“Why are you writing an article if you don’t know how to write?” Itzik groaned, glaring at the incoherent mass of words he was supposed to edit. He glanced at the clock. The rally at Zion Square was starting in half an hour. Jews and Arabs who refused to be enemies would stand together, calling for unity and equality, and he wanted to be there.

“But I guess it works out nicely for me, this way I have a job,” he murmured. He deleted a few clumsy sentences and rewrote them from scratch, and then opened Otzar HaChochmah to help him conjure up a link between the two parts of the article.

“Who put the idea into your head that you could write?” Itzik scolded the poor article. Malinsky, the publisher of the L’Omek Torah journal, loved to write long, impressive articles. There was just one little problem: He didn’t know how. But like many distinguished authors, he had a secret weapon: an editor-cum-ghost writer named Itzik Rubin. Every week Malinsky sent Itzik a heap of words, and in exchange he received a well-crafted article.

“But what do I care about your nonexistent writing ability,” Itzik said to the four walls of his apartment, “as long as you let me edit what you write and write articles of my own? And one of these days I’ll be deputy editor, when Chaim Korach leaves.”

It warmed his heart to think of that prospect. A post like deputy editor of L’Omek would bring him a little public recognition, a little appreciation, and a welcome new challenge. Chaim Korach, the talented young Yemenite who was currently serving as deputy editor, would be leaving for a position in America sometime in the next few months. Malinsky had no one on the staff to take his place. The other writers were all too busy, too young, or too inexperienced. And every one of them was less talented than Itzik.

“And thus being so, we see that as a result of the deep connection in Galus Bavel up to Galus Yehoyachin and the destruction of Bayis Rishon, it may therefore be concluded that the conclusion of this galus with Koresh’s declaration, when the aliyah of Zerubavel and Ezra and Nechemiah brought it to an end.” Malinsky’s talent for creating unintelligible sentences — if that even was a sentence — was staggering. First of all, the aliyah of Zerubavel couldn’t be lumped together with that of Ezra and Nechemiah. And secondly, what on earth was Malinsky trying to say?

Working quickly, Itzik opened history books and meforshim, and clearly delineated the different views regarding the length of Galus Bavel. He’d made a lot of progress; time for a break. He shook out his aching wrists, wiped his glasses, put on his hat and coat and left the house.

Mr. Levi was just entering the building as Itzik reached the lobby. “My sons are still being held,” he said, standing there like a dark cloud, effectively blocking his exit.

“I know,” said Itzik.

How would a sensitive, socially skilled person respond to this? He had no idea.

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 710)