The Fourth Estate (5 page)

He pushed open
the door and marched up to the counter, coming face to face with an old man who
wore a suit and tie.

“And how can I
help you, little one?” Mr. Lekski asked, leaning over to look down at him.

I want to buy
that brooch for my mother,” he said, pointing back toward the window and hoping
that he sounded confident. He opened his clenched fist to reveal the three
small coins left over from the morning’s bargaining.

The old man
didn’t laugh, but gently explained to Lubji that he would need many more coins
than that before he could hope to purchase the brooch. Lubji’s cheeks reddened
as he curled up his fingers and quickly turned to leave.

“But why don’t
you come back tomorrow,” suggested the old man. “Perhaps I’ll be able to find
something for you.” Lubji’s face was so red that he ran onto the street without
looking back.

Lubji couldn’t
sleep that night. He kept repeating over and over to himself the words Mr.
Lekski had said. The following morning he was standing outside the shop long
before the old man had arrived to open the front door. The first lesson Lubji
learned from Mr. Lekski was that people who can afford to buy jewelry don’t
rise early in the morning.

Mr. Lekski, an
elder of the town, had been so impressed by the sheer chutzpah of the
six-year-old child in daring to enter his shop with nothing more than a few
worthless coins, that over the next few weeks he indulged the son of the cattle
trader by answering his constant stream of questions.

It wasn’t long
before Lubji began to drop into the shop for a few minutes every afternoon. But
he would always wait outside if the old man was serving someone. Only after the
customer had left would he march in, stand by the counter and rattle off the
questions he’d thought up the previous night.

Mr. Lekski noted
with approval that Lubji never asked the same question twice, and that whenever
a customer entered the shop he would quickly retreat into the comer and hide
behind the old man’s daily newspaper.

Although he
turned the pages, the jeweler couldn’t be sure if he was reading the words or
just looking at the pictures.

One evening,
after Mr. Lekski had locked up for the night, he took Lubji round to the back
of the shop to show him his motor vehicle. Lubji’s eyes opened wide when he was
told that this magnificent object could move on its own without being pulled by
a horse. “But it has no legs,” he shouted in disbelief. He opened the car door
and climbed in beside Mr. Lekski. When the old man pressed a button to start
the engine, Lubji felt both sick and frightened at the same time. But despite
the fact that he could only just see over the dashboard, within moments he
wanted to change places with Mr. Lekski and sit in the driver’s seat.

Mr. Lekski drove
Lubji through the town, and dropped him outside the front door of the cottage.
The child immediately ran into the kitchen and shouted to his mother, “One day
I will own a motor vehicle.” Zelta smiled at the thought, and didn’t mention
that even the rabbi only had a bicycle. She went on feeding her youngest
child-swearing once again it would be the last. This new addition had meant
that the fast-growing Lubji could no longer squeeze onto the mattress with his
sisters and brothers. Lately he had had to be satisfied with copies of the
rabbi’s old newspapers laid out in the fireplace.

Almost as soon
as it was dusk, the children would fight for a place on the mattress: the Hochs
couldn’t afford to waste their small supply of candies on lengthening the day.
Night after night, Lubji would lie in the fireplace thinking about Mr. Lekski’s
motor car, trying to work out how he could prove his mother wrong. Then he
remembered the brooch she only wore at Rosh Hashanah. He began counting on his
fingers, and calculated that he would have to wait another six weeks before 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 an
your finger. . .”

“But my ring is
gold,” said the farmer, laughing, “and your brooch is only silver.”

“
...
and a bag of your grain,” said Lubji,
as if he hadn’t been given the chance to complete his sentence.

“You must be
mad,” replied the farmer.

“This brooch was
once worn by a great aristocrat before she fell on hard times, so I’m bound to
ask: is it not worthy of the woman who has borne your children?” Lubji had no
idea if the man had any children, but charged on: “Or is she to be forgotten
for another year?”

The Hungarian
fell silent as he considered the child’s words. Lubji replaced the brooch in
the center of the box, his eyes resting fixedly on it, never once looking at
the ring.

“The ring I
agree to,” said the farmer finally, “but not the bag of grain as well.”

Lubji frowned as
he pretended to consider the offer. He picked up the brooch and studied it
again in the sunlight. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “But only because it’s
your wife’s birthday.” Mr. Lekski had taught him always to allow the customer
to feel he had the better of the bargain. The farmer quickly removed the heavy
gold ring from his finger and grabbed the brooch.

No sooner had
tile bargain been completed than Lubji’s first customer returned, carrying an
old spade. He dropped his half-empty sack of potatoes onto the ground in front
of the boy.

“I’ve changed my
mind,” said the Czech. “I will give you twelve spuds for the button.”

But Lubji shook
his head. “I now want fifteen,” he said without looking up.

“But this
morning you only wanted twelve!”

“Yes, but since then
you have traded half of your potatoes-and I Suspect the better half-for that
spade,” Lubji said ...

The farmer
hesitated.

“Come back
tomorrow,” said Lubji. “By then I’ll want twenty.”

The scowl
returned to the Czech’s face, but this time he didn’t pick up his bag and march
off. “I accept,” he said angrily and began to remove some potatoes from the top
of the sack.

Lubji shook his
head again.

“What do you
want now?” he shouted at the boy. “I thought we had a bargain.”

“You have seen
my button,” said Lubji, “but I haven’t seen your potatoes.

It’s only right
that I should make the choice, not you.”

The Czech
shrugged his shoulders, opened the sack and allowed the child to dig deep and
to select fifteen potatoes.

Lubji did not
close another deal that day, and once the traders began to dismantle their
stalls, he gathered up his possessions, old and new, put them in the cardboard
box, and for the first time began to worry about his mother finding out what he
had been up to.