Free Sunrise West by Jacob G.Rosenberg

wedlock, somewhere in the south. Hewore a perpetually downcast expression, and I pitied him. No one wanted anything to do with him; he was treated like a leper. Even the most wicked among us have their noble moments, yet Piotrek seemed not to have any. Among the Gentiles he was a dirty Jew; among the Jews, a nasty goy . His lot was somehow reminiscent of Hagar’s son Ishmael: his hand was against every man, and every man’s hand against him.
    According to one colourful account, Piotrek had a quarrel with his wife which nearly ended in murder. He had complained that her insignificant breasts were spoiling his pleasure, so she hit back at his own diminutive organ. This enraged him, and made him suspicious that she might be tangling her roots with another man. When he caught her in bed with the interloper, and then listened to her defensive cry — ‘My little breasts are his paradise, and his cock mine!’ — Piotrek hurled an axe at them. Luckily he missed, but the incident augmented his grudge against the whole world, and he took his vengeance on anyone who innocently crossed his path.
    An artist in his field, he knew how to reinvent himself, and how to create a kingdom of sordid intrigue and betrayal. ‘In a way,’ he would state softly, his voice like a spider’s footfall, ‘the innocent are partners to every crime.’ Piotrek was a professional: he stole, and then deftly resold the stolen goods to his victims. He devised a terrific system. First he would quietly infiltrate the homes of his dupes, making himself useful. I recall one case which astounded our district. A certain master tailor’s young son — who obviously hadn’t read King Lear or he would have been awareof the Fool’s wisdom ( Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest ) — showed Piotrek his grandfather’s gilded Sabbath goblet. Two days later it was gone. The father, Reb Berel, was heartbroken: of all his possessions this was the object he cherished most. Piotrek naturally offered his ser-vices and undertook to retrieve the stolen goods — at a cost of fifty złoty. Berel’s son accepted the deal at once, but then Piotrek politely asked ‘What about me?’ so Berel agreed to another fifty. When the thief brought back the precious goblet, he casually requested a further twenty-five złoty for cartage!
    Mendel and I came across Piotrek in a little café in Naples. He wasn’t aware that we knew who he was, knew how during the war he had become a chameleon. No sooner had the Germans invaded our city than he meta-morphosed from a trusted Polish police informer into a Gestapo agent. It didn’t last long, because even then he wouldn’t give up his thieving, bribing and other machinations, and he was forced to flee overnight across the river Bug, where he made a successful bid to join the Soviet secret police.
    Piotrek had the nose of a bloodhound, not dissimilar to that of the previously mentioned Pinocchio. He sniffed out straight away that we were survivors of the camps. ‘Boys,’ he said without introducing himself, ‘there’s money to be made, and I can see you’re still living outside the real world. A neighbour of mine, Wolodja, is sitting on a suitcase of gold coins, and I feel that we are morally entitled to a share of this stolen treasure. What I propose is quite simple,’ he continued calmly. ‘You guys will swear that Wolodja was a kapo in camp. The rest you can leave to me. How does that sound?’
    I was speechless.
    â€˜Before we decide,’ said Mendel, ‘let’s have another cup of coffee.’
    â€˜Right, absolutely!’ our impresario agreed excitedly.
    But almost before he had time to look about for a waiter, Mendel’s fist had landed with a loud thud in the middle of Piotrek’s face. As we walked away, my friend turned back to him and remarked: ‘At least you won’t have