The typewriter

There was a beautiful, big, black Remington typewriter in my father’s office. It was used by a pretty lady, called Thora. She typed business letters, lists of stock in the shop, accounts and so on. The typewriter was always clicking away, but sometimes I would come into the office, and see the typewriter standing there, unused and silent. This typewriter fascinated me.

One day, when I was about 10 years old, during the school holidays, I didn’t have much to do so I climbed on the bus that used to stop near the firestation, near where we lived at 031 Percy Stewart Str and rode to my father’s shop.

I entered the office, as was my habit and found the typewriter standing there all forlorn. It may sound ridiculous to most people for a person to be scared to do such a paltry thing as to climb on a chair in my father’s office. But it’s a fact that for me it took a lot of courage to sit on Thora’s chair in front of the typewriter and even more courage to start banging on the keys.

I was a very timid child, always worried that my actions would arouse my mother to anger, which happened nearly every day. That’s just the kind of person she was, alway looking for something or someone to be angry about. I always felt that I was the only person who felt the brunt of her anger, but I believe that my brothers also were subjects of her anger sometimes. The effect on me was that I became hesitant in everything I did, for fear of angering someone. That’s the way life is. My timidity in the face of my mother spread to everybody, throughout my life. Even today, when I’m 79 years old and my mother has been in her grave for more than 30 years, fear that my actions will anger someone still attaches itself to me.

I can’t remember now what I typed. It was about one sentence and I was very proud of my achievement. That day, unbeknown to me Thora was on leave and my mother, who was an excellent typist and bookkeeper, would soon be coming to the shop, to replace Thora for the day.

Just my luck that Ma walked into the office just as I had completed my masterpiece. Of course I wasn’t fool enough to show it to her. I knew that playing with the shop typewriter would make her furious. But release from anxiety wasn’t forthcoming. I sat there, silently praying and dreading that she would find out. Had I been wise I would have left the office and gone to help my father behind the counter. Instead I sat there stiff as a ramrod and silent as a mummy. I sweated and waited for the explosion of fury, she would emit, the moment that she would discover my typing adventure.

The rest of the day I lived in fear and only in the evening, after the shop was closed and there was no chance of my folly being discovered that day, I began to relax.

The next day Thora returned to work and sat down to type a letter. Apparently the typewriter had stood unused antill that moment. That’s how ma didn’t find out that someone had been fiddling with the typewriter. Had Ma used it she would surely have found me out and then I would have been made to feel guilty that I had perpetrated an unforgivable deed and had angered her.

Thora, of course, found that someone had been using the typewriter. She simply moved the carriage into the place she required and calmly replaced the ribbon, with the nonchalant comment that someone had been doing some typing and that was that. She wasn’t angry, because there was nothing to be angry about. This was a great relief to me. I loved Thora and perhaps that’s why I enjoyed being in the office and not at the counter serving customers or in the backyard sorting out timber.

I never forgot my dream of using a typewriter, however and many years later, when I was 37 years old and had decided to emigrate to Israel, I bought myself a beautiful, light blue colored, compact, portable typewriter.

Unfortunately it’s impossible to go through life acting so perfectly that one’s actions don't arouse criticism. There will always be criticism, often even when we have done a perfect job. In my case, however, criticism makes me doubt that I’ve done a good job. This comes from my mother’s criticism of me, even when I had done something good.

I’ve learnt that often people use criticism as a trick to make one feel insecure. We are really left to be our own judge of our actions, not to accept criticism of others but also not to become angry at them for criticizing.

Had I learnt this lesson early in life and been more sure of myself, when I had completed a job well, instead of doubting my ability because of others' criticism of me as my mother’s criticism of me, I would have enjoyed many more happy and successful years, than I have.

The result of having this doubt and feeling of guilt at angering my mother, was terrible. I was forever beating my breast as Jews beat their breast in synagogue on the day of Atonement. Thereby punishing themselves, because they feel guilty that they have sinned against God.

When someone, like my wife criticised me for doing a job, that I thought well done, my self confidence was shattered and I became angry, which brought me to destroy my most loved object that happened to be at hand, my beautiful, little baby blue typewriter, that I loved so much.
In my anger and feeling of worthlessness I threw it out of the window, not looking where it fell, but I heard it’s last clatter as its lovely letters scattered over the parking lot of our apartment in Jerusalem, silent forever more, never printing another word.