The Torah says that one should live near Talmidei
Chachomim, do business with them, marry one's daughters
to them, but I don't think it has anything to say about
crashing into their cars.
A few weeks ago, I had an errand to do in Jerusalem's
chareidi Mattersdorf neighborhood. I was
overscheduled, running late. On Panim Meirot, Mattersdorf's
main and only street, I found a small space between two cars
right in front of the place where I needed to go.
I'm not a great parallel parker, especially in tight spots,
but there being no other choice, I'd have to back in.
Driving slowly and I thought cautiously, I manuevered my
Nissan into the space.
As I was sliding, I heard something, not a boom or a bang --
a softer sound -- more like a tap. My fender had made
contact with the bumper of the car in front of me. It wasn't
anything, I thought. At worst, maybe a scratch.
I locked the car and walked away,
But then the lingering voice of my conscience spoke up.
Better have a look to make sure.
I turned around to look.
The car was a Suzuki compact, sparkling silver, brand new,
fresh from the showroom. The fender was bent in and the
shiny new paintwork shattered into little triangular
mosaics.
How did one little tap do all that?
My heart was drumming in my chest. My mouth got dry, my
hands sweaty.
Oh no, what kind of terrible driver I am. How could I
have done something so stupid. Maybe I should just hand in
my license and take busses instead.
I had done it. It was my fault. I had to own it. As I bent
over the hood to scribble my note of apology, an older man,
distinguished looking with a long grey beard, stopped . He
was the owner.
"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I'm so sorry."
This was the moment I had been dreading -- the moment when
he would surely let his tongue run wild.
It was almost a ritual in road accidents. How many times had
I looked out of my sideview mirror to see drivers pulled
over to the shoulder, straining their vocal cords in fury.
I'd almost been there myself -- several years earlier, when
I broke the front light of a brand new Saab.
"Please don't yell at me. I'll pay all the damage but,
please, don't yell at me." I begged. It worked.
The SAAB owner, an Israeli physician, held back. We settled
quietly without any elevated decibels.
Then last winter my car snuggled up to the adjacent car, as
I was sliding out of a narrow parking space. The other
driver, a Russian immigrant, thought I'd scratched his
paintwork
"You idiot. You don't know how to drive. You don't belong on
the road ."
"I'll pay for the damage," I said in a cowed voice.
He walked away without taking my details. I guessed that I
hadn't touched the car after all but his words ripped
through me like a pneumatic drill poised at my heart.
This time was completely different.
Instead of yelling, this Suzuki owner offered me comfort --
me, the culprit, the person who had perpetrated an assault
on his car.
"Don't worry. Don't get so upset. It's no big deal."
'No big deal? It's a brand new car. You'll have to waste
time going to the garage to get it fixed. Of course it's a
big deal."
I hadn't convinced him. We exchanged phone numbers. He was
calm, even smiling. I recognized his name -- he was a rabbi
a scholar, a Talmid Chochom.
The rest of the day I was in a daze -- I had cracked
someone's brand new car and he didn't even get mad.
Was this real? No, this was the power of Torah.
To turn an ordinary man into an angel.
And I had seen it happen with my own eyes.
