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  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…”

  “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 the 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.

  He walked slowly through the market toward the far side of the town, stopping where the road forked into two narrow paths. One led to the fields where his father would be tending the cattle, the other into the forest. Lubji checked the road that led back into the town to be certain no one had followed him, then disappeared into the undergrowth. After a short time he stopped by a tree that he knew he could not fail to recognize whenever he returned. He dug a hole near its base with his bare hands and buried the box, and twelve of the potatoes.

  When he was satisfied there was no sign that anything had been hidden, he walked slowly back to the road, counting the paces as he went. Two hundred and seven. He glanced briefly back into the forest and then ran through the town, not stopping until he reached the front door of the little cottage. He waited for a few moments to catch his breath and then marched in.

  His mother was already ladling her watered-down turnip soup into b