The tale of a Hebrew typewriter.

Miller, Philip E.

I possess a Hebrew typewriter. That may not sound like much, especially in this digital age in which one can download strange and foreign alphabets and fonts to one's computer with the click of a mouse. But in those Dark "Pre-Computer" Ages, having a Hebrew typewriter was nothing short of a wonder.

Well, perhaps not if one lived in a large city and had sufficient funds. But to a graduate student in Ann Arbor, Michigan in the late 1960s and early 1970s, merely having access to a Hebrew typewriter, let alone owning one, was the stuff of which pipe dreams were made.

My machine is an Olympia, its body all metal construction, with the only plastic being the keys, which are bakelite. It's size was what was called "portable," that is, small and sufficiently light to be moved easily from one place to another. It certainly could not compete with the large clunky office models, but it served its purpose. And it was certainly "old," for its "currency key" carried the symbols for lirah and prutah, currency used in Israel from 1948 until the early 1950s.

The typewriter had been in the Near East Division of the Harlan Hatcher Graduate Library of the University of Michigan where its rare use was to bang out catalogue cards for the occasional book written in Hebrew or Yiddish characters. This was, it must be remembered, just before the onset of Jewish Studies programs and the grand-scale acquisitions of Judaica in general. As it happened, a local Maecenas had donated funds to the University to begin expanding the holdings in Judaica, and some money was available for a proper, heavy-duty, "office-model" Hebrew typewriter.

I asked my colleague in the Near East Division what was going to happen to the portable typewriter, for I was interested in buying it. He told me that it was going to be picked up by the Office of Property Control, which was responsible for disposing of old and unwanted office furniture. A telephone call to this Office confirmed that they were coming to collect it on a certain day, and even provided the hour at which the pick-up was scheduled.

Desperate and avid, I parked my car at the loading dock, and then sat and awaited the messenger to emerge. When he did, I followed him back to the Office, which was all the way at the other side of the sprawling campus.

I parked my car next to his van, and even preceded him to the door, holding it open for him. He took the typewriter behind the counter and started doing paper-work. Another clerk approached and asked if he could help me.

"I want to purchase that used Hebrew typewriter," I said, stressing "used" and "Hebrew," trying to plant in his mind the idea that it might be difficult to get rid of. Picking up the newly completed paper-work, he perused it and said, "Sorry, but there is a hold on this."

I was astonished! Who else knew this typewriter was going on the block, and who was my competition for it? So I asked who had placed the hold, and was told that Rabbi Goldman, of the Hillel House had done so. "How did Rabbi Goldman know about it?" I wondered.

I had absolutely nothing against the Hillel rabbi, whom I knew only in passing. But I felt that I was more worthy. Besides, he had a paying job. Let him buy his own! "Look," I said to the clerk, as I let him see a five-dollar bill I was implicitly offering as an emolument, "What is the asking price?"

The clerk drew himself up to his full height and said huffily, "Do you mean to deceive the rabbi?" I had forgotten I was dealing with a midwestern Protestant for whom all clergy were "special."

"Oh no!" I exclaimed, looking hurt as if I would even countenance such an idea!

"But I tell you what," he said, "If he don't come by for it by week's end, I'll let you have it."

I spent the remainder of the week on tenterhooks. That Friday, the Office opened at 8:30 AM, and I was there. As I approached the front desk, the clerk who had attended me earlier came up and said, "I am sorry, son, but I can't sell you that typewriter."

My heart fell ... But I saw it sitting on the shelf behind him. Rabbi Goldman had not come in, so what was the problem?

"Seems it's broke. That's why I can't sell it."

Broken? How? It worked fine when it was brought there.

"Seems to have been dropped."

Now I was deeply upset. "How bad is the damage? Can I get it repaired?"

"Dang if I know," he replied.

"So what is the damage?" I asked.

"Look here," he said, as he took the machine off the shelf. "The carriage runs backwards. I don't know how they can fix it." (Now, for those sufficiently young not to have used a typewriter, a Roman alphabet typewriter's carriage went from right-to-left, but a Hebrew typewriter's carriage went from left-to-right.)

"Oh, my God!" I groaned. "Maybe I can monkey with it. How much were you asking?"

"Well, we was plannin' to ask for $50."

"Well, suppose I give you $25?"

"Deal!"

And so I walked out the door, the proud possessor of a high quality portable Hebrew typewriter, the one upon which I personally typed parts of my doctoral dissertation ten years later.

But I have to confess, walking out the door of the Office of Property Control, the words of Leviticus 19:14 rang in my ears: 'You shall not curse the deaf nor put a stumbling block before the blind." Rabbinic tradition expanded "putting a stumbling block before the blind" to mean taking unfair advantage of another.

I have often wondered if I did take unfair advantage of that property clerk. Some people I tell the story to say I did, and others say I did not. Today I rarely have occasion to use that typewriter, and it sits in a corner of my library at home gathering dust. But every time I look at it, I am remorsefully reminded of the incident many decades ago.

PHILIP E. MILLER is Director of the Klau Library at Hebrew Union College/Jewish Institute of Religion in New York City. His last publication in Midstream on David Bar Illan appeared in the July/August issue of 2005.