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My voice was shaking with anger. “So you’re going to apologize, or I’m going to stand here and tell every single customer who walks through that door exactly what kind of person works at this register.”
The manager appeared. Young guy in a tie. “Sir, is there a problem?”
The old woman tugged at my sleeve. “Please, it’s okay. I don’t want trouble. I’ll just go.”
“No ma’am.” I looked down at her. “You’re not going anywhere without your bread. And you’re not leaving here feeling ashamed. You did nothing wrong.”
The manager looked at the cashier. Looked at the line of people watching. Looked at me—6’2″, 240 pounds, leather vest covered in patches, beard down to my chest.
“I think you should leave, sir. Before I call police.”
That’s when I saw something that changed everything. The old woman’s sleeve had ridden up when she tugged my arm. And underneath, on her forearm, I saw numbers. Faded blue numbers tattooed into her wrinkled skin.
She was a Holocaust survivor.
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