof, proving he wasn’t a villain, not a cold-blooded bureaucrat, but "a man who struggled within the system," someone who "did what he could within a limited space."’

’To whitewash what he had done in East Germany all these years, this alone might not be enough. But that was fine. He had other plans in motion.’

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

「November 1975, Berlin.」

Werner stood at the window of his apartment, gazing at the oldest church in East Berlin across the way—Saint Nicholas’ Church. In the night, the church’s steeple glowed faintly under the moonlight.

He held a slip of paper in his hand. On it was a short message from Pastor Weber: "The Cardinal has agreed to meet. This Sunday, Saint Mary’s Church."

Werner tossed the note into an ashtray and struck a match. The paper curled and blackened in the flame, finally turning to ash.

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

At dusk three days later, Werner drove to Saint Mary’s Church on the outskirts of East Berlin.

It was an inconspicuous little church, with mottled brick walls and an old wooden door. But its very inconspicuousness made it suitable for such a secret meeting.

Pastor Weber was already waiting at the entrance.

"Werner." Pastor Weber nodded. "He is waiting for you inside."

"Thank you, Pastor." Werner shook Weber’s hand. "I appreciate you going to this trouble."

Weber looked at him, silent for a few seconds, then suddenly said, "Werner, I’ve known you for many years. I know many of the things you’ve done."

Werner’s heart tightened.

"I don’t ask about those things; that is for God to judge," Weber said slowly. "But the cardinal you are meeting today, he is a true saint. I hope you will... at least in front of him, speak the truth."

Werner looked into Pastor Weber’s eyes and nodded.

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

The church interior was dim, with only a few candles burning before the altar.

Werner walked inside, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall.

A figure sat on a front pew, his back to him.

He was a tall, elderly man, dressed in the deep red robes of a cardinal. His hair was completely white, yet still thick.

"You must be Cardinal Eberhard?" Werner approached.

The old man turned around. His was a weathered face, etched by the hardships of time.

"Werner Betelich?" The cardinal’s voice was deep and powerful. "Sit, young man. Weber has told me a great deal about you."

Werner sat down next to the cardinal, leaving the space of one seat between them.

"You came all the way from West Germany just to see me?" Werner asked.

"Weber said you wish to donate a sum of money to the Church," the cardinal replied, not answering directly. "To help refugees and the families of political prisoners in East Germany."

"Yes." Werner took an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to the cardinal. "Here is a check for two hundred thousand West German Marks. To be deposited in your name into the account of the West German Catholic Charitable Foundation."

The cardinal took the envelope, opened it for a glance, and then closed it again. He didn’t speak right away, instead gazing at the cross at the front of the church, silent for a long time.

"Werner," the cardinal finally spoke, "do you know why I agreed to see you?"

"Because of the money?"

"No." The cardinal shook his head. "Weber told me that you have helped many people escape from East Germany over the years. Although you took money, you did indeed save them."

Werner said nothing.

"But I also know," the cardinal turned to look at him, "you don’t do these things out of the goodness of your heart, do you?"

Werner met the cardinal’s gaze and said slowly, "You want to hear the truth?"

"Of course."

"Then I’ll tell you the truth." Werner lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. "I did these things for money, at first. Later, it was for power, to build a network of connections between East and West Germany. Now..."

He paused and flicked his ash.

"Now, it’s to leave myself a way out."

The cardinal showed no surprise or disappointment, merely listening quietly.

"I know East Germany won’t last," Werner continued. "Maybe ten years, maybe twenty, but this wall will fall someday. When that happens, people like me—people who worked for Koko, collaborated with the Stasi, and made dirty money—will face a reckoning."

"So you need the identity of a ’good man’," the cardinal said.

"Yes." Werner didn’t deny it. "I need the Church in West Germany, and I need the people I’ve helped, to speak for me when that day comes. I need someone to testify that I’m not just a speculator, that I’ve also saved people."

The cardinal was silent for so long that Werner thought he wouldn’t speak again.

"You’re very honest," the cardinal said at last. "More honest than most of the politicians I’ve met."

"Thank you."

"But I cannot accept your money."