re he could carry out the plan already forming in his mind.
* * *
Lubji lay awake for most of the night before Rosh Hashanah. Once his mother had dressed the following morning, his eyes rarely left her—or, to be more accurate, the brooch she wore. After the service she was surprised that when they left the synagogue he clung to her hand on the way back home, something she couldn’t recall him doing since his third birthday. Once they were inside their little cottage, Lubji sat cross-legged in the corner of the fireplace and watched his mother unclip the tiny piece of jewelry from her dress. For a moment Zelta stared at the heirloom, before kneeling and removing the loose plank from the floor beside the mattress, and putting the brooch carefully in the old cardboard box before replacing the plank.
Lubji remained so still as he watched her that his mother became worried, and asked him if he wasn’t feeling well.
“I’m all right, Mother,” he said. “But as it’s Rosh Hashanah, I was thinking about what I ought to be doing in the new year.” His mother smiled, still nurturing the hope that she had produced one child who might become a rabbi. Lubji didn’t speak again as he considered the problem of the box. He felt no guilt about committing what his mother would have described as a sin, because he had already convinced himself that long before the year was up he would return everything, and no one would be any the wiser.
That night, after the rest of the family had climbed onto the mattress, Lubji huddled up in the corner of the fireplace and pretended to be asleep until he was sure that everyone else was. He knew that for the six restless, cramped bodies, two heads at the top, another two at the bottom, with his mother and father at the ends, sleep was a luxury that rarely lasted more than a few minutes.
Once Lubji was confident that no one else was awake, he began to crawl cautiously round the edge of the room, until he reached the far side of the mattress. His father’s snoring was so thunderous that Lubji feared that at any moment one of his brothers or sisters must surely wake and discover him.
Lubji held his breath as he ran his fingers across the floorboards, trying to discover which one would prize open.
The seconds turned into minutes, but suddenly one of the planks shifted slightly. By pressing on one end with the palm of his right hand Lubji was able to ease it up slowly. He lowered his left hand into the hole, and felt the edge of something. He gripped it with his fingers, and slowly pulled out the cardboard box, then lowered the plank back into place.
Lubji remained absolutely still until he was certain that no one had witnessed his actions. One of his younger brothers turned over, and his sisters groaned and followed suit. Lubji took advantage of the fuddled commotion and scurried back around the edge of the room, only stopping when he reached the front door.
He pushed himself up off his knees, and began to search for the doorknob. His sweaty palm gripped the handle and turned it slowly. The old spindle creaked noisily in a way he had never noticed before. He stepped outside into the path and placed the cardboard box on the ground, held his breath and slowly closed the door behind him.
Lubji ran away from the house clutching the little box to his chest. He didn’t look back; but had he done so, he would have seen his great-uncle staring at him from his larger house behind the cottage. “Just as I feared,” the rabbi muttered to himself. “He takes after his father’s side of the family.”
Once Lubji was out of sight, he stared down into the box for the first time, but even with the help of the moonlight he was unable to make out its contents properly. He walked on, still fearful that someone might spot him. When he reached the center of the town, he sat on the steps of a waterless fountain, trembling and excited. But it was several minutes before he could clearly make out all the treasures that were secreted in the box.
There were two brass buckles, several unmatching buttons, including a large shiny one, and an old coin which bore the head of the Czar. And there, in the corner of the box, rested the most desirable prize of all: a small circular silver brooch surrounded by little stones which sparkled in the early morning sunlight.
When the clock on the town hall struck six, Lubji tucked the box under his arm and headed in the direction of the market. Once he was back among the traders, he sat down between two of the stalls and removed everything from the box. He then turned it upside down and set out all the objects on the flat, gray surface, with the brooch taking pride of place in the center. No sooner had he done this than a man carrying a sack of potatoes over his shoulder stopped and stared down at his wares.
“What do you want for that?” the man asked in Czech, pointing at the large shiny button.
The boy remembered that Mr. Lekski never replied to a question with an answer, but always with another question.
“What do you have to offer?” he inquired in the man’s native tongue.
The farmer lowered his sack onto the ground. “Six spuds,” he said.
Lubji shook his head. “I would need at least twelve potatoes for something as valuable as that,” he said, holding the button up in the sunlight so that his potential customer could take a closer look.
The farmer scowled.
“Nine,” he said finally.
“No,” replied Lubji firmly. “Always remember that my first offer is my best offer.” He hoped he sounded like Mr. Lekski dealing with an awkward customer.
The farmer shook his head, picked up the sack of potatoes, threw it over his shoulder and headed off toward the center of the town. Lubji wondered if he had made a bad mistake by not accepting the nine potatoes. He cursed, and rearranged the objects on the box to better advantage, leaving the brooch in the center.
“And how much are you expecting to get for that?” asked another customer, pointing down at the brooch.
“What do you have to offer in exchange?” asked Lubji, switching to Hungarian.
“A sack of my best grain,” said the farmer, proudly removing a bag from a laden donkey and dumping it in front of Lubji.
“And why do you want the brooch?” asked Lubji, remembering another of Mr. Lekski’s techniques.
“It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow,” he explained, “and I forgot to give her a present last year.”
“I’ll trade this beautiful heirloom, which has been in my family for several generations,” Lubji said, holding up the brooch for him to study, “in exchange for that ring on your finger…”