As they roared approval, not looking at him, Vladek snuck away. His bright eyes swept the bar, gauging the temperature outside, the patrons’ thirst, his boss’s level of intoxication. A rush swept through his body; it was as though his skin were tingling. Vladek had, he instantly realized, been preparing for this day for a long time. Now it was here, and he would risk everything. He was immediately, fiercely glad.

It was odd, he thought later, when there was time for reflection, how he hadn’t wondered what he was going to do. It all seemed so obvious. He ducked behind the bar, and under the guise of cleaning up, quietly opened the cash box. There were a few notes on the top; he left those and took the rest—all the other paper money and a few coins. Then he went to the coat cupboard; he ignored his little store of objects, except the pocket watch. He stole one of Pyotr’s furs and a pair of gloves, and stashed them by the door. Then he took a copy of the newspaper from somebody’s pocket; it would have the times of the local trains inside.

Nobody noticed Vladek scurrying about, even carrying a fur coat. He always hung the coats up and brushed off the snow. Nobody cared; they all just wanted their drink. And tonight he was more than usually attentive. Neither Pyotr, nor his father, Ivan—that was what they called him, Ivan Nikolaievich—was permitted to have an empty glass for even a second.

When the fire burned low in the grate and the ashes were starting to glow, most had left; even the men at his father’s table had thinned out. The pig was still drinking though, almost snorting the vodka; it would miss his mouth at times and drizzle down his cheeks like drool.Vladek noted it with an almost clinical hatred. The man had no control. He shamed himself. Really,Vladek thought, he would be doing him a favour.

“I’m going home,” Pyotr slurred atVladek. “Lock up and don’t steal anything.” He stumbled out of the front door, as Vladek knew he would.

Now there was nothing for it but to wait. Vladek took the vodka bottle back to his father’s table. They had all left, except the skinny man and the fellow with the moustache, Alexei.

“Please, sirs,” he said, grinning encouragingly. “Have a couple more. For the road.”

His father farted loudly; the other two pretended not to hear it.

“Nah,” he said. “Got to drive to town. I have a car,” he boasted. “I could make the politburo.”

The skinny man wavered and crashed head first onto the table.

“But, sir,” Vladek said. “I’ll drive you, if you like. It would be an honour. And then you could enjoy yourself.” He proffered the vodka again.