Carefully, Yehuda Leib approached and pulled it open.

At first he thought the room was empty, the warm lamplight spilling out over a sturdy desk strewn with ledgers and account books. There was a cast-iron stove in the near corner, its door hanging open to reveal a fire at the very furthest extremity of its life. The chair behind the desk was shoved away on the diagonal, its backrest filling the shoulders of a man’s suit jacket, and, beyond, on the rear wall, a set of stairs climbed up to the apartment above the shop.

With a deep breath, Yehuda Leib stepped in, crossing rapidly toward the stairs, but as he came around the desk, he jumped:

There, on the floor, cross-legged before the open maw of a large safe, was a man, feverishly working, sodden with sweat. His tie was undone, his sleeves pushed up, and all around him on the floor were dozens of piles of cash.

Yehuda Leib’s gasp awoke the man from his frantic counting, and with a start, he reached deep into the safe and pulled out a wicked-looking pistol, which he pointed straight into Yehuda Leib’s face.

“It’s mine!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “It’s mine! You can’t have any of it!”

His eyes were bloodshot and wide, and Yehuda Leib had no doubt at all that the man would pull the trigger if he felt the need.

“I don’t want it!” said Yehuda Leib. “I don’t want anything!”

The mad merchant laughed as if he couldn’t possibly believe this, and with his free hand he began raking up wads of banknotes and shoving them into his pockets. “Sure,” he said. “Sure you don’t. Then why are you here?”

What could he say?

“I…”

He couldn’t tell the truth—that much was certain.

“I have a delivery,” said Yehuda Leib.

“A delivery?”

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “Complimentary samples.”

At this, the merchant lifted his pistol away from Yehuda Leib.

“Complimentary?” said the merchant hungrily.

Yehuda Leib nodded.

“Fine,” said the merchant, and he laid the pistol back inside the safe. “Bring it around back. I’ll look through it later.”

And with that, he began to smooth and unfurl what he’d wadded into his pockets, counting as he went.

Slowly, Yehuda Leib exhaled. The cracked lips of the merchant fluttered and mumbled as he counted and recounted his bills.

Nothing else in the world seemed to matter to him.

Carefully, quietly, Yehuda Leib made his way up the stairs, and when he emerged into a dim corridor above, he was immediately on his guard.