What else was going on? Well, the population of the world was becoming joyfully homogeneous. Representatives had come and gone, but all their strategies were to one end; the idea was that the more people were alike, the better they’d all get along. And naturally the better everyone got along, the more power the Representatives would have. Of course, the great masses of people were aware that they were being exploited and manipulated. They understood it, at least on a subconscious level. But people do want to get along; it’s really so much pleasanter that way. And, too, the Representatives had so much power already, there wasn’t any other choice.
That didn’t mean that there weren’t still pockets of diversity. In the many generations of Representative rule, the distinctions among the races had not been entirely obliterated. The genetic laws of nature insisted at rare intervals on producing individuals with identifiably Negroid or Oriental features. These people often took government-sponsored jobs as “slum-dwellers,” living as their ancestors had done before the era of the Representatives. Small ghettos were organized on a strictly voluntary basis, in order to preserve museum-like tableaux of moribund cultures.
Less popular with the state and their fellow citizens were those who clung to cultural differences, as opposed to mere mistakes of breeding. Such groups as intellectuals, artists, homosexuals, and Communists, all of which had enjoyed greater freedom of expression before the Representative regime, were openly attacked. Perhaps the most extensive cultural enclave, and one of the most abused, were the Jews. Their ancient heritage of loyalty to family and to doctrinal ideals had preserved them from total assimilation; the other citizens worried that this would upset the Representatives and cause violent social repercussions. The citizens made their anxiety and their displeasure evident; but, far from being angered by the Jews’ persistence, the Representatives frequently made statements honoring the minority’s courageous and heart-warming tenacity. Still, the other citizens were not mollified.
Into this world, then, a boy named Murray Rose was born to Jewish parents. They weren’t very Jewish; they didn’t observe the Sabbath in any particular way, they were frequently startled by the arrival of Holy Days, and they were openly amused by their conservative friends’ attention to kashrut, the traditional dietary laws. The Rose family maintained a tenuous link to their heritage, more out of sentiment than anything else. But they were careful not to be identified as one of the “troublesome” Jews.
When Murray was ten years old, his grandfather came to visit. Murray was excited; he had never met Grandpa Zalman, but he had often heard the old man’s name mentioned. Murray’s parents were more anxious than excited. When the old man arrived, the three adults stood facing each other uncomfortably, while Murray hid behind his father. Grandpa Zalman looked different than the boy had imagined; the old man’s great gray eyebrows and long beard gave him a fierce look that confused Murray. He had always been told that Grandpa Zalman was odd, but very gentle.
“Hello, Julie,” said the old man. He kissed his daughter and shook hands with his son-in-law.
“It’s nice to see you again,” said Murray’s father. There was a long, tense silence.
“This must be Murray,” said Grandpa Zalman. Murray’s father took the boy’s wrist and presented him to his grandfather. Murray said hello and shook hands. He was dismayed by how huge and rough Grandpa Zalman’s hands were.
In the next few days Murray spent a lot of time with his grandfather. Murray’s father was gone all day at work, and his mother was much too busy with housework to entertain her father. The old man and the boy took walks around the neighborhood together and talked. At first Murray was a little timid, but after a while he realized that Grandpa Zalman was different than his parents in a way that was both foreign and strangely pleasant.
It was chilly and overcast one afternoon when Murray and Grandpa Zalman were sitting on a bench in the park. Murray had grown fond of his grandfather. He knew from their actions that his parents did not like Grandpa Zalman as well. The longer he stayed, the less he talked. Now they sat under a heavy sky, and Grandpa Zalman said nothing at all.
“What’s in the bag, Grandpa?” asked Murray.
Grandpa Zalman stared at the brick path. The boy’s question startled him from his thoughts. He shook the brown paper sack; its contents rustled. “Crumbs,” he said. “I brought crumbs for the birds.”
“Will they let you feed the pigeons?”
Grandpa Zalman sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “They used to. I used to feed the birds every day. It made me feel better. We used to get along very well, the pigeons and I. I gave them food; they pretended that they liked me. They were truly grateful for the crumbs. That’s more than people will admit.”
“Can I feed them?” asked Murray.
“Let me do it first,” said Grandpa Zalman. “Then if the CAS police come running with their clubs, it’ll just be me, an old man, who gets beaten.”
“Okay,” said Murray.
Grandpa Zalman opened the bag and tossed a handful of crumbs on the bricks. Several pigeons landed immediately and began pecking frantically at the offering. The old man gave the bag to Murray, who sprinkled more crumbs around his feet. “Are they bread crumbs?” he asked.
“No,” said Grandpa Zalman, “they’re matzo.”
“What’s that?”
The grandfather watched Murray sadly. “Matzo. Don’t you know what next week is? Passover?”
Murray looked up at Grandpa Zalman. “Passover?” he said.
“A Holy Day. A celebration.”
“Like Skirt Day?” asked Murray, puzzled.
“Come on, Murray,” said Grandpa Zalman. “I feel like walking.” Murray spilled the rest of the matzo crumbs in a heap for the pigeons and ran after the old man. They left the park and walked homeward. After a while the grandfather stopped to examine the display in the window of a small fichestore. He had said nothing to the boy since leaving the park; now he silently held the door open, and Murray preceded him into the dark shop.
“Can I help you?” asked the proprietor, looking skeptically at Grandpa Zalman’s beard and strange clothes.
“I want the afternoon tectape,” said the old man. “And I wonder if you have any fiches, maybe, on the history of the Jews. Their customs.”
The proprietor frowned. “We got a small section for religion,” he said. “The Representative’s office isn’t crazy about selling that kind of stuff. They’re cracking down now, you know. I don’t know what they’re worried about. It doesn’t move very good, anyway. If we got any Jewish stuff, it’ll be in there, but I think it’s mostly Moslem and Christian myths. A couple of artfiches.”
“Thank you,” said Grandpa Zalman. He went to the small bin that the store’s owner had indicated. There were a couple of dozen plastic microfiches, each one a microminiature book, designed to be read with the aid of a fichereader or projector. None interested the old man. He glanced at Murray, who had never been in a fichestore; the boy was wandering from bin to bin, picking up random fiches and holding them to the light, vainly trying to read them unenlarged. “Would you like one?” asked Grandpa Zalman.