yeshuos shavuos 5768

YESH

UOS3STORY

SUPPLEMENT KUPAT HAIR

SH

AVU

OS

576

8

story supplement SHAVUOS 5768

Table of Contents

Kos Yeshuos….Dear Readers,

It’s hard to describe the tremendous impact of the previous two yeshuos brochures distributed in honor of Chanukah and Pesach. People read the stories and shook their heads in amazement. Even people who had until now preferred to make light of all the yeshuos stories couldn’t help but wipe away a tear of emotion.

“You won,” people told us, though we’ve never engaged in a battle of any sort. “The yeshuos won,” they corrected themselves – but that isn’t true, either. The yeshuos never fought any battle. They were always there, only we didn’t know about them.

Sure, there are and there always will be people who want to say differently. But now they can’t do that. When the Gedolei Hador use tzedakah as a means for effecting yeshuos, that’s a sign, clearer than any other, that they approve of this method! There were people who were prepared to bet that the Gedolei Hador would never do that. They were wrong, very wrong. The Gedolei Hador do not instruct others to do something that they wouldn’t do themselves. The events that took place in their homes, prove as much.

No one is foolish enough to think that the yeshuos have a power of their own; no one thinks tzedakah is a magic potion. Tzedakah and tefillah bring us closer to the Creator, lift us higher and purify our hearts. They illuminate the spirit and show us in a tangible fashion that this is the only thing that can help.

“These yeshuos have returned the proper proportions to Klal Yisrael,” declared one reader. “We’ve become so accustomed to doing hishtadlus and more hishtadlus, to try everything possible, to explore every avenue. We’ve drowned in hishtadlus. Aside from the word itself, which remained as a memoriam to the fact that all our efforts were merely “hishtadlus,” we very nearly forgot that Hashem runs the world. When there’s a problem, we do everything in our power to solve it.

The yeshuos have restored the crown to its original glory. Hakadosh Baruch Hu helps and He’s the only one!

Someone Else’s Engagement pg. 3

As told by Harav Gliksohn, a friend of the family

in Eretz Yisrael.............................. Tel: 011-972-3-676-7797

Two Minutes on the Clock pg. 9

As told by the protagonist, who prefers to remain

anonymous for obvious reasons.

The Tachshit Who... pg.12

As told by the protagonists of this story,

the Levi Family ...................................Tel: 011-972-2-538-7679

Who Sent It? pg.18

As told by a friend of the protagonist,

Harav Aharon Teller .................Tel: 011-972-50-411-1200

Twenty Minutes Later pg.21

As told by the protagonist of the story,

Harav Eliyahu Shweitzer.....Tel: 011-972-54-420-1823

Written and edited by: C. Levinson

Published by: Kupat Ha’ir

American Friends of Kupat Ha'irc/o Rabbi Matisyahu Salomon Shlit"a

637 6th StreetLakewood, New Jersey 08701

1-866-221-9352


Someone Else’s EngagementAs told by Harav Gliksohn, a friend of the family in Eretz Yisrael Tel: 011-972-3-676-7797

Harav Berger is a maggid shiur in a yeshivah in the United States. One day, two of the older students of the yeshivah approached him hesitantly. Both bachurim had very recently gotten engaged within a few days of one another. Now they had a request.

“No, not a request, exactly,” one of the bachurim hurried to explain. “It’s really a question.”

Harav Berger listened attentively.

“If someone intends to contribute to Kupat Ha’ir,” the other bachur spoke up, “in order to merit something that is not really proper, will his contribution be effective and the improper event occur – or not?”

“Maybe you can tell me what this is all about?” Harav Berger suggested. “Instead of giving me complicated explanations and examples that may not be perfectly compatible to the real matter at hand, just tell me the real story!”

The bachurim exchanged glances and then barely perceptible nods.

The first bachur began. “Rav Berger is certainly aware that we were three ‘eltere bachurim,’” he said. “Three older bachurim who hadn’t met their bashert even while our friends were practically sending their children to school already.

“Now it was one thing that we were still unmarried,” he said, looking at his friend. “We both had pretty lousy playing cards. We’re not the greatest lamdanim; we’re not exceptionally gifted. We’re … a bit dull, you could say. It wasn’t really surprising that we were the last ones left.”

Harav Berger, taken aback by the way the bachur was belittling himself and his friend, wanted to object, but the

bachur didn’t give him the chance.

“That’s what we are; at least we know our place. But Shlomo Zalman? Shlomo Zalman is a diamond! Shlomo Zalman is a bachur any man should be proud to have for a son-in-law! Shlomo Zalman has lots of shidduch suggestions to look into, even now that the ‘market’ is somewhat weaker. But he’s still single… No one can understand how come he hasn’t gotten engaged yet.”

Harav Berger nodded silently. It was true; no one could understand it. He had personally tried to suggest a number of excellent matches for Shlomo Zalman, but each of them had fizzled out at a certain stage.

“Approximately a month ago,” the bachur went on, “we came across a Kupat Ha’ir brochure that was distributed here in America for Chanukah. The booklet c o n t a i n e d yeshuos stories t r a n s l a t e d f r o m Hebrew. The first story was about an older single girl

page 3 story supplement SHAVUOS 5768


who, on the advice of Rebbetzin Kanievsky, in the name of Rav Chaim Kanievsky shlit”a, contributed a sizeable sum of money to Kupat Ha’ir and got engaged a short while later. We sat there in our dormitory, read the story and laughed until our ribs ached.”

“What was so funny?” Rav Berger wondered. He vaguely recalled his wife telling him about the story. She had been extremely moved. Rav Berger did not recall anything amusing about what she had told him.

“We laughed at all the naïve people out there who would read the story and believe that a girl who had been looking for a shidduch for twenty years could get engaged a day after contributing to Kupat Ha’ir. We joked about what an experience it would be for the yeshivah if

we contributed and got engaged, too. We laughed the way bachurim laugh whose friends already have a few children while they feel like the grandpas of the yeshivah. If you don’t want to cry, you’ve got to laugh.”

Harav Berger suddenly saw the bachurim in a new light. They had been in the yeshivah for many years and he had always considered them to be… dull. Their definition of themselves had been accurate. Now he saw that there was more to them than met the eye.

“In the end, our eyes streaming with tears of laughter, we decided we couldn’t deny the entire yeshivah the chance at such an experience. We would contribute and wait for the magic to take effect. What did we have to lose?

“I was the first to call Kupat Ha’ir. I pledged to contribute a hundred dollars if I got engaged within the month. My friend here…” He elbowed his friend lightly. “My friend called a moment later. Then we decided we weren’t being fair. Shlomo Zalman was our age, too.

Did he deserve to lose out, just because he was sitting and learning rather than frittering away his time reading brochures? I called again and pledged another hundred dollars, in the name of both me and my friend, if Shlomo Zalman

got engaged before the end of the month.”

Silence ensued. Rav Berger’s nimble mind had already figured out the rest of the story.

The month had passed and both bachurim had become engaged. The yeshivah had indeed celebrated joyously. Somehow, once a bachur

passes a certain age, no one except for him waits for his engagement every day. The first

bachur’s engagement was a shocker. The yeshivah danced for him like never before. When the second bachur announced his engagement two days later, the bachurim were beyond themselves with excitement and joy. Two eltere bachurim in one week! Now everyone waited for Shlomo Zalman to get engaged as well, but so far, there was no news.


“But why do you think it’s improper to contribute for Shlomo Zalman?” Rav Berger asked.

The first bachur gave the floor to his friend.

“I couldn’t restrain myself,” the second bachur said. “I approached Shlomo Zalman at the end of seder one day. I told him about the triple pledge and asked him how it could be that the contribution had helped us but not him, the best and most successful of us three? He was quiet for a few minutes, deliberating whether or not to share something with me. And then he told me the most amazing story…”

Her name was Tzila. She was a young, happy woman who had recently celebrated her marriage with a lavish wedding in a large, thriving city in Hungary. She lacked nothing. She had a pretty home, a devoted husband who had a steady job, loving parents and a wonderful mother-in-law who treated her like a daughter. Tzila and her mother-in-law each gave birth to a baby boy a few weeks apart. Though the year was 1944, the smell of fear was barred entry into Tzila’s warm and cozy home. The birth of the two baby boys united the family more than ever and made them forget what was happening in neighboring countries. When World War Two reached Hungary, however, its Jews knew they were in for trouble.

Tzila was fair-haired and blue-eyed and her husband and child could easily pass for Hungarians as well. They took no chances. Spending a fortune of money, they procured false papers and rented an apartment on a main street of one of the large cities in their native country, a country that had become an enemy of the Jewish people.

Tzila would go for a stroll each day, her baby ensconced in his elegant carriage. This was important for the image they wanted to cultivate of a carefree, wealthy couple. They knew their lives depended on that image. In her heart, she was terrified, but she pasted a smile on her face and went for her daily stroll so all the neighbors would

see. Her husband, dressed like a member of high society, often joined her, playing his part to a tee.

The war progressed with huge strides. The ghettoes were liquidated. Radio broadcasts became a never-ending nightmare. Tzila had no choice but to throw wild parties in her house and drink to the success of the Nazi party.

The war neared its end. The smell of freedom was in the air and hopeful rumors circulated secretly. The liberating forces entered Hungary.

Tzila continued taking walks with her baby in the sunshine, her husband joining her when his workday was over.

And then, just a few days before the liberation of Hungary, a Hungarian youth from their native city spotted and recognized them. They were in the middle of a central square. There was no place they could run and hide.

“Tzila, run!” her husband urged, realizing what was about to happen. “I’ll flee with the baby. Run, Tzila, quick!”

She ran for her life, borne on wings of fear. She ran blindly, looking neither right nor left. She ran with superhuman strength.

Behind her, she heard a long string of shots. Every shot sliced through her heart. Had her dear ones managed to flee as well? Had her husband managed to free the baby from his harness, lift him out of the carriage and run?

Cold logic told her cruelly that he hadn’t.

Tzila returned to the scene a short while later, determined to find out for certain what had happened to her loved ones. She could still feel her baby’s pudgy arms wrapped around her neck from the hug she’d given him that morning. Where was he now? She altered her appearance, using the money she had in her purse to purchase a wig that instantly made her look twenty years older and an

old, scruffy dress that was as different as could be from the stylish, well-cut clothing in which she had been seen earlier.

A large puddle of blood and a crushed carriage turned her heart to ashes. The bloodstains in the carriage left little room for doubt as to what had transpired. Half-frozen, Tzila went to a nearby kiosk and chatted with the proprietress as if she were an old friend. Surrendering to an internal need, Tzila steered the conversation to the drama that had occurred opposite the kiosk a few hours earlier.

“You wouldn’t believe how they strolled down the street,” the proprietress told her, shaking her head in amazement. “As if this were a Jewish country! They looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world. I used to see them every day! I never dreamed they were Jews! The woman looked so Aryan, and her husband was such a perfect gentleman. You would never believe they’re Jews.”

“They were Jews, you mean,” Tzila said cynically. The knife in her heart twisted itself further and further, deeper and deeper.

“Were Jews, as you say. They finished off the father and the baby in seconds. He tried to remove the baby from the carriage, but he couldn’t manage the straps. The woman ran like a creature possessed. I’ve never seen anyone run that way! She simply disappeared,” the woman from the kiosk said, glancing to the right and left.

“I’m glad she ran away,” the woman said after a moment. “I felt bad for them, after all. They were such handsome, happy people. Why do the Germans care if they live? They don’t bother anyone. It was a pleasure to see that family, I tell you.”

“Did you see how they were killed?” how did she manage to ask the question in such a calm tone of voice? How?

“Of course I saw. I was standing right here where I am now. The boy ran and called a Hungarian officer. A German patrol was here, too. It was as if they had planned to ambush the family. They hadn’t; it all happened spontaneously. I heard them talking about it later. They riddled them with bullets. The

officer emptied his machine gun on a father and a baby…”

“Both of them at once, just like that, at close range?”

“Yes. He was bent over the carriage and the bullets caught him in the back. He didn’t even scream. The baby let out a wail, I think, before he was silenced forever.”

Tzila left he scene, broken, hollow, and truly aged by twenty years.

Hungary was liberated less than a week later, but for Tzila, liberation had come too late. She returned to the village where her husband and his family had lived and found that out of the entire family, one of her sisters-in-law had survived, and also the little baby… her mother-in-law’s baby. The sister took the baby from the gentiles who had watched over him and returned to the family’s house. Tzila went there, too, but her reunion with her sister-in-law was dark and joyless. Tzila was completely lifeless. Even the little baby couldn’t bring a smile to her lips. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. He reminded her of her baby; his contented gurgling caused her indescribable pain. Her nights became a recurring nightmare and her days were miserable. Her entire world had died with those fateful shots.

After some time, the sister traveled to Eretz Yisrael with a Zionist youth group. She took her baby brother along with her. Tzila didn’t want to join. She hadn’t the strength to start a new life in a country fighting for its independence. She made her way to America. There she met the Rav of her old city, who had survived the bloodbath as well.

Tzila had no tears left to weep for her husband and son, her parents, her siblings, her husband’s large family or the hundreds of Jews who had lived in her city. The Rav listened attentively to her story and tensed.

“I’m not sure if there’s any way to know who was murdered first, your husband or the baby,” he said to Tzila. “If the baby died first, and your husband has a living brother, you might be forbidden to remarry until you receive chalitzah.”

The world didn’t come crashing down on her.


Broken and dejected as she was, she had no interest in remarrying. She had made sure to receive a heter agunah before leaving blood-soaked Europe, but only because she had realized that the passage of years would make it harder to prove things. No one had given a thought to the matter of chalitzah.

“If you want to remarry, you’ll have to wait for your husband’s brother to grow up,” the Rav told her. “In any case, make sure not to remarry until a certified beis din rules that you may do so.” Tzila listened and internalized what she heard, but that was all.

Time passed. The marvelous desire for life that Hashem implanted in the world worked its magic. Slowly, Tzila’s bleeding heart healed. She would never be the same Tzila she once was, but loneliness tugged at her heart and she longed for the warmth of a family.

The Rav’s assumption proved to be correct. The beis din ruled that she would have to receive chalitzah from her deceased husband’s brother before she could remarry – and he couldn’t perform chalitzah until he was thirteen years old.

With great difficulty, Tzila made peace with the decree. Now that she was ready to build a new family, the years of waiting were sheer torture. But they, too, passed. One day. Tzila boarded a plane to Eretz Yisrael to look for her husband’s younger brother.

She spent weeks combing the country. When she finally found him, her world grew dark. The sister had become completely secular and was living on a kibbutz. The younger brother was a tall, muscular fellow who wouldn’t give “fanatic” Tzila a second glance. He refused to hear the word “beis din” and certainly chalitzah.

Tzila was now completely broken. She returned to her lodgings, her world crumbling in front of her eyes. The landlady referred her to a well-known chareidi personality who tried his best to help her out. Messengers were sent to the boy and his sister to plead on Tzila’s behalf, to no avail.

Tzila continued living in Israel, so close to the boy

geographically yet light years apart.

Nearly twenty years had passed since the war’s end by the time the boy, who had become a young man, finally agreed to release her.

Tzila was a shattered woman by now. With her last vestiges of strength, she returned to the United States, where she remarried. She gave birth to two sons and invested her whole heart and soul in them.

When her sons reached marriageable age, Tzila married them off to worthy, G-d fearing girls. The first son gave her a grandchild within a short while after his marriage. Tzila would cradle him and weep and weep… he reminded her of the baby she had lost. He would probably be a grandfather in his own right by now if he had survived, but in her mind he remained a baby forever. Tzila hoped to see nachas from her second son as well. She dreamed of growing old surrounded by adorable babies.

But her older son fell fatally ill and passed away a short while later. Tzila never recovered from the blow.

One day, she called her second son, the only child she had left. She was very sick; it was obvious she was on her deathbed.

“I’ve committed two sins in my life,” she whispered weakly, tearing her son’s heart. Two terrible sins. I cannot commit the same sin again…”

Sins? You? Had his noble mother ever committed a sin in her life? The son didn’t know what to say.

“Once, I left my baby to die. I should have stayed with him, died with him, protected his young life with my own body,” Tzila wept.

A stern-faced d o c t o r



entered the room and tried to persuade her to stop talking and rest, but Tzila wouldn’t be deterred. “And once, I abandoned my first husband’s younger brother. He, too, was a baby and I let his sister take him and abandon her Yiddishkeit and his. I sinned against those two babies and I shall have no rest until I know that I’ve done everything in my power for the third baby, the son of your older brother, z”l.” Tzila continued crying, her sobs piercing her son’s heart.

“I want you to swear to me that you will care for him as if he were your own son, your own flesh and blood,” Tzila demanded. “I want you to swear! Only then can I die in peace.”

He swore.

“Harav Berger, this woman was Shlomo Zalman’s grandmother. His father is the son who promised that he would care for his little nephew as if he were his son.”

“Nu?” Harav Berger was still reeling from the story he had just heard.

“And that nephew is not yet married! Shlomo Zalman’s father refuses to listen to suggestions for him until his nephew is engaged. Shlomo Zalman says that rabbanim have attempted to convince his father that a younger brother is permitted to get engaged before an older one; there’s no problem! But his father refuses to listen.

“ ‘If he were my own son,’ Shlomo Zalman’s father says, ‘I would make the decision of whether or not my younger son should be allowed to get engaged before my older one. Since he is not my son, however, I cannot make such a decision. Shlomo Zalman will wait until my nephew gets engaged.’”

“And where is that nephew?” Rav Berger inquired.

“He’s in yeshivah in Eretz yisrael and he’s in no rush,” the bachurim replied. “And until he’s engaged, Shlomo Zalman can’t get engaged. That’s why the contribution hasn’t helped.”

“So what’s your question, now that I know the entire background?”

“Can our pledge to contribute to Kupat Ha’ir overcome his father’s neder… or is there no point in trying?”

“Contributing to Kupat Ha’ir is not a method of circumventing Hashem,” Rav Berger replied. “You can’t use Kupat Ha’ir to run the world for Hakadosh Baruch Hu. Kupat Ha’ir is a way to acquire an abundance of Heavenly assistance. Leave it to the Ribono shel Olam to figure out how to help. Don’t give Him suggestions for how to run the world.”

The bachurim nodded in understanding.

It was true. For a while, they had thought they could control events. You contribute and things move to your satisfaction. But no. A contribution, accompanied by the blessing of tzaddikim, is an excellent way to acquire Hashem’s blessing and assistance – not to do something against His will.

As if to confirm Rav Berger’s words, Shlomo Zalman suddenly came bounding toward the threesome. He had been searching for the two chassanim all over the building and couldn’t find them anywhere. He couldn’t wait until morning to tell them –

Shlomo Zalman was so flushed with excitement that he couldn’t speak. Wild thoughts ran through his friends’ minds. Had Shlomo Zalman sought them out to tell them of his impending engagement? But how could that be? Only yesterday he had told them that he wasn’t listening to suggestions.

But it was obvious that something of great import had happened, something good, something happy. What might it be?

Shlomo Zalman just barely managed to get the words out:

“I just received a call from home that my cousin is engaged! I don’t know the details yet; I don’t know anything!”

But the details didn’t matter. The important thing was that Shlomo Zalman’s path was now clear. The special siyatta dishmaya of Kupat Ha’ir had done its part.


story supplement SHAVUOS 5768page 9 story supplement SHAVUOS 5768

Two Minutes on the Clock

As told by the protagonist, who prefers to remain anonymous for obvious easons.

It was 1:32. Mrs. Levin could see her daughter’s bus approaching, right on time. She walked to the curb, ready to lift her three-year-old daughter off the bus and take her home.

It’s such a shame I wasn’t organized enough, Mrs. Levin thought to herself for the umpteenth time that year. If only I had submitted my request in time! Yaeli would have been placed in the kindergarten down the block. One of her older siblings would drop her off and pick her up on his way to school and that would be that. I could have spared myself the daily trouble of putting her on a bus in the morning and taking her off the bus in the afternoon.

A moment later, all thoughts of what could have been were long forgotten.

The driver opened the doors of the bus. “Yaeli didn’t come today,” he said in surprise.

“Didn’t come?” Mrs. Levin stared at him in surprise. “What do you mean, she didn’t come? I sent her to school!”

“She didn’t board the bus for the way home,” the driver said. “Talk to her teacher.” He closed the doors and drove off. Mrs. Levin raced home in a state of panic. She dialed the teacher’s number and caught her before she had left the kindergarten.

“Yaeli wasn’t on the bus?” the teacher was sure she hadn’t heard right. “What do you mean? I personally put her on the bus1 I held her hand and crossed the street and put her on. Maybe the driver didn’t notice. Maybe she’s asleep in a corner somewhere. Call him fast!”

Mrs. Levin dialed the driver frantically. The bus was now completely empty and the driver had

already checked the bus the way he did every day. Still, upon Mrs. Levin’s request, he checked again.

“She’s not here. I’m sorry,” he told the terrified mother. “I’m sure she never boarded. I made the rounds between all the kindergartens in the area, but no one was waiting at the bus stop near her kindergarten. I forgot that she’d been on the bus in the morning. I waited a minute, the way I always do, and then I drove on…”

The teacher, no less frantic than Mrs. Levin, was still on the line.

“Could it be that I put her on another bus?” she wondered aloud. “Where might she be? How can we find her?”

Suddenly, another thought struck her. “Could it be that I mixed her up with a different child? Maybe I didn’t take her to the bus and she set out for home on her own? There are quite a few busy streets in the area… ”

Mrs. Levin called the police. She explained the situation briefly and accurately despite her rising panic. The officer she spoke to told her laconically that if the child was still missing twelve hours after she’d disappeared, she should contact the station again and an investigation would be opened.

“Twelve hours?” Mrs. Levin asked in horror. “She’s three years old! Twelve hours?!”

But that was police protocol and Mrs. Levin could do nothing to change it.

Her husband, who had arrived home in the interim, rounded up a few of his friends, each of whom brought another few friends. In no time, a number of search parties were put together


to comb through the entire neighborhood of Har Nof, one street at a time. If the child had left kindergarten in order to try and make her way home by foot, they would find her, with Hashem’s help.

The moments ticked by.

At three o’clock, the searchers completed their mission. The child had not been found.

“If she boarded a different schoolbus, she should have been found by now,” Mrs. Levin said in tears. “Even if she boarded a city bus, the driver should have completed his route already. If someone found her, he would have contacted the police and we would know about it. But if we’ve still heard nothing, she must have fallen asleep in a closed vehicle, or the wrong type of person found her and…”

Both possibilities were unspeakably frightening.

In the meantime, during those very same moments, Yaeli was sitting comfortably on the back seat of the No. 2 bus, which travels from Har Nof to the Kosel Hama’aravi.

People boarded and disembarked, sat down next to her and rose a few minutes later. Yaeli saw people in various strange and interesting types of dress. The bus passed many unfamiliar neighborhoods. She didn’t even notice that she was beginning to get hungry.

When the bus reached its final destination, the Kosel, everyone aboard began preparing to disembark. It was 3:25. At Yaeli’s house, the tension was sky-high, but Yaeli sat quietly in her seat, completely unfazed.

Among the passengers on the bus was a yeshivah bachur named Yanky. Yanky had decided to use his afternoon break to take a trip to the Kosel and daven Minchah there. He knew that time was short, that if he wanted to be back in yeshivah in time for the beginning of seder, he’d have to hurry. He took no interest in his surroundings: he wanted to disembark from the bus as soon as possible, make his way through security and race to the Kosel. That way, he’d have enough time to daven

Minchah with kavanah.

The bus stopped. Yanky made his way quickly through the crowd. He was careful not to push or step on any feet, but he was definitely in a hurry. As it was, the ride had taken longer than he’d counted on. He went through security and began to run.

At the Levin household, people were coming and going. Mrs. Levin, her eyes swollen from crying, completed the first half of Sefer Tehillim. The other children had gone to the neighbors’ house. Her husband kept trying to obtain the numbers of additional school bus drivers in the Har Nof area. Friends called to inquire if there was any news, but unfortunately, there was not.

“What more can we do?” Yaeli’s mother asked, breaking the terrible stillness in the house. “Who knows where Yaeli might be now, crying, hurt…” The thought was too terrible to bear.

“Have you tried contributing to Kupat Ha’ir?”

Who asked the question? To this day, the Levins cannot remember. It might have been someone who happened to be on the phone just then and heard Mrs. Levin’s plaintive question, or perhaps a neighbor who popped in at that exact moment. Whatever the case, as soon as Kupat Ha’ir was mentioned, eyes lit up.

“Contribute this minute!” Yaeli’s mother requested. “Right now!”

Rabbi Levin picked up the phone and dialed the number. He made a generous contribution, gave the secretary all the pertinent information, and hung up.

The Levins feeling of distress turned into one of anticipation. They looked at the clock. It was 3:32.

At the very same moment, at the Kosel plaza, Yanky was running so he’d have enough time for Minchah. He was already at the men’s section, trying to catch his breath as he went to get a siddur, when a thought struck him.

I’ve forgotten my umbrella! My new umbrella! And it doesn’t even have my name on it!

Oh, come on, you came to daven. There’s so little


time… so you’ll lose the umbrella. What can you do?

Even Yaakov Avinu went back for the pachim ketanim. At least make an effort!

He glanced at his watch. What time was it when I got off the bus? Is there a chance it’s still waiting for me?

Yanky quickly returned his siddur to its place and began sprinting back to the bus stop. He was a quick runner; it was only a moment or two before he was back at the bus stop.

The bus was still there. The driver was still busy counting and sorting coins and bus cards; he hadn’t yet conducted a check of the bus. Yaeli was still perched on her seat in the back.

Yanky knocked on the door of the bus. The driver opened it slightly. “I’m not collecting passeng-“

“I know. I forgot my umbrella!” Yanky boarded the bus and checked the seats for his umbrella. It was waiting just where he’d left it. He bent down to pick it up. As he straightened up, he spotted Yaeli.

“Hey, little girl! Someone’s forgotten you!” he said in surprise.

Yaeli did not react.

“Come, let’s try to find Ima.” Yanky offered her his hand and together they disembarked from the bus.

How might he find the mother of the little girl he had found from her place in the women’s section? He didn’t even know her name. Should he approach the police and ask them to make an announcement? All his time would be used up; he wouldn’t even have the chance to daven Minchah.

Yanky had a brainstorm: he’d call the child’s family. The phone number was printed clearly on her lunch bag. He took quiet, obedient Yaeli to a public phone, inserted his telephone

card and dialed.

It was 3:34. Two minutes after the contribution had been made.

Later, everyone tried to figure out how such a thing could have happened.

“I don’t know why I decided to run back and get my umbrella, in the end,” Yanky said. “So I would lose ten shekels… Returning to yeshivah without having davened Minchah would mean that I paid the bus fare to the Kosel for nothing. That would be a greater loss than the umbrella. It makes no sense. Hakadosh Baruch Hu put the thought into my head so that I would find her!”

“As soon as we contributed, I felt different,” a grateful Mrs. Levin said. “I watched the handles on the clock and waited for developments. A minute ticked by, then another… I couldn’t take my eyes off the clock. And then the phone rang…”

“I can’t understand how I could have made such a mistake and put Yaeli on the No. 2 bus instead of the school bus,” the kindergarten teacher said, breathing a sigh of relief. (In Israel, there is no distinctive yellow school bus. School busses are regular city busses requisitioned for the purpose of shuttling children to and from school.) “I must have been talking to someone at the time. I’ve never done such a thing before and I’m sure I never will. These two hours were punishment enough.”

And Yaeli? Yaeli doesn’t board her bus these days without asking her teacher first, “Is this my bus or Bus No.2?”


“Just a minute, sweetie,” Shoshi called, hurrying to the kitchen to put up water to boil in the electric teakettle. “Another moment and your bottle will be ready.”

The baby wailed for another second and then fell silent.

She understands, Shoshi thought to herself with satisfaction. She’s just a baby, but she’s already grasped that Ima fulfills her every need. She just needs to hear my voice and then she can wait patiently.

Shoshi shook the bottle and went to the baby’s carriage. As she bent down to pick her up, Shoshi saw that something was wrong. The baby just didn’t look right. Her big sister, a two-year-old toddler, was standing near the carriage with a mischievous look on her face.

“What did you do to her?” Shoshi didn’t realize that she was shouting. She lifted the baby and shook her gently, but the baby didn’t respond. Her body was limp and her lips were turning blue.

“What did you do to her? What happened?” she screeched.

Her daughter just stared at her, eyes round with panic, but said nothing. Suddenly, Shoshi spotted something shiny and round deep in her daughter’s mouth. Her world went dark.

She recognized what was in her daughter’s throat. She had held it in her hands a few moments earlier. The shiny ball was part of a long earring made of

cheap metal. The earring had a long, sharp hook that went through the hole pierced in the wearer’s ear and two shiny beads beneath it.

Shoshi had been washing the floor for Shabbos when she’d found it. Assuming it belonged to one of the women who attended the Tehillim group she hosted in her apartment every Shabbos afternoon, she’d placed it on her bookcase with the intention of returning it on the upcoming Shabbos. The earring had spent nearly a full week hiding in a corner of the dining room. Shoshi had picked it up a short while earlier and now it was in her daughter’s mouth!

The thoughts raced through Shoshi’s mind at superhuman speed. If she saw only one bead, that meant the rest of the earring was stuck deep in the baby’s throat! The long, sharp metal hook had likely become lodged there! How could she pull it out? In the meantime, the child wasn’t breathing. She was growing bluer with every passing second.

“Help!” Shoshi screamed, frantically dialing Magen David Adom, Israel’s ambulatory service. “My daughter is choking!” she told the operator. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably. She was afraid the baby would fall from her grasp.

“What’s your address?” the operator asked calmly. Shoshi replied, all the while whacking her daughter on the back, holding her upside-down, sticking a finger into her mouth. She heard the wail of the ambulance through the telephone as the operator

The Tachshit Who Swallowed

a TachshitAs told by the protagonists

of this story, the Levi Family 011-972-2-538-7679



attempted to guide her in what to do.

“She’s choking! She’s blue; don’t you understand?” Shoshi shouted, scared to death.

“Stop shouting and help your baby!” The operator’s measured voice helped Shoshi gain control of herself. “Stick your finger into her mouth and try to pull the object out, carefully, with your fingernail.”

Shoshi turned her limp daughter over and opened her mouth. The bead was there, deep down. Shoshi could only see the tip of it. She held her daughter diagonally and tried to stick her finger in. There was a burst of coughing and a spray of blood suddenly filled her baby’s mouth. Shoshi could no longer see the bead, but the baby began gasping for breath. Shoshi was alarmed by the blood. Her knees buckled.

“She swallowed it!” she wailed into the phone.

“What’s the situation now? Is the child breathing?” the operator asked.

“Yes, I think so… She’s trying to. She’s fighting for every breath.”

The door burst open and a member of Hatzolah strode inside and snatched the baby from Shoshi. The receiver fell from Shoshi’s hand as she watched the Hatzolah man shake the baby slightly, listen to her breathing and look into her throat. A moment later, paramedics from Magen David Adom showed up as well.

“What’s with her? Is she alive? Will she live?” Shoshi sobbed.

“She’s alive, yes, but in critical condition. We’re taking her to the hospital. Give your older child to a neighbor and come along with us.” The Hatzolah man was already knocking at a neighbor’s door.



Shoshi went downstairs to the ambulance waiting below.

In the ambulance, the paramedics continued their efforts to help the baby breathe. Shoshi described the earring and what had occurred over the past few minutes. How long had the drama taken? Less than five minutes. The longest five minutes of her life.

“If the earring entered her windpipe, she hasn’t got a chance,” said one of the paramedics. Perhaps he wanted to prepare her for the worst. “Such a hook will tear the lungs. She might stop breathing any second.”

Shoshi feared she would lose her sanity. The ambulance sped through the streets of Yerushalayim, its wailing siren freezing her blood. What would become of her beautiful baby?

“Such a huge earring and such a small baby,” she wept in despair.

The paramedic looked at her with compassion. “Pray,” he said. “She doesn’t have much of a chance. Pray.”

His words pricked Shoshi’s consciousness. “Hashem,” she said, “I’m going to contribute to Kupat Ha’ir.” She had read so many stories of yeshuos in Kupat Ha’ir’s brochures. She kept the yeshuos booklets that had been distributed on Chanukah and Pesach in an easily accessible place and read them over and over, reveling in the amazing intensity of the miracles related there.

“I’m going to contribute to Kupat Ha’ir,” she said aloud, her voice suddenly strong. “You’ll see, Mr. Paramedic, my baby will be okay. I’m going to contribute as soon as we get off this ambulance.”

Once again, the paramedic gave her a pitying glance. The poor woman was apparently losing her mind.

“Don’t you understand the situation?” he asked her, listening to the child’s faint breathing and expecting to hear it stop at any moment.

“I understand better than you think,” she replied. Her voice still trembled, but it now had a strength

it lacked before. “I know something you don’t. Tzedakah rescues from death!”

She drew strength from these words and waited eagerly to get off the ambulance so she could contribute as promised. She’d have called from her cell phone, but in her haste, she’d forgotten it at home. Now she’d have to look for a public phone.

The ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the emergency room. A doctor, already updated on the situation, hurried out to greet them. He took the baby and examined her closely. He listened to her breathing and looked for a pulse. The expression on his face did not bode well.

“The first thing we need to do is take an x-ray,” he said. An orderly appeared, took the baby from the doctor’s arms and began walking quickly down a long corridor. Shoshi ran after him, her heart thudding. The doctor followed with measured steps.

“How is she?” Shoshi asked, drained of strength.

“It depends where the earring got stuck,” the doctor explained. “If it’s in the lungs… She’s very young, your baby.”

“But she’s going to make it, Doctor!” Shoshi exclaimed. “I’m contributing to Kupat Ha’ir. It’ll help; you’ll see!” she ignored the look of surprise on the doctor’s face and hurried to a nearby public telephone to call Kupat Ha’ir.

The few moments until the radiologists deciphered the x-ray were excruciatingly long. She stood there all alone, crying all the time and trying desperately to draw strength from the fact that she had contributed to Kupat Ha’ir. Where was the earring? Was it in the lungs? She remembered what the paramedic had told her and how she had responded.

She’ll live, Shoshi said to herself. She’ll live. Tzedakah has the power to rescue a person from death. I’ve given


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tzedakah to the place the Gedolei Hador endorse. That’s what needs to be done in such a situation and I’ve done it. The rest is up to Hashem.”

The doctor stepped out of the room. “It’s a miracle! he declared, the earring is in her stomach, We now have to consider how to proceed, it probably won’t go down on its own, and even if it would, it would get stuck somewhere in her intestines and that might create an emergency situation again. It looks like we’ll have to operate.”

“She’s so tiny, Doctor,” Shoshi said, dissolving in tears. “Can’t the earring be removed any other way?”

“If not for that huge hook, we might have been able to suction it out,” the doctor explained. “We’re afraid the hook might get stuck in the windpipe and tear it as it comes up.”

Shoshi winced. It hurt to hear even the theoretical description.

“We’re going to wait a little bit and keep an eye on her, in the meantime,” the doctor said.

It was now Thursday evening. “We’re going to wait a little bit” translated into official hospitalization. What would be on Shabbos? What about her daughter at the neighbors’? Everything was pushed aside. Right now, her daughter’s life and health hung in the balance.

Shoshi couldn’t sleep a wink all night. The baby fell asleep, but Shoshi paced the room over and over again. Her husband had dashed over to the hospital as soon as he’d come home and heard from the neighbors what had happened, but he had returned home to be with their older daughter, leaving her alone once more.

“When is the operation?” inquired some of the other mothers staying with their children in the ward.

“There won’t be an operation,” Shoshi replied. “We contributed to Kupat Ha’ir; now we have to wait and see what develops. My daughter has already merited a miracle; the doctors admit as much. The earring could have easily gotten lodged in the windpipe rather than get swallowed into her food pipe. We keep praying, and we’ve contributed to

tzedakah. There won’t be any surgery!”

The mothers looked skeptical.

“Who’s the lady who feeds her children earrings for supper?” came the cheerful voice of the head nurse early in the morning.

“That’s her, the contributor to Kupat Ha’ir,” a different mother replied jokingly, pointing to Shoshi. Shoshi was not insulted.

“You’ll see. He who laughs last laughs best,” she said with a calmness that surprised even herself.

“Soon the doctor will come and tell us what the next step is,” the nurse said. Despite the nurse’s best efforts to maintain a cheery atmosphere in the ward, Shoshi was a bundle of nerves. The baby ate and fell asleep once again and Shoshi continued davening and reciting Tehillim.

“Will the tachshit [The Hebrew word, literally a piece of jewelry, is often used as a term of endearment for a child] who swallowed a tachshit please go to Room 404,” came an announcement over the public address system. People smiled at the play on words. Those who had been in the hospital for a few days and were familiar with the head nurse’s corny puns groaned in mock aggravation.

Shoshi stood stock-still.

“Go ahead, it’s you they mean,” her roommate told her. “Have you contributed to Kupat Ha’ir already this morning?”

“No, not yet. I’m going to right now, though. And you know what? The nurse’s announcement – ‘the tachshit who swallowed a tachshit’ – is going to be the title of our story in Kupat Ha’ir’s yeshuos brochure.”

The doctor was waiting for her. “We’re going to take another x-ray and see what’s happening,” he explained.

Shoshi nodded.

“Uh…” The doctor averted his gaze. “I want you to be aware that your daughter’s life is still in danger. The sharp hook on that earring is very dangerous and she won’t be out of the woods until we see it


out of her body. You’re religious Jews, right? Pray. That’s all I can tell you.”

“We’re praying, Doctor,” Shoshi assured him, swallowing the lump that was rapidly forming in her throat again. “We’re praying as hard as we can and we’ve contributed to tzedakah as well. Tzedakah has the power to protect from death. You’ll see, we’ll leave this hospital with my daughter perfectly healthy – without surgical intervention.”

“I’m afraid there’s no chance we can avoid surgery,” the doctor said sharply.

“I’m not doubting your medical opinion,” Shoshi replied. “Tell me what needs to be done to save my daughter’s life and we’ll consult with our rabbis.” She preferred not to talk too much.

Once again, the wait for the results of the x-ray were interminably long.

“Her stomach is distended. The earring and whatever has collected around it from the contents of her stomach are blocking the opening so that nothing can pass through to the intestines. We can’t leave the situation like this.” The doctor avoided using the word surgery again, but Shoshi understood his meaning.

“When?” she asked simply, commanding her heart to settle down.

“We’ll wait another bit. We’ll take another x-ray in three hours’ time.” The doctor preferred to avoid operating on the baby as well. She was so small…

Shoshi spoke to her husband and they contributed to Kupat Ha’ir once again. When Shoshi saw the doctor in the corridor, she approached him. “Doctor, we’ve contributed some more. I’m sure there will be an improvement!”

He looked at her with a mixture of compassion and scorn.

“I had to say it aloud in order to make myself really and truly believe it,” Shoshi explained to her roommate, the mother of a baby boy. “I’m a normal, realistic woman. I’m not really the type to believe in amazing miracles. But I know that I’m supposed to have faith. Hakadosh Baruch Hu can

do anything. We have to pray and give tzedakah. Tzedakah has the power to switch middas hadin to middas harachamim. Hakadosh Baruch Hu is a melech ohev tzedakah!”

Three hours later, Shoshi took her baby to be x-rayed again. Shabbos was fast approaching.

“The swelling has subsided. The earring is coated with contents from your daughter’s stomach and looks as if it may go down,” the doctor reported. “I think we’ll keep you here under supervision. Let’s see what happens without our interference.”

Shoshi smiled. Her eyes shone, but she was careful not to say another word. The doctor surely remembered his firm opinion regarding the necessity of an operation, voiced just three hours ago!

The shifts changed. A woman doctor took the place of the previous one. Two hours before Shabbos, she sent them to have another x-ray taken.

“The earring is going down,” she reported to Shoshi. “Look, such a trip through the intestines can take up to a week. Go home. Be alert. If there’s any change in your daughter’s situation, come back immediately.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, you’re discharged. I’ll do the paperwork in a moment. But make sure to be alert!”

Shoshi promised, her eyes wide.

Returning home awakened a wellspring of emotion. She placed the baby in her crib and dissolved in tears. A few hours ago, she hadn’t dared think she might come back home with her baby, and here she was! But the dangerous earring was still inside her body… Shoshi shivered with fear. She was afraid of what might happen at any moment. To lose the baby now… she wouldn’t be able to live through such a tragedy.

On Shabbos afternoon, the women and girls showed up as usual at her house to say Tehillim. As Shoshi distributed the booklets comprising the Sefer Tehillim Hamechulak, she told the women about the drama that had taken place in her house.


story supplement SHAVUOS 5768page 17 story

One of the girls tensed. “What did it look like, the earring?” she asked, her voice shaky.

Shoshi described the earring.

“It’s mine,” the girl whispered. “Oh, no… I wish I had thrown it out. It was a bit rusty already.

One of the women, the wife of a well-known talmid chacham, looked at her. “Don’t feel bad. “It’s not because of you that the earring is now in the baby’s intestines. But daven… let’s all daven with particular kavanah today. We’ll complete Sefer Tehillim today in merit of Shoshi’s baby.”

Shoshi nodded. Tears filled her eyes.

“Put her into the carriage and wheel her into the dining room,” the woman said. “It’ll be easier to have kavanah if we see her in front of our eyes. Shabbos hi milizok urefuah krovah lavo.”

Shoshi wheeled the baby in her carriage into the dining room and the women began reciting Tehillim, from time to time looking up at her darling face.

Toward the end, the baby began to cry. Shoshi picked her up. The baby’s face was red with effort.

“I think I have to change her diaper,” Shoshi said, her face a mask of fear. Her hands shook. Everyone understood the import of what was happening.

“Wait. Let’s finish first.” The talmid chacham’s wife, a special personality in her own right, radiated strength and serenity. “We’ll say the Yehi ratzon recited after one completes Sefer Tehillim and then you should go take care of her.”

Shoshi held her baby close as the women completed Tehillim and recited the Yehi ratzon prayer. Then she took the baby into another room.

What she saw made her heart beat faster. Once again, she saw one bead… the other one, as well as the dangerous hook, were deep inside her daughter’s body. She tried tugging gently but nothing gave. The baby cried and tiny drops of blood appeared around the area.

“It’s pikuach nefesh,” Shoshi declared. “I have to go to the hospital.” Shoshi was absolutely sure this was necessary, but her husband ran to ask a Rav. On

his way back, he stopped at the headquarters of a certain medical organization and arranged for a non-Jewish driver to pick up Shoshi and the baby.

At the hospital, the doctor on duty examined the baby and shook his head.

“I’m not touching this,” he informed her. “I can’t remove the earring without doing damage. Only a surgeon can do that. He summoned a surgeon from a different deparment.

Once again, the word operation was in the air.

It’s Shabbos, she thought to herself. I don’t have whom to ask. I can’t go to a Rav. She couldn’t handle the stress. The doctor looked at her pityingly. He went to call another doctor.

“I’m going to try and remove it without surgery,” the second doctor told Shoshi. “Pray, that’s the only thing I can tell you. Your baby will cry, but it shouldn’t really hurt her a lot. If it works – great. If not, we’ll have no choice but to operate. Such an operation is extremely unpleasant.”

“You will act as Hashem’s messenger,” Shoshi told him. “I’ll be praying outside.” And after Shabbos, we’ll contribute to Kupat Ha’ir again, she continued wordlessly.

Shoshi stood outside the room. She heard her baby screeching and her heart went out to her. Tears streamed freely down her face.

The door opened. The doctor stepped out, the earring in the palm of his hand!

“You have your daughter back,” the nurse told her, cradling the whimpering baby. Shoshi smothered her baby with kisses, her tears turning to tears of joy.

You know what? The nurse’s announcement – ‘the tachshit who swallowed a tachshit’ – is going to be the title of our story in Kupat Ha’ir’s yeshuos brochure, Shoshi remembered herself saying.

Indeed, she merited to see her pronouncement of faith come true.


David Kalman hadn’t been to Israel since his marriage. More than once, he planned to pack a suitcase and just go, but somehow, it never worked out. As a bachur, he’d walked Eretz Yisrael’s holy soil and filled his soul with prayers at the Kosel Hama’aravi. He’d visited kivros tzaddikim and explored the length and breadth of the land. Ever since he’d returned to the States, however, married and settled down, he hadn’t made the trip again.

The years passed. After the birth of each child, he longed to travel to Eretz Yisrael and pour out his heart in gratitude to Hashem at the closest spot on earth to the gates of heaven, but he couldn’t leave his wife alone. He was convinced he would go before his oldest son’s bar mitzvah, come what may, but the bar mitzvah came and went without his setting foot on the soil of Eretz Yisrael. He and his wife made their first wedding, too, but David did not get a chance to make it to Eretz Yisrael before the event.

“One day, we’ll do it – all of us,” he promised his children, who were waiting eagerly. “You’ll see!”

And the day finally came.

David took along his wife and children, both the single ones and the married ones. He purchased tickets for everyone and made reservations at a hotel in Jerusalem. The entire family waited with excitement for the trip of the century.

Suitcases, baby bottles, handbags – everything was prepared for the big day. They bought a new memory card with lots of memory for their top-quality brand-name digital camera, intending to photograph every moment of their trip. More than twenty years had passed until the first trip. Who knew how long it might be until they saw Eretz Yisrael again?

The trip was wonderful, better than they had

imagined. They couldn’t get enough of what they saw. They did their best to imprint the images on their memory – and on the camera’s memory, too. They visited the Kosel, the grave of Shimon Hatzaddik, the Old City, the new city and its pretty suburbs. They were enamored with everything they saw.

“You don’t skimp when you’re on a trip you waited twenty years to take,” David kept saying. They didn’t skimp on taxis or entrance fees to various sites. When they had finished touring Jerusalem, they rented a large van and set out on long trips. They saw Meron, Amukah, Tzfas, Tverya and Chatzor. They prayed at the graves of various tannaim and amora’im. Lehavdil, they had a ball at various fun attractions as well. Then they turned south. Yerucham, Nachal Zin, the Flour Cave, Mitzpeh Ramon, Masada and Ein Gedi. They climbed mountains and descended valleys, reveling in the beauty of the country Hashem gave our forefathers.

The digital camera was in constant use. There was no corner they were willing to forgo photographing. Every ancient stone or pretty tree was documented.

“Dad, we need to empty the memory card,” the youngest child commented. “It’s almost full and then we won’t be able to take any more pictures.”

“Remind me to take it with me when we get back to Jerusalem,” David said. “I’ll find a photo store and ask them to save our pictures to disk so we can empty the memory card and use it some more.”

The next time David took a cab from the hotel to run some errands in Jerusalem, his son ran after him and tucked the camera in his hand.

“Oh! Good thing you remembered,” David said with a smile.

Who Sent It?As told by a friend of the protagonist, Harav Aharon Teller Tel: 011-972-50-411-1200


Later, he wasn’t so sure it was a good thing.

A moment after David stepped out of the cab, he realized he’d forgotten it. He stood thunderstruck on the curb, handbag at his side, cell phone in his pocket – and the hand that had been holding the camera – empty!

Boom. It was a heavy blow.

How could he return to his family and tell them the camera was gone? In another few days, they’d be returning to the States. The memory card in the camera contained all the pictures they’d snapped – the Kosel and the North and the South and what not?

He didn’t recall to which company the cab in which he had traveled belonged. There was no lead for him to work on to locate the driver. Worst of all, even if the driver were an honest fellow who would want to return the camera, he would have no way of finding David. He had boarded the cab near the hotel and gotten off at some point along the way.

Maybe, just maybe, David hoped, he’ll try looking for me at the hotel. He dearly hoped so. He knew his family would be devastated over the loss of the camera.

He had waited twenty years for this trip and now, in one moment of carelessness, the pictures were gone.

He did the only thing there was to do: he called the hotel and left a message that in case anyone came to return a camera that had been left in a cab, it belonged to him.

Half an hour passed, an hour, an hour and a half. From time to time, David called the hotel to inquire if anyone had come in with a camera. The answer was in the negative.

Terribly upset, David called a good friend. He asked him to accompany him to buy a new camera. David wasn’t familiar with the stores in Jerusalem and he didn’t know his way around very well, either.

The friend joined him gladly, eager to help. “You know,” he said as David described how distraught his family would be when they heard the news, “here in Eretz Yisrael, we have a solution for such problems. You contribute to Kupat Ha’ir and you are helped!”

David accepted his friend’s suggestion. He was prepared to contribute a considerable sum if it meant getting the camera back. He dialed the number his friend gave him and contributed.

They purchased a new camera, figured out how to use it and then David, accompanied by his friend, continued with the list of errands he’d set out to do. Suddenly, David’s cell phone rang.

The concierge at the hotel explained that a taxi driver had just walked in holding a camera. Could David please return to the hotel to see if the camera was his?

“What does the driver look like?” David inquired.

“Young, tall and redheaded,” the concierge replied.

“No, that’s not my driver,” David said with disappointment. “The driver who took me was middle aged, short and dark-haired. Tell the guy I said thank you, but the camera isn’t mine.” He closed his cell phone and sighed.

“Tefillah accomplishes half,” he said, half to himself, half to his friend. “Apparently, contributing accomplishes half as well. A camera was found, but it’s not mine!”

“Contributing to Kupat Ha’ir brings about a complete yeshuah!” David’s friend said hotly, rushing to defend Kupat Ha’ir’s good reputation. “Not a half and not a quarter. Wait and see how Hashem will help!”

His friend was still talking when David’s phone rang again. It was the


concierge. “The driver insists that the camera might be yours, after all,” the concierge said. “He made a special effort to come all the way here and he’s asking that you come, too.”

David couldn’t refuse. The faint hope that maybe this was his camera gave him a push in the right direction.

He flagged down a cab and sped back to the hotel.

In the lobby was a man who introduced himself as the driver. As the concierge had described, he was tall, young and red haired. This was definitely not

the driver who had taken David.

“I was never your passenger, right?” David said with a shrug. “I’m sure I’ve never seen you before!”

The driver withdrew a camera from a small handbag he had with him. David snatched it from his hands. It was his camera, no doubt about it! He looked at the photos stored in the camera. Sure enough, there he was, smiling with his family at the various sites they’d visited.

“But you’re not the driver, sir. How did you get hold of my camera?” David asked.

“I’ll tell you the truth,” the young man said sheepishly. “The taxi belongs to both of us, my father and me. I use it in the morning and in the evening while he takes it in the afternoon and early evening. You left the camera in the car during his shift. He – this hurts to say, did not intend to return it. He intended to bring it home for his wife and children.

“I took the taxi from my father in the evening, as usual. I saw the camera and asked him about it. He told me that a tourist had left it in his car and that he planned to bring it home. But I decided to try and return it.

“I’m getting married this week,” the young man explained, blushing faintly. I’m not religious, as you can tell, but still, the week of your marriage is different… you have to try to be okay if you want G-d to help. I want to do good deeds on the week of my marriage. I decided I would return the camera to its owner even though my father might raise the roof. He won’t like the idea, I’m sure. He’s

gonna kill me.”

“When did you find the camera?” David asked, a possible connection forming in his mind.

“I found it as soon as I took the car in the early hours of the evening,” the young man replied. “But it was only later that I decided to return it. Suddenly, I don’t know why, it just occurred to me that on the week of my wedding, I should be a decent guy.”

Suddenly it occurred to him. He doesn’t know why.

Maybe you can guess who sent him the thought?

There are some questions one feels very uncomfortable asking. “How much do you earn a month?” for example, is considered a tactless question. “What made you gain so much weight?” is another. The same holds true for various nosy questions that threaten the boundaries someone telling a personal story has set for himself.

That is why the first part of this story is unknown to us.

Why was the man thousands of dollars in debt? We don’t know. Maybe he purchased an apartment for his son or maybe he renovated his own house. Maybe he invested in real estate and maybe something else. It doesn’t really make a difference. He had many debts to repay, most of them large loans that had to be returned on a set day.

The deadline for one of his debts loomed. He made sure to borrow $26,500 from someone else in order to be able to return the original debt when promised. Twenty-six and a half thousand dollars is no small sum, by any account. It’s a sum large enough that someone keeping it under his mattress tosses and turns all night for fear of thieves. The hero of our story, Reb Moshe, wasn’t much calmer. He had an appointment to return the debt exactly on the prearranged date, which was still two days away.

When Baruch, a longtime friend, approached him and asked if he had a few thousand dollars to lend him for a day or two, Reb Moshe replied in the affirmative. He had lent Baruch money in the past and borrowed from his as well. Their relationship was one of mutual trust and admiration.

“How much do you need?” Reb Moshe asked.

“Twenty thousand, just for a day or two. Give me as much as you can and I’ll try to scrape the rest together from other people.”

“I have twenty thousand that I can lend for exactly two days,” Reb Moshe replied happily. “If you’re sure you can return it to me by then – no problem. I borrowed the money in order to repay a debt and it’s very important to me not to default on the payment by even one day.”

Baruch reacted with surprise and delight. The whole sum in one go! He had thought he’d have to approach at least eight or ten people in order to patch together twenty thousand dollars.

Reb Moshe insisted that Baruch sign a promissory note and appoint guarantors, which Baruch supplied without a problem. He was an honest man who had never hurt a fly.

Two days passed. Reb Moshe wondered why Baruch wasn’t knocking on his door to return the loan as they had made up. He stayed up late waiting for Baruch’s knock. By the time he decided to call, a glance at the clock told him it was too late to disturb.

He was supposed to return the loan the following morning. It would be very uncomfortable if he had to wait for Baruch first.

He called Baruch first thing in the morning.

“You realize that the two days passed, right?” he asked directly.

“I’ll return the money in a short while. Sorry,” Baruch said – and hung up.

Reb Moshe was left staring at the receiver in his hand. Should he go to shul for Shacharis or should he stay home in case Baruch

Twenty Minutes Later As told by the protagonist of the story,

Harav Eliyahu Shweitzer Tel: 011-972-54-420-1823



called in the meantime? He waited half an hour and then left with a heavy heart.

Baruch didn’t call all that morning, so Reb Moshe tried contacting him again. A series of long, uninterrupted rings made it very clear that the man had no intention of answering the phone. By twelve o’clock, Reb Moshe began to lose patience.

Suddenly, he had a brainstorm. He and Baruch shared a mutual friend. Maybe that friend had Baruch’s cell phone number? He contacted the friend, who was perfectly willing to give him the number.

Shaking his head in disbelief at the steps he was forced to take, Reb Moshe dialed *67 before dialing Baruch’s number. This would ensure that his own number didn’t appear on Baruch’s Caller ID.

Whom am I hiding from? he thought to himself uneasily. But something told him he had no choice.

Baruch picked up the phone immediately.

“Baruch?” asked Reb Moshe, trying mightily not to come to anger.

“I’m home now. You can call me on my regular home line,” Baruch said.

If you’re home, why didn’t you answer the phone a moment ago? Reb Moshe thought to himself resentfully.

Reb Moshe hung up the phone and dialed Baruch’s house. Baruch didn’t answer. He tried Baruch’s cell phone again, but he didn’t answer there either, whether Reb Moshe’s number was blocked or not.

Reb Moshe lost patience completely. He stepped outside, flagged down a taxi and traveled to Baruch’s house. From downstairs, he saw a shadow passing through the house. Someone was definitely home. But no one answered the door.

“I think you’ve gone too far,” Reb Moshe said to Baruch’s voice mail, his voice heavy. “This is not the way to treat people, especially someone who lent you $20,000 two days ago.”

Baruch called in the evening, embarrassed and apologetic.

“I know I behaved horribly today,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

Reb Moshe couldn’t harden his heart against his friend.

“What’s with the money?” he asked gently.

Baruch began to stammer. “I hope to get it to you by

tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Reb Moshe thought his ears were fooling him. “Do you know that I’m already a day late with my payment! I’m dead embarrassed!”

“I know; I truly apologize,” Baruch said in a low voice. “Bli neder, you’ll have the money by morning. At least you won’t default by another day.”

Reb Moshe shrugged helplessly. “I prefer to be there as early as possible tomorrow morning. Call me any time, even in middle of the night or in the early hours of the morning – as soon as you have the money.”

But morning came and went with no sign of Baruch. Moshe was very annoyed. He tried calling Baruch at home and on his cell phone, blocking his number and not blocking his number. Baruch didn’t answer the phone, no matter what.

At noon, Reb Moshe received a phone call from the administrator of the gemach to which he was supposed to repay his loan. Reb Moshe was mortified.

“I don’t know how to explain,” he began, his ears burning.

“It’s okay, Reb Moshe; we know each other for many years now. You’ve never defaulted on a loan by even one day. I’m sure you’ll bring the money in today, right?”

“I hope so.” Reb Moshe could barely get the words out of his mouth.

“Okay, then. I needed to know because I promised someone else a loan. He’s been waiting a long time already. I thought you’d be in yesterday.”“I borrowed money in order to be able to repay you on time,” Reb Moshe finally managed to explain. “I borrowed it at the beginning of the week. I lent $20,000 of it to an old friend. He hasn’t returned the money and he’s not answering my phone calls. I don’t know what to do…”

Reb Moshe sounded ridiculous to his own ears. No one was interested in his excuses. He sounded like a schoolboy in trouble. But this was the situation! What should he do? How could he catch a friend who had suddenly begun playing games with him?

“We’re waiting for you,” the administrator said. “See to it that the matter is taken care of. Be well.” Reb Moshe slammed the phone down in frustration.

He tried Baruch again – to no avail.

The way he’s avoiding me bothers me even more than his lateness in returning the money, Reb Moshe thought to himself bitterly. If he were to approach me and explain that he was having unexpected difficulties and it might take a day or two longer for him to return the money, I would accept that despite the hardship involved. But why does he refuse to even talk to me?

The following week was no better.

Sometimes, when Reb Moshe was creative and called at an unconventional hour, Baruch picked up the phone. Sometimes he hung up as soon as he heard Reb Moshe’s voice. Other times, he stammered something to the effect that the money would be returned shortly and then hung up. Twice, he told Reb Moshe that he couldn’t talk at the moment and hung up before Reb Moshe could utter a word. If a child answered the phone, he would say, “Abba can’t come to the phone.”

Reb Moshe was at a complete loss.

“I’m an organized person,” he told a friend as he poured out his heart. “I took out various loans and arranged a payment schedule that would allow me to repay them on time. Now I feel dizzy. Where am I to find an additional $20,000? Am I going to have to borrow a thousand here and a thousand there?”

He fell silent for a moment. “And the worst thing is the awful feeling of betrayal. The feeling that a good friend is inflicting so much pain on me. I’m trying to judge him favorably but I’m not really succeeding.”

A month passed. Reb Moshe had no choice but to take out a number of loans at various small gemachs, most of which lent the money for brief periods only. Frequently, Reb Moshe had to look around for different gemachs in order to pay back the first ones. It was a very unpleasant situation and it stole a lot of time out of his day. Worst of all were his constant efforts to reach Baruch.

I think I’ve become obsessive, he thought to himself bitterly. Why do I bother calling? Why do I subject myself to such aggravation? He won’t answer in any case!

But the faint, rebellious hope that maybe, just maybe, Baruch would finally return the huge debt, won him over every time.

Baruch proved to be extremely creative. He kept coming up with new ways to evade Reb Moshe.

“If you don’t intend to return the money, at least tell me!” he would say into the receiver after Baruch hung up on him. He didn’t dare actually say so to Baruch directly for the simple reason that he feared Baruch would jump at the “offer” and confirm that indeed he had no intention of returning the loan. “But at least let me know where I stand! I can’t go on like this!”

Another month passed and almost another. Reb Moshe had grown accustomed to the embarrassing job of making the rounds to find someone willing to lend him a thousand dollars so that he could return the money to someone else who had lent it to him a few days earlier. Five hundred dollars here, two thousand dollars there. But there are some things it isn’t easy to get accustomed to. He felt humiliated that the whole world saw him asking to borrow money. His face burned when gemach administrators told him, “We don’t lend money to the same person so frequently.”

One day, after such a humiliating experience, he finally cracked. He went to the pushka, contributed to Kupat Ha’ir, and raised his eyes heavenward.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he said to the Ribono shel Olam. “I can’t handle this! I’ve done my hishtadlus and given tzedakah as well. May the merit of tzedakah help me. I’m done. I give up!”

When he was done, he was suddenly filled with a sense of calm. He picked up the phone to call Baruch. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he felt that no matter how the conversation went, he would remain calm.

To his surprise, Baruch answered the phone immediately.

“It’s a good thing you’re calling,” Baruch said. “Baruch Hashem, the matter was finally resolved this very minute. I’m leaving to the bank right now to deposit the money in your account. You should be able to check your account in twenty minutes and see that the money has been transferred.”

Reb Moshe was left openmouthed.

Those twenty minutes were an eternity. After he had counted slowly to sixty twenty times, Reb Moshe called his bank’s automated service number and with trembling fingers, entered the digits of his account number.

The money was in the account.



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