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Suddenly his father stopped at a less than crowded corner. Lubji decided that there was no purpose in asking him why he had chosen that particular spot, because he knew he was unlikely to get an answer. Father and son stood in silence. It was some time before anyone showed any interest in the two cows.

Lubji watched with fascination as people began to circle the cattle, some prodding them, others simply offering opinions as to their worth, in tongues he had never heard before. He became aware of the disadvantage his father labored under in speaking only one language in a town on the borders of three countries. He looked vacantly at most of those who offered an opinion after examining the scrawny beasts.

When his father finally received an offer in the one tongue he understood, he immediately accepted it without attempting to bargain. Several pieces of colored paper changed hands, the cows were handed to their new owner, and his father marched off into the market, where he purchased a sack of grain, a box of potatoes, some gefilte fish, various items of clothing, a pair of secondhand shoes which badly needed repairing and a few other items, including a sleigh and a large brass buckle that he must have felt someone in the family needed. It struck Lubji as strange that while others bargained with the stallholders, Papa always handed over the sum demanded without question.

On the way home his father dropped into the town’s only inn, leaving Lubji sitting on the ground outside, guarding their purchases. It was not until the sun had disappeared behind the town hall that his father, having downed several bottles of slivovice, emerged swaying from the inn, happy to allow Lubji to struggle with the sleigh full of goods with one hand and to guide him with the other.

When his mother opened the front door, Papa staggered past her and collapsed onto the mattress. Within moments he was snoring.

Lubji helped his mother drag their purchases into the cottage. But however warmly her eldest son spoke about them, she didn’t seem at all pleased with the results of a year’s labor. She shook her head as she decided what needed to be done with each of the items.

The sack of grain was propped up in a corner of the kitchen, the potatoes left in their wooden box and the fish placed by the window. The clothes were then checked for size before Zelta decided which of her children they should be allocated to. The shoes were left by the door for whoever needed them. Finally, the buckle was deposited in a small cardboard box which Lubji watched his mother hide below a loose floorboard on his father’s side of the bed.

That night, while the rest of the family slept, Lubji decided that he had followed his father into the fields for the last time. The next morning, when Papa rose, Lubji slipped into the shoes left by the door, only to discover that they were too large for him. He followed his father out of the house, but this time he went only as far as the outskirts of the town, where he hid behind a tree. He watched as Papa disappeared out of sight, never once looking back to see if the heir to his kingdom was following.

Lubji turned and ran back toward the market. He spent the rest of the day walking around the stalls, finding out what each of them had to offer. Some sold fruit and vegetables, while others specialized in furniture or household necessities. But most of them were willing to trade anything if they thought they could make a profit. He enjoyed watching the different techniques the traders used when bargaining with their customers: some bullying, some cajoling, almost all lying about the provenance of their wares. What made it more exciting for Lubji was the different languages they conversed in. He quickly discovered that most of the customers, like his father, ended up with a poor bargain. During the afternoon he listened more carefully, and began to pick up a few words in languages other than his own.

By the time he returned home that night, he had a hundred questions to ask his mother, and for the first time he discovered that there were some even she couldn’t answer. Her final comment that night to yet another unanswered question was simply, ‘It’s time you went to school, little one.’ The only problem was that there wasn’t a school in Douski for anyone so young. Zelta resolved to speak to her uncle about the problem as soon as the opportunity arose. After all, with a brain as good as Lubji’s, her son might even end up as a rabbi.

The following morning Lubji rose even before his father had stirred, slipped into the one pair of shoes, and crept out of the house without waking his brothers or sisters. He ran all the way to the market, and once again began to walk around the stalls, watching the traders as they set out their wares in preparation for the day ahead. He listened as they bartered, and he began to understand more and more of what they were saying. He also started to realize what his mother had meant when she had told him that he had a God-given gift for languages. What she couldn’t have known was that he had a genius for bartering.

Lubji stood mesmerized as he watched someone trade a dozen candles for a chicken, while another parted with a chest of drawers in exchange for two sacks of potatoes. He moved on to see a goat being offered in exchange for a worn-out carpet and a cartful of logs being handed over for a mattress. How he wished he could have afforded the mattress, which was wider and thicker than the one his entire family slept on.

Every morning he would return to the marketplace. He learned that a barterer’s skill depended not only on the goods you had to sell, but in your ability to convince the customer of his need for them. It took him only a few days to realize that those who dealt in colored notes were not only better dressed, but unquestionably in a stronger position to strike a good bargain.

When his father decided the time had come to drag the next two cows to market, the six-year-old boy was more than ready to take over the haggling. That evening the young trader once again guided his father home. But after the drunken man had collapsed on the mattress, his mother just stood staring at the large pile of wares her son placed in front of her.

Lubji spent over an hour helping her distribute the goods among the rest of the family, but didn’t tell her that he still had a piece of colored paper with a ‘ten’ marked on it. He wanted to find out what else he could purchase with it.

The following morning, Lubji did not head straight for the market, but for the first time he ventured into Schull Street to study what was being sold in the shops his great-uncle occasionally visited. He stopped outside a baker, a butcher, a potter, a clothes shop, and finally a jeweler — Mr. Lekski — the only establishment that had a name printed in gold above the door. He stared at a brooch displayed in the center of the window. It was even more beautiful than the one his mother wore once a year at Rosh Hashanah, and which she had once told him was a family heirloom. When he returned home that night, he stood by the fire while his mother prepared their one-course meal. He informed her that shops were nothing more than stationary stalls with windows in front of them, and that when he had pushed his nose up against the pane of glass, he had seen that nearly all of the customers inside traded with pieces of paper, and made no attempt to bargain with the shopkeeper.

The next day, Lubji returned to Schull Street. He took the piece of paper out of his pocket and studied it for some time. He still had no idea what anyone would give him in exchange for it. After an hour of staring through windows, he marched confidently into the baker’s shop and handed the note to the man behind the counter. The baker took it and shrugged his shoulders. Lubji pointed hopefully to a loaf of bread on the shelf behind him, which the shopkeeper passed over. Satisfied with the transaction, the boy turned to leave, but the shopkeeper shouted after him, ‘Don’t forget your change.’