This is a message to the good little Jew. Yes, you, miss. Yes, you, sir. I'm talking to you. You made yourself smaller a little each year. You shaved off the pieces that caused you some fear. First went the flag, then Hebrew, then pride. Anything awkward, you just pushed to the side. You kept what was charming, the bagels, the jokes, the holiday dinners for secular folks. You kept all of the parts that were easy to sell and buried the parts that don't translate so well. Maybe guilt did the trick. Maybe facts never came. But somehow, you swallowed one hell of a claim. That being a Jew was a stain you could scrub and distance was dignity. That shame was a drug. That less was more noble, more polished, more true. And the smaller you made it, the better the Jew. So you found yourself standing with people who care. Keffia around you and fist in the air, making it perfectly publicly known. I'm the good kind of Jew, the enlightened. the grown. And the crowd, oh, the crowd, how they loved you that day. They patted your head in the most generous way. You're not like the others, they said with a grin. You smiled back, sweet little Jew, you… let them in. See, here's the part of the story, my friend, that nobody tells you until near the end. The crowd doesn't love you. They're using your voice. A Jew who hates Jews is a very fine choice for a panel, a podcast, a protest, a post, until you're not useful, until… You're a ghost. And then they look up and they look at your face and they see what they've always seen in that place. Behind all the marching, behind all the signs, behind all of the carefully calibrated lines. A Jew. "'Just a Jew.' Same as all the rest. You got a six-pointed gold star, kid, right there on your chest? Now put down that shovel your digging is done.Thanks for your service. And then… there were none.