The Human Touch by Harry Salpeter

On the day, more than one month ago, that news reached us that Rosenblatt and Achimeier were both acquitted of the murder of Dr. Arlosoroff and Stavsky was found to be guilty, a prophet in this very office was saying: The appeal court will not sustain the conviction of Stavsky. You’ll see. The judges of the lower court deliberately found guilty the man against whom the evidence is weakest in order to make it easier for the higher court to sustain the appeal and reverse the decision. Then why not, I asked, declare everybody innocent and let it go at that? To save face, our prophet answered: the court being unwilling to admit that it had reached no solution and giving the world the conviction of Stavsky as a sop to solution and vengeance.

In any event, no Jew stands guilty of the charge of having killed Dr. Arlosoroff and that, at least, is a mild comfort. Except that certain probabilities have been eliminated, the question of, Who Murdered Dr. Arlosoroff? is as dark a mystery as it was on that fatal night of more than a year ago. Perhaps our prophet was in error as to the motivations of the lower and upper courts, but with his prophecy verified in its end results, I incline to the belief that it was verified also in the outline of the intermediate reasoning.

Our office prophet will have to make three errors in prophecy in succession before we forget that he was the one to predict the liberation of Stavsky on appeal. As soon as he returns from his vacation, we’ll let him read our palms and buy him a crystal globe, if we can obtain one at a bargain price.

YOU TELL HER

About a week ago, a person with whom I am very well acquainted, picking up a copy of the Jewish Daily Bulletin and reading therein that Stavsky had filed an appeal, or something to that effect, asked: “Who is Stavsky?” “Oh,” I said negligently, “he is the man who was found guilty of having murdered Arlosoroff.” “And who is Arlosoroff?” asked the bright person, otherwise very well informed. Whereupon I became practically incoherent.

THE DOGMATIC TURNKEY

We were talking about the dogmatical, authoritative streak in men, and women, what one of us was pleased to call the teacher temperament. And then the eldest among us told this story:

He was one of a group of political prisoners in Czarist Russia. He had been little more than a schoolboy at the time of his arrest. Political prisoners seem to have had certain liberties at that time, according to an old Continental custom. At least they were allowed to read books and hold converse with one another. At this particular prison they would get into heated debates. I have no direct personal knowledge of what political prisoners talk about, but I suppose they are essentially the same things that groups of radicals on Union Square talk about—revolutionary tactics, the transformation of the capitalist state, etcetera.

An unbidden guest at the heated debates of the political prisoners was the dogmatical turnkey who would listen attentively from his post behind the door. Often, after having got only the roughest idea of the nature of the debate, he would burst in on them, point a finger at a man whose argument he didn’t like, cry, “Shut up!” and, indicating another debater, say “You’re right!” It was impossible, however, to determine whether the turnkey was an Anarchist, a Social Revolutionary, a People’s Party man, a Socialist, or any one of six other possibilities because he agreed, and differed, not out of principle, but out of sheer caprice, to show these politicals that his, after all, was the last word.

EDUCATIONAL ALLEGORY

Here is a story which may give some of us intellectual white collar boys a sour smile. I cull it from Jacob Richman’s collection, “Laughs from Jewish Lore,” to which I have been previously indebted:

Thirty years ago two Russian Jews landed in the United States. One was a scholar, the other an ignoramus. For two months the immigrants wandered along the streets of New York without finding anything to do. At last they decided to try their luck at some religious work.

A certain synagogue on the East Side was looking for a “shamus,” or beadle, and the two set out to apply for the job.

As the office of beadle in American-Jewish congregations entails a considerable amount of secretarial work (I am still quoting Mr. Richman) the illiterate man naturally was rejected and his learned friend was chosen for the post.

The untutored fellow was greatly disheartened. The value of education now dawned upon him in full force, and he bemoaned the fact that he had missed it in his youth. However, upon the advice of friends he got himself a pushcart and began to hawk hosiery and trinkets. He saved up a little money and was enabled to open a small shop on Grand street. He continued to succeed and in a little longer time than it takes to tell became the owner of a large establishment on Broadway.

One day he was offered a tempting bargain in real estate and went to his bank for a loan of $50,000.

“What do you need a loan for?” asked the bank president, as he examined his customer’s bank book. “Why, you have a balance of $100,000. Can’t you read?”

“No,” replied the merchant, not at all put out.

“Too bad,” the banker sighed, compassionately. “If you’re as successful as you are without a knowledge of reading and writing, just imagine where you’d be now if you did know how to read and write.”

“If I knew how to read and write,” replied the business man, “I would now be a beadle in a synagogue.”