Schindler's List Page #6

GOLDBERG:

You asked for shoe polish.

PFEFFERBERG:

My buyers sold it to a guy who sold

it to the Army. But by the time it

got there -- because of the cold --

it broke, the whole truckload.

GOLDBERG:

(pause)

So I'm responsible for the weather?

PFEFFERBERG:

I asked for metal, you gave me glass.

GOLDBERG:

This is not my problem.

PFEFFERBERG:

Look it up.

Goldberg doesn't bother; he pockets his little notepad and

intones a response to the priest's prayer, all but ignoring

Pfefferberg.

PFEFFERBERG:

This is not your problem? Everybody

wants to know who I got it from, and

I'm going to tell them.

Goldberg glances to Pfefferberg for the first time, and,

greatly put upon, takes out his little notepad again and

makes a notation in it.

GOLDBERG:

Metal.

He flips the pad closed, pockets it, crosses himself as he

gets up, and leaves.

INT. HOTEL - DAY

Pfefferberg at the front desk of a sleepy hotel with another

black market middleman, the desk clerk. Both are wearing

their armbands. Pfefferberg underlines figures on a little

notepad of his own --

PFEFFERBERG:

Let's say this is what you give me.

These are fees I have to pay some

guys. This is my commission. This is

what I bring you back in Occupation

currency.

The clerk, satisfied with the figures, is about to hand over

to Pfefferberg some outlawed Polish notes from an envelope

when Schindler comes in from the street. The clerk puts the

money away, gets Schindler his room key, waits for him to

leave so he can finish his business with Pfefferberg... but

Schindler doesn't leave; he just keeps looking over at

Pfefferberg's shirt, at the cuffs, the collar.

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