Grudges: You got to know when to hold ’em; you got to know when to fold ’em. – With apologies to Kenny Rogers
I have spent the greater part of my adult life in the real estate industry. Not the construction end but rather the business side, and from that perspective you learn two things quickly.
One, unrented space is not good, and two, a tenant who doesn’t pay the rent is infinitely worse.
We can therefore extrapolate that holding a grudge is just a variation of point number two – someone living in your head “rent-free.”
On a Sunday in the late summer of 2019, I was getting ready to board an El Al flight to Israel when I got a call from my normally closed office. “Someone just called saying they owe you money.”
“Great,” I told my assistant, “we can always use money. Have him call, we’re still on the ground!”
Within a minute, I was whisked back to the mid-1990s, where a friend and I bankrolled a young “entrepreneur” to help start an import-export business between Israel and North America. It was not a large amount of seed money, but enough to do a month’s worth of research.
In return, what we got was an unwritten: “I don’t think the products will sell.” C’est tout! I never heard from him again until that Sunday. In fact, I hardly ever thought of him or even remembered his name.
“I’d like to apologize and meet with you to return the money I took (25 years ago), without giving you full value.”
“That’s so nice of you; however, I am going to Israel today for Rosh Hashanah and to be honest, I don’t need the (greatly devalued) money. For the most part, I have forgotten and forgiven the debt. But one thing I did not forgive you for – not inviting me to your wedding (which took place a few months after he returned). Shana Tova, be well.”
The silence on the other end was deafening; he never expected to hear that it wasn’t all about money. In fact, had he invited me to his wedding, I probably wouldn’t have gone anyway – they’re too long, too tedious, and I’d have to wear a suit – ugh!
Money and apologies
ALMOST 60 years ago I was involved in another “money” incident. In 1968, my father, of blessed memory, and I ventured to Israel – his only trip. My mother had passed away the previous year, and our lives were pretty turned upside-down. The trip was our bonding. It was also Israel’s 20th anniversary and the Jewish people were still riding the high of the 1967 Six Day War miracle. So, what could go wrong?
My father was the youngest of a large family, which was sometimes well-off, sometimes not; most perished in the Holocaust. So, for my father, family was paramount. When he was asked by a cousin to take an envelope of money, my dad was more than happy to oblige (not listening to the warning of his 14-year-old son).
If you have no idea what 1960s Israel was like, picture Afghanistan, only with Hebrew script. The buses traveled on Highway #1, on the climb to Jerusalem, with half of their wheels barely hugging the cliff. Nobody sat on the bus; they slept, one arm on the seat in front taking the place of a pillow. If you didn’t do the same you would most likely have a large head-like dent in your back.
Not only was transportation an adventure – so was the concept of street addresses and lights – neither were up to our North American standards. By the time we found my father’s cousin’s daughter’s apartment building, I felt like quoting Dorothy of Oz fame and saying: “Tutty, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas (or in Tel Aviv) anymore.”
Finding her actual unit was not any easier. And of course, no one was home, so we slipped the envelope under “a” door; The rest, as they say, “is history.”
My father was accused of stealing the money (a hurt that would never leave him) – and even with an offer of restitution, his cousin could not be placated.
Years later, I ran into him at our local Jewish community center. My attempt to bring peace was met with an icy “get out of my way” stare (or maybe he just wasn’t a fan of my Montreal Expos cap – we shall never know). The grudge/feud would finally end with their passing.
SOMEWHERE IN the top echelon of the 365 negative laws in the Torah, there is a five-word commandment: “Do not bear a grudge” (Leviticus 19:18). Rashi, the great Torah commentator, observes that it means “the retention of enmity in the heart.” However, I prefer the more simplistic version that’s attributed to the great bishop St. Augustine of the fifth century: “Holding a grudge is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.”
In other words, there is no upside to holding a grudge.
In my hometown across the pond, Chabad has a huge electronic signboard on a main thoroughfare a few blocks from my house. It is used mainly to announce shul events, Shabbat candle lighting times, etc. But on the eve of Yom Kippur, just minutes before the fast begins, the sign becomes a three-word message undersigned by G-d: “All is Forgiven.”
Talk about personification with a sprinkling of presumptuousness. I used to giggle every time I saw it – that is, until I figured out what the sign was really saying. (Which just happens to have been while writing this meandering piece). It is not relevant whether God has forgiven us or not; what is important is that God is communicating to us that we must be the forgiving ones, by showing us the way.
“All is forgiven” means no holding back; no grudges, no enmity, and most importantly, no self-inflicted poison. And not for some – but for all!
Gmar tov.■
The writer is a part-time journalist and, much to the irritation of his sons, a full-time father and grandfather.