We all know that. We also know that Judaism is one of
the smallest religions in the world. And Israel is among the fifty smallest
countries. So sometimes my corner of the earth seems rather crowded. Therefore
I know I better watch how I behave when I’m out in public. The girl I’ve
hassled with over a seat on the bus could end up being my son’s wife. The man
with only two items whom I refuse permission to go in front of me at the check-out
might be my judge in traffic court. The lady I was rude to in the restaurant could
be the anesthesiologist for my upcoming surgery.
Recently I was sitting at a booth selling my book when
someone greeted me warmly. I, in turn, didn’t have a clue who she was and
apparently wasn’t successful faking it.
“You’re from Shilo, aren’t you?” she asked
enthusiastically.
I nodded and she gave me her name and mentioned one of
the nearby villages that had once been her home. Given that information I
remembered her. It wasn’t a nice memory.
We’d had children who were in the same class and our
paths crossed here and there. It was rare we spoke on the phone but some twenty
years ago I returned from Jerusalem to hear that she’d called and was looking
for me.
“I told her you’d be back on the 2:30 bus,” my husband
told me.
Indeed, just a couple of minutes later, before I’d had
a chance to grab a drink or catch my breath, the phone rang. She was calling
with a request, for her an important request, and was rather aggressive in her
manner. Her husband had an upcoming court case. Apparently as a contractor he’d not met the
deadline in his contract when doing work for someone in Shilo. He claimed he hadn’t
been able to finish on time because of frequent power outages. She wanted me to
send a fax to the number she would give validating their claim. Wary, I told
her I’d think about it and call her back in an hour.
I was torn. Power outages were a way of life in Shilo
then and I could easily make that statement. However, the period she was
talking about was from a year earlier. There was no way I could pinpoint exactly
when those outages were. In fact, it seemed to me I remembered them more in the
evenings than during the day.
After an hour of deliberating I called to tell her I
was sorry but I couldn’t help her. I assumed she’d be disappointed. Nothing
prepared me for the verbal attack she gave me.
She censored me. She censored Shilo. She was one step
short of cursing me. Finishing her tirade she slammed down the phone receiver
with all the strength she could muster. I was stunned, feeling like I’d been
slapped in the face. Naively I expected another call from her, after she’d
calmed down, apologizing. That phone call never came. I never heard from her
again. Through the grapevine I learned she’d moved to Jerusalem.
Obviously, I made no mention of that memory when I saw
her again at the sale. Surely, she totally forgot it or she would have been too
angry or too embarrassed to approach me. We chatted for a minute or two and she
went on her way. I was left with my remembrances.
Twenty years ago the author, Hanoch Teller, spoke in
Shilo. The title of his talk was We’re too small a people to be a small
people. In other words, don’t be petty. Twenty years ago I’d had nothing to
gain or lose by sending the fax this woman had wanted. For her, on the other
hand, that fax could have made a big difference. Somehow or other she’d gone
forward without still resenting me.
I don’t want to be small. And I don’t want to be petty.
If she has gone forward so should I. It’s time for me to let the bad memory go.
Maybe I’ll run into her again. I hope I do. If I do I’ll smile, but this time
it will be a sincere smile.
My novel, Growing With My Cousin, a good summer read, is available at Jewish bookstores and on line at http://www.feldheim.com/growing-with-my-cousin.html or
https://www.amazon.com/Growing-Cousin-Ester-Katz-Silvers/dp/194635113X/
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