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The Copier As is well known, there's more than one Jewish calling, but sometimes they can defy expectation.
By Zev Spektor
I went into the drugstore not long ago to use the copy machine. The day
was unusually hot, and as I entered the the store, I stood still for a
moment, relishing the coolness. Luckily, the light atop the copy machine
was on. It was much too hot to go searching for yet another.
The black, rubber cover on top of the machine was down. When I lifted
it, an eight-by-ten sheet of paper was resting on the copy glass. Some
poor guy had forgotten his original. I pitied him; this was no day to
come home and then realize that you had to go back out into the heat to
recoup your piece of paper from the drugstore.
When I removed the paper, I noticed a familiar, but no less sinister
symbol on the opposite side. Turning the sheet over, I saw several lines
of bold text, on the bottom of which was a crudely drawn swastika. The
text exhorted its readers to rise up against Jewish domination.
Suddenly, the chill in the store was no longer comfortable. Some racist
poster-hanger had been making copies on this machine, and had forgotten
his original. I glanced around the store and saw that there were no
other customers. Down at the front, the clerk was sitting and fanning
himself with an old newspaper; apparently the air conditioning was
stronger in the back. I walked over to him.
"By any chance, do you remember who used that copy machine last?" I
asked.
Though his eyes had been open, the clerk appeared to be waking up. "I --
uh... I'm sorry?"
"I asked if you remembered who used that copy machine last."
"No, I can't say that I do."
I decided to wait. The racist was sure to return to get his piece of
paper. I would just wait until he did. What would I do if and when he
came? That, I hadn't decided. The clerk went back to his fanning. I
slowly made my way toward the entrance and busied myself examining
various brands of disposable diapers.
Shortly, a teenager in jeans and a denim vest walked in. That must be
him; a skinhead if I ever saw one -- despite his long hair. I was
convinced that this was my man. But he passed the copy machine without
so much as a glance and proceeded to ask the clerk if he had any
bandages. I set myself to wait some more.
Time passed. I was getting quite knowledgeable about disposable diapers
as well as quickly becoming late for lunch. I was just about to leave
the trailing of Nazis to the Anti-Defamation League, when an elderly man
entered the drugstore. I didn't give him a second thought; he definitely
didn't look like my idea of a Nazi activist. And yet, to my shock, he
went directly to the copy machine and started looking under the cover.
When he found nothing there, he paced the floor as if searching for a
lost item.
"Are you looking for this?" I asked, my voice choked with fury.
He looked at the racist poster I held out and smiled slightly. "Yes, I
am. Thank you."
"Why do you hate Jews? What is it that makes you hate?" I asked him,
sputtering in anger.
The man became momentarily confused, and then his smile broadened. He
lifted his arm. Was he going to strike me? He motioned for me to look at
his arm. I looked.
The blue numbers drained me of my anger, replacing it with
mortification.
"Every time I find one of these," he said, pointing to the poster in my
hand, "I make copies and mail them to the local politicians to show them
that we're not immune to this kind of thing here in New York."
I was silent, lost in my embarrassment. The man glanced at my yarmulke
and continued humbly, "This is my Judaism. You pray in the synagogue,
and you do your mitzvos, but me, what I do is this."
"I'm sorry," I managed to mumble.
The man smiled kindly. "Don't be sorry. You acted upon your
convictions. That's good. Doing is better than not doing."
I gave him the paper.
"What do you do, young man?"
"I study in a yeshivah."
"That's good. If even one yeshivah exists, that means they failed,
doesn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, when you go back to your yeshivah, say a prayer for me, an old
man who spends his time copying racist literature."
I was silent.
"Will you?"
"Yes," I said. "Yes, I will."
He waved and then left the store. I could see him wince slightly as the
heat hit him. From the front of the store, I could hear the clerk, who'd
finally noticed my existence. "Sir, if you need any help with the
diapers, just ask."
I said nothing.
Zev Spektor is a published author who lives in Brooklyn. He is writing under a pseudonym.
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