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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
owls, and there might have been many more questions about why he was so late if he hadn’t quickly produced the three potatoes. Screeches of delight erupted from his brothers and sisters when they saw what he had to offer.

  His mother dropped the ladle in the pot and looked directly at him. “Did you steal them, Lubji?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

  “No, Mother,” he replied, “I did not.” Zelta looked relieved and took the potatoes from him. One by one she washed them in a bucket that leaked whenever it was more than half full. Once she had removed all the earth from them, she began to peel them efficiently with her thumbnails. She then cut each of them into segments, allowing her husband an extra portion. Sergei didn’t even think of asking his son where he had got the best food they had seen in days.

  That night, long before it was dark, Lubji fell asleep exhausted from his first day’s work as a trader.

  The following morning he left the house even before his father woke. He ran all the way to the forest, counted two hundred and seven paces, stopped when he came to the base of the tree and began digging. Once he had retrieved the cardboard box, he returned to the town to watch the traders setting up their stalls.

  On this occasion he perched himself between two stalls at the far end of the market, but by the time the straggling customers had reached him, most of them had either completed their deals or had little of interest left to trade. That evening, Mr. Lekski explained to him the three most important rules of trading: position, position and position.

  The following morning Lubji set up his box near the entrance to the market. He quickly found that many more people stopped to consider what he had to offer, several of them inquiring in different languages about what he would be willing to exchange for the gold ring. Some even tried it on for size, but despite several offers, he was unable to close a deal that he considered to his advantage.

  Lubji was trying to trade twelve potatoes and three buttons for a bucket that didn’t leak when he became aware of a distinguished gentleman in a long black coat standing to one side, patiently waiting for him to complete the bargain.

  The moment the boy looked up and saw who it was, he rose and said, “Good morning, Mr. Lekski,” and quickly waved away his other customer.

  The old man took a pace forward, bent down and began picking up the objects on the top of the box. Lubji couldn’t believe that the jeweler might be interested in his wares. Mr. Lekski first considered the old coin with the head of the Czar. He studied it for some time. Lubji realized that he had no real interest in the coin: this was simply a ploy he had seen him carry out many times before asking the price of the object he really wanted. “Never let them work out what you’re after,” he must have told the boy a hundred times.

  Lubji waited patiently for the old man to turn his attention to the center of the box.

  “And how much do you expect to get for this?” the jeweler asked finally, picking up the gold ring.

  “What are you offering?” inquired the boy, playing him at his own game.

  “One hundred korunas,” replied the old man.

  Lubji wasn’t quite sure how to react, as no one had ever offered him more than ten korunas for anything before. Then he remembered his mentor’s maxim: “Ask for triple and settle for double.” He stared up at his tutor. “Three hundred korunas.”

  The jeweler bent down and placed the ring back on the center of the box. “Two hundred is my best offer,” he replied firmly.

  “Two hundred and fifty,” said Lubji hopefully.

  Mr. Lekski didn’t speak for some time, continuing to stare at the ring. “Two hundred and twenty-five,” he eventually said. “But only if you throw in the old coin as well.”

  Lubji nodded immediately, trying to mask his delight at the outcome of the transaction.

  Mr. Lekski extracted a purse from the inside pocket of his coat, handed over two hundred and twenty-five korunas and pocketed the ancient coin and the heavy gold ring. Lubji looked up at the old man and wondered if he had anything left to teach him.

  Lubji was unable to strike another bargain that afternoon, so he packed up his cardboard box early and headed into the center of the town, satisfied with his day’s work. When he reached Schull Street he purchased a brand-new bucket for twelve korunas, a chicken for five and a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery for one.

  The young trader began to whistle as he walked down the main street. When he passed Mr. Lekski’s shop he glanced at the window to check that the beautiful brooch he intended to purchase for his mother before Rosh Hashanah was still on sale.

  Lubji dropped his new bucket on the ground in disbelief. His eyes opened wider and wider. The brooch had been replaced by an old coin, with a label stating that it bore the head of Czar Nicholas I and was dated 1829. He checked the price printed on the card below.

  “One thousand five hundred korunas.”

  4.

  Melbourne Courier

  25 October 1929

  WALL STREET CRISIS: STOCK MARKET COLLAPSES

  There are many advantages and some disadvantages in being born a second-generation Australian. It was not long before Keith Townsend discovered some of the disadvantages.

  Keith was born at 2:37 P.M. on 9 February 1928 in a large colonial mansion in Toorak. His mother’s first telephone call from her bed was to the headmaster of St. Andrew’s Grammar School to register her first-born son for entry in 1941. His father’s, from his office, was to the secretary of the Melbourne Cricket Club to put his name down for membership, as there was a fifteen-year waiting list.

  Keith’s father, Sir Graham Townsend, was originally from Dundee in Scotland, but at the turn of the century he and his parents had arrived in Australia on a cattle boat. Despite Sir Graham’s position as the proprietor of the Melbourne Courier and the Adelaide Gazette, crowned by a knighthood the previous year, Melbourne society—some members of which had been around for nearly a century, and never tired of reminding you that they were not the descendants of convicts—either ignored him or simply referred to him in the third person.

  Sir Graham didn’t give a damn for their opinions; or if he did, he certainly never showed it. The people he liked to mix with worked on newspapers, and the ones he numbered among his friends also tended to spend at least one afternoon a week at the racecourse. Horses or greyhounds, it made no difference to Sir Graham.

  But Keith had a mother whom Melbourne society could not dismiss quite so easily, a woman whose lineage stretched back to a senior naval officer in the First Fleet. Had she been born a generation later, this tale might well have been about her, and not her son.

  As Keith was his only son—he was the second of three children, the other two being girls—Sir Graham assumed from his birth that the boy would follow him into the newspaper business, and to that end he set about educating him for the real world. Keith paid his first visit to his father’s presses at the Melbourne Courier at the age of three, and immediately became intoxicated by the smell of ink, the pounding of typewriters and the clanging of machinery. From that moment on he would accompany his father to the office whenever he was given the chance.

  Sir Graham never discouraged Keith, and even allowed him to tag along whenever he disappeared off to the racetrack on a Saturday afternoon. Lady Townsend did not approve of such goings on, and insisted that young Keith should always attend church the following morning. To her disappointment, their only son quickly revealed a preference for the bookie rather than the preacher.

  Lady Townsend became so determined to reverse this early decline that she set about a counter-offensive. While Sir Graham was away in Perth on a long business trip, she appointed a nanny called Florrie whose simple job description was: take the children in hand. But Florrie, a widow in her fifties, proved no match for Keith, aged four, and within weeks she was promising not to let his mother know when he was taken to the racecourse. When Lady Townsend eventually discovered this subterfuge, she waited for her husband to make his annual trip to New Ze
aland, then placed an advertisement on the front page of the London Times. Three months later, Miss Steadman disembarked at Station Pier and reported to Toorak for duty. She turned out to be everything her references had promised.

  The second daughter of a Scottish Presbyterian minister, educated at St. Leonard’s, Dumfries, she knew exactly what was expected of her. Florrie remained as devoted to the children as they were to her, but Miss Steadman seemed devoted to nothing other than her vocation and the carrying out of what she considered to be her bounden duty.

  She insisted on being addressed at all times and by everyone, whatever their station, as Miss Steadman, and left no one in any doubt where they fitted into her social scale. The chauffeur intoned the words with a slight bow, Sir Graham with respect.

  From the day she arrived, Miss Steadman organized the nursery in a fashion that would have impressed an officer in the Black Watch. Keith tried everything, from charm to sulking to bawling, to bring her into line, but he quickly discovered that she could not be moved. His father would have come to the boy’s rescue had his wife not continued to sing Miss Steadman’s praises—especially when it came to her valiant attempts to teach the young gentleman to speak the King’s English.

  At the age of five Keith began school, and at the end of the first week he complained to Miss Steadman that none of the other boys wanted to play with him. She did not consider it her place to tell the child that his father had made a great many enemies over the years.

  The second week turned out to be even worse, because Keith was continually bullied by a boy called Desmond Motson, whose father had recently been involved in a mining scam which had made the front page of the Melbourne Courier for several days. It didn’t help that Motson was two inches taller and half a stone heavier than Keith.

  Keith often considered discussing the problem with his father. But as they only ever saw each other at weekends, he contented himself with joining the old man in his study on a Sunday morning to listen to his views on the contents of the previous week’s Courier and Gazette, before comparing their efforts with those of his rivals.