Chapter 387: Mr. K’s True Face

Chapter 387 -32: Mr. K’s True Face

At 1:30 PM, the court reconvened.

The gallery was even more crowded than it had been in the morning. Many people hadn’t left during the lunch break, waiting in the hallway instead. There were also some new reporters shouldering larger cameras.

The judge struck the gavel. “The court will come to order. Defense counsel, please continue.”

Rosenblum stood up, holding a copy of *Der Spiegel*.

“Your Honor, before I continue calling witnesses, I would first like to submit a piece of evidence to the court.”

He walked to the judge’s bench and placed the magazine on it.

“This is the August 30, 1975 issue of *Der Spiegel*, page 34.”

The judge opened the magazine and saw the article. The headline was striking: *East Germany’s Schindler: How an Anonymous Businessman Helped Political Prisoners Flee to the West*.

Rosenblum turned to the gallery and raised his voice. “This article was published fifteen years ago, when East Germany still existed and the Berlin Wall had not yet fallen. The report mentioned a mysterious figure, codenamed Mr. K.”

He paused, allowing everyone’s attention to focus.

“The article says that Mr. K worked in the East German foreign trade system and used his position to help thousands of political prisoners escape to West Germany. He provided foreign currency, forged documents, and arranged secret routes.”

Murmurs began to spread through the gallery.

“At the time, because East Germany had not yet collapsed, *Der Spiegel* did not reveal his true identity in order to protect Mr. K and the people he had helped.”

Rosenblum turned and looked at Werner.

“But now, I will tell the court—”

His voice suddenly boomed:

“That Mr. K is none other than Werner Betelich!”

The gallery erupted into chaos.

Reporters jumped to their feet, flashbulbs popping furiously.

Someone shouted, “Impossible!” “Is it true?” Others said, “I knew it!” “He was helping us all along!”

The judge slammed his gavel three times. “Order! Order!”

Stein shot to his feet. “Your Honor, the defense counsel’s statement requires supporting evidence!”

“I have evidence,” Rosenblum said calmly. “I request to call a witness—Peter Schmidt, a senior reporter for *Der Spiegel* and the author of that 1975 article.”

The judge glanced at Stein. “Does the prosecution object?”

Stein hesitated, then shook his head. He knew that objecting would only make things look more suspicious.

The courtroom doors opened, and a man walked in.

“And you are?” the judge asked.

“Peter Schmidt,” the man said. “Senior reporter for *Der Spiegel*. I’m the one who wrote the 1975 article, *East Germany’s Schindler*.”

Another stir went through the gallery.

Rosenblum walked up to him. “Mr. Schmidt, please tell the court, who was the Mr. K you interviewed back then?”

Peter Schmidt looked at Werner and slowly nodded.

“It was him. Werner Betelich.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am certain.” Schmidt’s voice was firm. “In July 1975, I met him in a café in Helsinki. That was the first and only time I met Mr. K in person.”

“Please describe that interview in detail.”

Schmidt leaned back in his chair, recalling the memory. “It was during the Helsinki Accords. I received an anonymous phone call saying someone wanted to talk to me about the inside story of the prisoner exchanges. We arranged to meet at a café near the harbor.”

“He laid out three conditions: no recording, no photos, and no questions about his name or position.”

“He said to just call him Mr. K.”

“And then?” Rosenblum asked.

“Then we talked for two hours,” Schmidt said. “He told me that the political prisoner exchanges in East Germany weren’t just a government operation. There were many people inside the system secretly helping political prisoners. He was one of them.”

“Did he mention any specific incidents?”

“Many.” Schmidt took out a notebook. “These are my interview notes from that day. I recorded some of the cases he helped with—no names, but I have the time, place, and method.”

He opened the notebook. “For example, in 1973, he helped a writer smuggle a manuscript to West Germany. In 1974, he helped a philosophy lecturer escape through the sewers. In 1975, he helped a young mother and her child cross the border.”

Rosenblum turned to the judge. “Your Honor, these cases perfectly match the testimonies from this morning’s witnesses. This is my evidence. My client is not some puppet of the Stasi, not some accomplice of the old regime. He was a man who lit a torch in the darkness, a man who risked his life to help others.”

“If a man like him is to be purged, then what is the point of this trial?”

Stein sat there, his face pale. He knew the tables had completely turned.

The judge glanced at the clock. “The court will recess for fifteen minutes.”

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

Fifteen minutes later, the court reconvened.

The atmosphere in the gallery had completely changed.

The people who had been holding signs that read “Purge the Old Regime” were now sitting quietly. Some were whispering among themselves, while others were looking at Werner with new eyes.

The judge also seemed moved. He cleared his throat. “Defense counsel, please continue.”

Rosenblum stood up. “Your Honor, I have a few more witnesses. They were not political prisoners who my client helped escape to West Germany, but rather dissidents who remained in East Germany to continue the resistance.”

He turned to the door. “Please call the first witness.”

The door opened, and a man in his seventies walked in. His hair was completely white, but his back was straight and his gaze was sharp. As soon as he entered, people in the gallery recognized him.

“It’s Harviman!” “Robert H. Harveyman!”

Robert H. Harveyman, one of East Germany’s most famous dissidents.

After the fall of the Berlin Wall, he became a consultant for the new government’s records office, specializing in the review of Stasi files.

He sat down in the witness box and glanced at Werner.

“Mr. Harviman,” Rosenblum said, “do you know my client?”

“I do.” Harviman’s voice was a bit hoarse, but powerful. “Since 1982.”

“Please tell the court how you met.”

Harviman leaned back in his chair, recalling the memory.

“In 1982, I had just been released from house arrest. At the time, I wanted to rebuild the democracy movement, but I lacked money and equipment.”

“One day, a young man came to see me. He said he had heard of me and wanted to help.” Harviman looked at Werner. “That man was Betelich.”

“How did he help you?”

“A copy machine,” Harviman said. “In East Germany, it was illegal for private citizens to own a copy machine. But we needed one to print pamphlets and declarations. Betelich smuggled one in for us from West Germany.”

“And a fax machine, typewriters, paper,” Harviman counted them off. “Even a few radios, so we could listen to broadcasts from West Germany.”

“Besides equipment, what else did he provide?”

Harviman paused, then said, “Intelligence. And funding.”

Another commotion arose from the gallery.

“He told us which people were Stasi informants, and which of our activities were under surveillance.” Harviman’s voice grew lower. “In 1985, we planned to organize a peaceful demonstration. Betelich warned us in advance that the Stasi already knew and were preparing to make arrests.”

“We cancelled the operation and avoided a major purge.”

“He also gave us a great deal of financial support.”

Rosenblum walked up to him. “Mr. Harviman, as a leader of the East German dissident movement, how would you describe my client?”