The room was dark and hot, the windows covered with filth, and the machines were packed tightly together, churning like train wheels.
The fur hairs were flying, creating a thickened air, and the workers, sewing the pelts together,
were bent over their needles as the boss marched up and down the rows, screaming for them to go faster.
Morrie could barely breathe. He stood next to his father, frozen with fear, hoping the boss wouldn’t scream at him, too.
During lunch break, his father took Morrie to the boss and pushed him in front of him, asking if there was any work for his son.
But there was barely enough work for the adult laborers, and no one was giving it up.
This, for Morrie, was a blessing. He hated the place.
He made another vow that he kept to the end of his life: he would never do any work that exploited someone else,
and he would never allow himself to make money off the sweat of others.
“What will you do?” Eva would ask him. “I don’t know,” he would say.
He ruled out law, because he didn’t like lawyers, and he ruled out medicine, because he couldn’t take the sight of blood.
“What will you do?” It was only through default that the best professor I ever had became a teacher.
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