Peter remembered that the next day, Henry had delivered meat orders in the truck. Peter sat on his father’s lap and drove the meat truck, his legs pressing the pedals because Henry could not.
As they had walked down the sidewalk with a delivery, a police officer strutted toward them. He’d intentionally bumped Henry as he passed, knocking him to the ground.
“Worthless, crippled Jew!” the police officer sneered.
Henry huffed as he tried to get back up and defend himself, but he twisted helplessly on the sidewalk. “Help me up, Peter.”
The boy reached down and struggled to get his father back on his feet. They stared at the police officer, who was laughing as he sauntered on down the sidewalk.
Peter handed Henry back his cane and looked at him. “Why do they want us to be exactly like them? Why aren’t we allowed to be different?”
Henry had looked at Peter and nodded. “You’re right, son. We all have the right to be different. You may play the violin, and I will dance to your music, the best I can.” Henry tapped his cane against his wobbly legs. But that seemed so long ago.
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