Talk. That’s all his father ever does, and he never remembers to leave some silent space to listen to anyone else’s words.
The first day on the job, Dudi’s shoulder aches.
The second day is agony. Lifting the pail is okay, he uses his left hand. But then he has to dip the broom into the paste, lift, twist, and holding the pashkevil with his right hand, brush it over with the thick liquid glue. Enough glue for the poster to stick, not so much that it tears the paper or makes the black ink run.
Lift pail, position poster, up and down with the glue. And again. And again. At the end of Dudi’s day, he examines his shoulder in the small square of cracked mirror in the bathroom. He sees nothing but whitish skin. He thinks he hears the guys laughing at him in the other room.
The third day, he rolls out of bed late, then hangs around Abramovitz’s printing gesheft, watching the pashkevilim spew from the printer. Click. Whirr. Black on white. He watches, unblinking, until black and white blur into gray.
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