This is an anecdote that took form in my mind and I related at a Rosh Hashanah (New Year) gathering several years ago set in the lovely verdant backyard of the suburban home of my cousins, Susie and Barry. In the spirit of the holiday, a group of some 20 or so friends they invited had begun a discussion about the meaning of the Jewish concept of tshuva, repentance or apology (from the Hebrew root shuv for “return”). It had gotten rather esoteric, when this experience of mine came to mind and I spoke of it.
Many years ago, more than a quarter of a century to be sure, I lived in the Land of Israel, in its capital city Jerusalem, and grew well-acquainted with the surrounding regions of Judea and Samaria. So well that occasionally I would guide local friends and some visiting from abroad to places of historical importance and/or beauty in the hill-country center of ancient biblical Israel. And soon I applied, would be accepted, and began the year-long Israel tour guide course run by the Tourism Ministry.
During this period, I met and befriended a rabbinic student at one of the many yeshivot in the holy city. The pleasant very intelligent fellow was American-born, son of a Conservative rabbi on the East Coast.
After college had gone to Israel to explore it and himself, and he became a ba’al tshuva (meaning “owner of return”), or newly Orthodox. He fell in love with a young woman originally from America’s Midwest, of Reform background, whom my wife knew from years before. The lovely woman began seriously studying Judaism herself, became Orthodox also, and the pair married.
My wife and I visited the new couple a few times in their small apartment in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City and they visited our place in Jerusalem’s Rehavia neighborhood for desserts. (We were not Orthodox but did keep a kosher kitchen; during their visits we used paper plates and fresh plastic cutlery, which worked fine for them.) The fellow, David, invited me several times to study for a day or two (or more) at his yeshiva, “for the experience of it.” Finally, I took him up on his offer, and found the experience intriguing and enriching.
A study partner was arranged for me – a fellow who had graduated from Yale University. We spent some six hours one day studying the first few lines of the Book of Genesis. My partner asked suitable opening questions, and then I had many more. We discussed why the first letter of the Bible was a Bet, instead of Aleph, and the meaning and more implications of the second word in the creation story, barah, which translates to “created.” We read and discussed a commentary by the sage Rashi, and my study partner introduced me to the numerology of the Hebrew letters, and several dramatic “coincidences” in those first Torah passages.
Among the things I digested from this thoughtful first encounter was a newfound appreciation for the depth and range that this type of study engenders, and a thirst for more. It gave me a far deeper understanding of those lines of Torah, and I remember fondly to this day parts of the discussion and the introduction to the process itself.
In exchange for their opportunity to me, I called and invited my two yeshiva friends to join me for a private tiyul, a tour or journey, to some places in Samaria mentioned in the Bible. I had been exploring the areas on a near-weekly basis for several years with a notable tour guide friend, Aaron Pick of Ein Kerem. We had become friends when I was a
neighbor for a few years in that lovely village suburb of Jerusalem. And I had been accepted and began the government-run year-long tour guide course (although it was interrupted by the 1973 war.)
I suggested that we three could go one Friday morning and be back by mid-afternoon well before Shabbat. We might visit Beit El and Shiloh, or Elon Moreh and Joseph’s Tomb. I knew people at the renewed Jewish communities near each of these biblical sites. They were modern Orthodox, and we would visit and have lunch or coffee and cake. It would be an absorbing day for all of us and a special introduction for the two students who had never yet visited those places they had read about.
When I extended my invitation by telephone, my friend responded that he/they appreciated the offer, my inviting them, and that he would ask permission of his Rebbe and get back to me. “Certainly,” I replied, “we can be flexible regarding the day of the week and our schedules.”
A few days later David called me back and said that he and my study partner appreciated my invitation, but would have to decline, since their rabbi recommended that they not go. I recall the daytrip was perceived as a distraction from serious study.
In those days, the areas were relatively safe, and although some still perceived them as slightly dangerous, that possibility did not seem a motive for the negative decision. (In my years exploring the regions, I often did carry a weapon, had a police permit. Only once I felt the need to ready it in my hand, and that situation blew over quietly.)
I said something to the effect of “Sorry, it would be an enjoyable trip. I could explain a lot about the land and its geography. Of course, I am sure both of you will relate to the wonderful places we would go visit that are mentioned in the Bible, and the archeological sites, and we would have some fascinating conversations. But keep it in mind, maybe another time down the line.” And we left the subject.
We continued our acquaintance, and I had a few more study sessions at the yeshiva. A few years later I moved back to America, and we lost touch.
One Sunday afternoon more than 20 years later, the telephone rang in my suburban American home. “Is this the Michael Zimmerman who once lived in Jerusalem?” the voice said.
“Yes. Who is it?”
“This is Rabbi David, of Jerusalem. Remember me?”
“Certainly. What a great surprise!” How were he and his wife? They were fine, and by now several of their children were grown up. My friend was now a rabbi for many years and worked as one of the leaders of the yeshiva where he had learned (and I briefly studied).
“How did you track me down?” I asked. “There are quite a few men named Michael Zimmerman in America.”
“Well, it took quite a number of telephone calls,” he said, “but finally I found someone through an Israel consulate who knew you, and your whereabouts, and here we are talking.
“To what do I owe this wonderful call, this reunion?”
“Well,” he said, “I am in New York visiting family and doing some work, and I have been thinking for several years about trying to find and talk with you.”
“Really, why in particular?” We had been friendly, but not that close.
“Michael, do you remember when you invited me to go on a tiyul to Samaria, after your first yeshiva study experience?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And my Rebbe said I should not accept your invitation.” He paused. “Well, I have thought about that frequently over the years,” he said. “I think it was a mistake for me not to have availed myself of the opportunity you offered. It would have been a wonderful experience and would have complemented my studies. I appreciated your offer and have regretted since that I then felt no option but to turn it down. I thought that you would like to know that.”
“Really. Well, yes. Thank you!”
“And I thought that you would like to know that when I attained some influence in my yeshiva, where I have been working, we have instituted regular tours to the sorts of places to which you were going to introduce me and your long-ago study partner. So that my students learn also not only to appreciate but to become familiar with this special land that God promised to our ancestors and their descendants. I want you to know that your idea is operational today.”
We then talked about his kids and mine, and what we were doing, and exchanged email addresses, and since then have occasionally corresponded.
A couple years later, I went to Israel to visit my daughter who then was working in Tiberias as a volunteer medic with Magen David Adom. This was my first visit to Israel since the rabbi’s telephone call. Of course, my daughter and I spent some days in Jerusalem, and visited the Western Wall. I had parked my rental car in the lot on the shoulder of Mount Zion. On our way back taking a route along the winding pathways of the Old City, I suggested we find the rabbi’s yeshiva, and I explained my connection.
Finally, we found the entrance door to the yeshiva. I went in and inquired for the rabbi and was told he was studying in a classroom across the courtyard. I found it, knocked on the door, entered. There were many small desks with men in black suits and hats engrossed in study around large books. I approached the closest pair and asked quietly, “Is Rabbi David here?”
As the man nodded, I suddenly saw, 30 feet away, a hefty man stand up and heard his strong voice, “Michael Zimmerman! What are you doing here?” And the rabbi strode over, and we smiled, embraced, and shook hands. We then walked outside to the courtyard, where he met my companions, and we all talked for half-an-hour.
I mentioned how pleased I was to have heard from him when he tracked me down in America, and how I enjoyed our email correspondence since. He said quietly, “It felt like overdue business for me to complete. I wanted to tell you, and I guess it was good for you to know. A small thing.”
And I have thought, now that is tshuva over a nice small thing. A quality thing. Not really righting a wrong, but rather a missed opportunity. Correcting something, rectifying it, even many years later. A nice story, perhaps especially for Rosh Hashanah, and the High Holy Days beginning the Jewish year.
The writer was born and raised in the US and has worked in several countries, including Israel, where he taught innovation at the Bezalel department of industrial design, did research on war-peace dynamics and lectured on Jewish political affairs.