This is a micro-piece of historical fiction I wrote in 2021. I found myself thinking about how even the earliest technological advancements could have disrupted entire professions—even as far back as the 15th century. I think this, however, is one case where it might not have disrupted very much?
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We bring the text to Chaim Sofer in the shrouded hall. Everything about the old man has become parchment: his skin like vellum; his thin hair a silvery white.
“Chaim Sofer, we have brought the book.”
“Book?” he asks, blinking up at us through milky tears.
“The printed Torah,” says Simcha. “From Gutenberg’s press.”
We had not imagined that such a thing could exist.
We do not know what it will mean.
For years we have trained as sofers for the great honor to copy, by hand, the Torah’s three-hundred-and-four thousand Hebrew letters. We must not make an error of a single dash, or the scroll is rendered unfit, and Chaim Sofer makes us start again. They say the old scribe has never erred—that on the day his hand first trembled, he laid down his quill and never raised it again.
Simcha holds a magnifying glass for Chaim Sofer, and he peers through it, inspecting the ink with his rheumy eyes.
“This... was written...”
“By a machine,” I whisper.
Perfectly, I imagine, with a jealousy that I cannot help. I wonder, watching the old teacher, if he has finally met a student who warrants his approval.
After many pages, Chaim Sofer leans back in his chair.
“There is an error,” he says.
We crowd the text; make him point at it with his quivering finger. Then we see it: on the fourth line, there is a tiny, almost imperceptible smudge. Chaim Sofer cries out:
“Make him start again!”
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