Chapter 404: Whitewashing

March 1991, Berlin.

Spring came earlier than usual. The trees lining both sides of Under the Bodhi Tree Street were beginning to bud, and a long-absent vitality filled the air.

Werner stood before the newly leased office building, looking up at the five-story old structure. The building had just been painted, its off-white facade particularly striking in the sunlight. A brand-new brass plaque hung by the entrance: “Werner Humanitarian Foundation.”

“How does it feel?” Margaret asked, getting out of the car with a folder in her hand.

“Like I’m putting on a play,” Werner said, lighting a cigarette.

“Even if it’s a play, you have to make it convincing,” Margaret said, handing him the folder. “The board of directors list. Take another look.”

Werner flipped it open and scanned the pages. There were twelve people on the list: three former East German political prisoners, two dissidents, a former reporter for *Der Spiegel* weekly, and several West German entrepreneurs and local council members from the Social Democratic Party.

“You’re really going all out this time, donating ten million Marks. What for?” Margaret asked.

“To shut those reporters up,” Werner said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Last year, the *Frankfurt Allgemeine Zeitung* was still hounding me about my ‘gray income’ from the East Germany period. Now that I’ve established a charitable foundation, they’ll have to change their tune.”

“Smart,” Margaret said. “But speaking of which, do you really plan to use this ten million to help people?”

“Why not?” Werner said, pushing open the main doors. “It’s money that’s going to be spent anyway. Might as well spend it with some style.”

The inside of the building was already being set up. Workers were moving office furniture, and several photographs hung on the walls—all old photos from the East German era: the Berlin Wall, crowds standing in line, dilapidated apartment buildings. Deliberately chosen memories, perfectly calculated sentimentality.

“Mr. Betelich,” a young woman, the foundation’s secretary, walked over. “The reporters are already waiting in the conference room.”

“How many?”

“Eight media outlets, twelve reporters. *Der Spiegel*, the *Frankfurt Allgemeine Zeitung*, and the *South German Newspaper* all sent people.”

Werner glanced at his watch. There was still half an hour until the press conference.

“I’m going up to prepare,” he said to Margaret. “You can handle them for me.”

His office was on the fifth floor. It wasn’t large, but it was tastefully decorated. The bookshelves held some works on economics, along with several books on East German history. On his desk sat a framed photograph—November 9, 1989, the day the Berlin Wall opened, with crowds surging toward a checkpoint.

Werner sat down behind his desk and took a speech draft from a drawer. He had written it last night, revising it three times.

“I lived in East Germany for decades. I saw too much suffering—unemployed workers, broken families, desperate young people. Unification is a new beginning, but the growing pains of this transition are real. As someone with the ability to help others, I feel it is my responsibility…”

Standard philanthropist rhetoric. Sentimental but not contrived, sincere but not naive.

Anna came in, carrying a cup of coffee.

“Nervous?”

“I’m fine,” Werner said, taking the coffee. “It just feels a bit ironic.”

“What’s ironic about it?”

“In the 1960s, I peddled Western goods on the Black Market. In the 1970s, I smuggled weapons. In the 1980s, I did work for the Stasi,” Werner said, taking a sip of coffee. “And now I’m about to stand on a stage and tell a crowd of reporters that I’m staying true to my original intentions and giving back to society.”

Anna sat down across from him. “That’s what you call laundering a reputation. Whether it comes out clean or not all depends on how well you play the part.”

“I’m not acting,” Werner said. “At least, not entirely.”

“Hmm?”

“This ten million—I really do intend to use it to help people,” Werner said, putting down his cup. “In the former East German regions, the unemployment rate is now over thirty percent. Many families can’t even afford basic necessities. If my money can help some of them, why not do it?”

“Because you’ve found your conscience?”

“Because it’s a good deal,” Werner said. “Ten million to buy the reputation of a philanthropist, shut up those reporters and prosecutors, and get the West German business community to accept me. It’s a bargain.”

Anna looked at him and slowly smiled. “So it’s still business.”

“It’s always been business,” Werner said, standing up and adjusting his tie. “Just with different packaging.”

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

The press conference began at two o’clock in the afternoon, sharp.

The conference room was packed. Reporters held up cameras and audio recorders, their flashes going off one after another. Werner sat at the head table, flanked by Margaret and a few members of the board.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Werner began, his voice steady and calm. “Today, I am honored to announce the official establishment of the Werner Humanitarian Foundation.”

He paused, looking around the room.

“Over the past year, I have witnessed many problems during the process of unification. Factories have closed, workers have lost their jobs, and families have fallen into hardship. These are not just statistics; they are living, breathing people—my former neighbors, colleagues, and friends.”

The reporters scribbled furiously in their notes.

“I lived in East Germany for decades. I understand deeply what suffering means—standing in line for bread, worrying about being watched, not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Now that I have the ability to help others, it is both my responsibility and my choice.”

A reporter from *Der Spiegel* weekly raised his hand. “Mr. Betelich, what are the specific projects of the foundation?”

“Three main areas,” Werner said. “First, unemployment relief. We will provide temporary subsidies and vocational training for unemployed workers. Second, educational support. We will offer scholarships to students from poor families in the former East German regions. Third, medical aid. We will help families who cannot afford their medical expenses.”

“What is the initial funding?”

“Ten million Marks,” Werner said. “All of it from my personal donation.”

A low murmur of discussion rippled through the conference room. Ten million Marks was no small sum.

“Some have questioned the source of your income during your time in East Germany,” a reporter from the *Frankfurt Allgemeine Zeitung* asked. “How do you respond?”

Werner had anticipated this question.

“I don’t deny that I was involved in some gray business in East Germany,” he said calmly. “It was a matter of survival. Under that regime, following all the rules meant starving to death. But I never harmed an innocent person. I helped many people escape from East Germany, and I refused to do many things the Stasi asked of me.”

“For example?”

“For example, betraying dissidents,” Werner said. “In the 1980s, the Stasi demanded that I monitor several intellectuals and provide their movements and contacts. I refused.”

The press conference lasted for an hour. The reporters asked many questions, and Werner answered them one by one. His performance was perfectly calibrated—humble but not servile, sincere but not naive, principled but not radical.

“Last question.” A young female reporter raised her hand. “What kind of person do you consider yourself to be?”

Werner thought for a few seconds.

“A survivor,” he said. “I was lucky enough to live through those years. Now I want to use that luck to help others survive, too.”

Applause broke out. It wasn’t thunderous, but it was genuine enough.