I’m ashamed to say I kept this up for around six months. Sometimes I texted Chava without thinking twice, other times I was full of remorse, guilt, and self-hatred for my weakness.

Then I got a call from my older sister Malkie. She’d made aliyah three years earlier, and was working as a teacher in a seminary.

“Hi, Rivkie,” she said. “There’s an opening for an administrative secretary in my seminary. Are you interested?”

“You want me to move to Israel?” I asked, surprised. “Where would I stay?”

“You can stay with me and Shlomie. We could use an extra hand with the kids.”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

“It might be a good way to meet someone new. It seems like you haven’t connected with anyone local.”

Well, I felt like I’d been redt to 95 percent of the frum bochurim in the Tristate area without any luck.

I had nothing to lose. With my parents’ blessing I got on a plane and started a new life, living with my sister and her family and working at a seminary in Yerushalayim.

Starting in a new place made all the difference. I felt like I could be a brand-new Rivkie, not held back by my old bad habits and failings. Being in Yerushalayim changed me. I davened at the Kosel. I saw the sun rising over Har Habayis. I went to shiurim at night and felt the sincerity of the rabbanim and rebbetzins in the seminary. My new job also made me feel better about myself. I grew as a person to the extent that I couldn’t imagine how I ever could have texted on Shabbos.

Yom Kippur came, and I sobbed as I said Vidui and thought of how low I had fallen this past year, filled with remorse for what I’d done. I vowed to observe Shabbos correctly for the rest of my life.

Over the summer my sister told me that one of the rabbanim at the seminary had thought of a shidduch for me. Mayer was an American who had made aliyah and was learning in a yeshivah in Yerushalayim.

He was everything I knew I wanted — a kind, genuine person, with a sincere love of Yiddishkeit. We went out four times and spoke for hours about our lives and the kind of future we envisioned. I never told him about the months I’d struggled with shemiras Shabbos. I was too ashamed and embarrassed to talk about it with anyone, let alone a guy who I wanted to respect me. Besides, I’d kept Shabbos properly for twenty-seven and a half years of my life. I’d done sincere teshuvah for those terrible six months; that chapter of my life was firmly closed.

My parents flew in to meet Mayer. I spoke to his parents over the phone. The next day, Mayer proposed and we had a l’chayim.

Barely a week later, Mayer and I were taking a walk through the Old City, talking about plans for the vort, when I saw Chava walking down the street. She smirked when she saw us, taking in Mayer’s black hat, white shirt, and black pants with his tzitzis hanging out. I felt sick to my stomach. She was the only person who knew my secret. She wouldn’t say anything, would she?

“Chava,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m in Israel for the summer.”

She looked at Mayer and at my modest kallah bracelet. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked with a sly smile.

“This is my chassan, Mayer,” I said uncomfortably.

“Wow!” she said. “Mazel tov!”

“Thank you,” I said. “Im yirtzeh Hashem by you.”

“Who was that?” Mayer asked after she left. “A friend of yours?”

“Oh, no, no. Just someone I know from back home.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was all over. I would probably never see Chava again.

But when I got home, I saw a text from her: u need to tell him

Tell him what?

About half-Shabbos. A guy like that would want to know.

I don’t do that anymore. It was in a past life.

Tell him or I’m going to.

I turned off my phone, my heart racing. Why was she doing this to me? What had I ever done to her? It was probably an empty threat, I told myself. She probably didn’t even know a way to contact him. Even if she told him, he probably wouldn’t believe her.

But the next day, I got a call from Mayer.

“Did you ever text on Shabbos?” he asked me.

“Why would you ask me that?” I asked nervously.

It turned out that Chava had sent a screenshot of some Friday night messages to a cousin of hers who learned in yeshivah with Mayer.

My voice broke. “I was in a really bad place,” I told him. “It was only a short time in my life, and it’s long over.”

Mayer’s voice was stern. “It was a little over a year ago.”

“You know me, you know I would never do anything like that. It’s not who I am anymore. I feel terrible about it, I’ve done teshuvah.”

“I just don’t know who you are anymore or what else in your past you’re hiding.”

A few days later, Mayer called off the shidduch. I was beyond devastated. It took a long time until I was ready to start shidduchim again, and I’m still looking for my bashert.

I never knew why Chava did what she did. No one had asked her for information on me. She volunteered it. Was she seriously concerned about Mayer’s welfare? Was she just jealous and bitter and wanted to ruin my happiness?

I’ve forgiven Chava. I believe that everything happens for a reason, and that Mayer wasn’t my bashert. Perhaps Chava did me a favor. When I meet the right person, he’s going to know about the mistakes in my past and accept me despite them.

A Dream Deferred

The waiter comes into the kitchen looking panic-stricken. “We’re running out of steak on station three.”

I nod. “Ready in five.”

A kitchen worker hands me raw steaks from the refrigerator, and I season them with pepper and salt, then throw them into the pan. The meat sizzles. I ladle a demi-glace over it that we prepped last night. Flames leap into the air.

I turn to my sous-chef. “How long for the schnitzel?”

He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Three minutes, Chef.”

Outside the kitchen, the ballroom is a sight to behold. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, red roses are beautifully arranged in crystal vases, waiters hand out hors d’oeuvres to guests in suits and gowns.

But in here, it’s a completely different scene. We sweat in the kitchen heat, shouting out orders, racing against the clock to feed 500 hungry guests.

Not everyone can deal with the stress of the kitchen, but me — I thrive on it.

I wasn’t great in school. I was a fidgety student who had trouble sitting still behind a desk. My report card was a mixture of Cs and Ds. But I loved helping my mother in the kitchen. Sunday was the day my mother would do meal prep for the whole week, and it was my job to help her.

“You’re amazing!” she’d say. “It would have taken me twice as long to chop those carrots! Where’d you learn those knife skills?”

Most of what I learned I got from reading the cookbooks my mother kept in the kitchen cabinet.

As I got older, my mother started leaving dinner to me. I could make whatever I wanted from the ingredients in the fridge. I was an artist, and food was my palette. Even my siblings would ask for seconds when I was the one behind the stove. Cooking was the one area I excelled at in life.

I knew I wanted to be a chef, and both my parents supported my decision. Rather than go to culinary school, I decided to work my way up in the kitchen. I figured that way I’d start making money right away and learn as I go.

My first job was as a waiter, but I worked my way up to a line-chef, a sous-chef, and then a top chef in a kosher catering company.

Working in a kitchen is incredibly stressful and demanding. I often didn’t get home until 3 a.m.

Working such crazy hours, it was hard to find the right girl. A lot of women couldn’t handle my profession, but baruch Hashem, a shadchan set me up with Shana, and things felt right from the start. I was working as a line-chef at the time.

Shana’s the biggest brachah Hashem has given me. She’s always been incredibly supportive and never complains when I work late or because I can’t give her the princess lifestyle some of her sisters enjoy.

I liked working at the catering company, but the pay wasn’t amazing even though I was a top chef. By now we had four mouths to feed and school tuition to pay.

One day, I came in early, before the kitchen opened. I knocked on my boss’s door and asked for a raise.

“I’m sorry, Menashe,” Aharon sighed. “Inflation’s so high, and the cost of kosher meat seems to rise by the day. My margins are already paper thin. Why don’t you ask me again next year?”

The next morning, I made Shana French toast and told her all about it. “I know I deserve that raise after all the work I put into this company. Honestly, I’m thinking of leaving and starting my own catering company.”

Shana put down her fork. “Are you serious?”

“I really am. I’ve watched Aharon for a long time. I know how he does it. I think I could do a better job than him.”

“You’d have to take out a loan. It sounds risky.”

I untied my apron and threw it on the counter. “The risk is worth the reward. You see all these guys making it big? Building mansions and making donations to the shul? What’s the difference between me and them? I work as hard as any of them, but my work is going to make someone else rich. That’s why you’ve got to be your own boss.”

“Just promise me you won’t do anything rash.” Shana said. “Let’s really plan and figure this out before you do anything, okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “I won’t do anything without talking to you.”

I spent six months coming up with a business plan. I knew exactly how much it would cost to rent a commercial kitchen, hire workers, create marketing materials, and get licenses and permits. I identified what clientele I wanted to serve — I didn’t want to compete with my boss, who mainly did high-end weddings and bar mitzvahs. I would start out doing smaller and simpler events.

I knew the hardest part is usually raising capital. I didn’t want to get money from a bank with their exorbitant interest fees. I decided to ask my parents for the money. It wasn’t an easy thing for me to ask my parents for money. I wanted to be independent. I wanted them to be proud of me. I felt embarrassed to ask my parents who were on a fixed retirement income for help. But my parents had helped out some of my siblings with college tuition, and I’d never asked for a dime. I needed their help if I was going to make my business idea a reality. I showed them my business plan and asked them for $30,000.

“We believe in you,” my father said, writing me a check for the full amount.

“I hope this means you’ll be the caterer at our fiftieth anniversary party,” my mother said with a smile.

When I gave my boss a month’s notice, he didn’t take it well.

“A month?” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not gonna work. Oh, no, no. I’m going to need at least two months to find your replacement and have you train him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve got something else lined up.”

“What?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

“I’m actually starting my own catering company.”

Aharon’s face turned red. “You can’t do that! It’s in your contract!”

There was actually nothing in my contract that prohibited me from what I wanted to do. I’d gone over it with a lawyer. My contract with Aharon only said that I couldn’t go after his clients.

“Don’t worry! I’m not competing with you.” I laughed to lighten the mood. “Believe me, I’m only catching the small fish — the ones you’d throw back. I’m leaving the big fish for you.”

“You can’t do this to me!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mind’s made up.”

“You’re making a huge mistake! You’re going to regret this. You think it’s so easy running an operation like this? You’ll see — mark my words — in three months you’re going to come in here, begging for your job back!”

IT was very strange. People who had promised me that I could cater their son’s upsheren, or their daughter’s vort, suddenly had a change of plans. In three months, I’d done only a handful of events. I didn’t understand it. I had a beautiful kitchen, great staff, delicious food, and barely any clients to show for it. When I was hired for an event, I poured my heart and soul into it. I hired a social media marketer to take photos of the food and put them up on social media. I know catering is a hard business to break into, but I was so good. Surely, word would get out.

A chef I had worked with in the past called me out of the blue.

“I heard about what you’re doing. I think it’s really brave, but I’ve got to tell you, Aharon’s spreading rumors about you.”

“Rumors? What do you mean?”

“He says that he fired you because you’re not clean. Your work space was always dirty. That you can’t afford to buy high-quality ingredients, so your food is going to be second-rate. Crazy stuff.”

“You’re joking?”

“I’m sorry, Menachem. I thought you should know.”

I shook my head. I hadn’t expected this kind of behavior from a frum Yid.

Sooner than later, I ran out of money to keep the business going. The most painful day of my life was telling my parents that I was closing my business, and I wasn’t sure when, or if, I would earn their money back. They were so kind about it. My mother said, “It’s not because you’re not a great chef! No one cooks better than you, Menachem.”

My father said, “To succeed in life, you’ve got to fail first.”

But despite the positive spin they put on it, I knew losing that money would be hard on them. They canceled a trip to Israel they were planning, and I knew that was on me.

My wife was supportive, as always. She never once reproached me for leaving a steady job for a pipe dream.

I got another job as a chef in a restaurant. Someone I knew from a past job had recommended me, and baruch Hashem, the owner hadn’t heard Aharon’s lies about me. My cooking spoke for itself. I would have loved to be my own boss, but you don’t get everything you want in life. I’m blessed to have an amazing family and to do work I love every day.

And Aharon still hasn’t asked for my forgiveness.

Nasty Reverberations

IT was a busy Sunday afternoon at the pizza shop. I was sitting in a booth with my two best friends, Yehudis and Sheva, eating pizza and drinking soda. We were joking around as usual, and Yehudis had us laughing so hard soda was coming out of my nose.

Then a girl from our class, Masha, walked by our table in a pink velour track sweater and an ankle-length black skirt. “Nice sweater,” Yehudis called out. “Where’d you get it, Walmart?”

Sheva and I burst into laughter, while Masha stomped away without glancing in our direction.

“Ohmigosh! You’re so bad, Yudi,” Sheva said.

“Yeah, I think you might have hurt her feelings,” I agreed.

“What?” Yehudis said. “I was giving her a compliment. She doesn’t get many of those.”

We burst into laughter again.

Yehudis was always exciting to be around. One day during class she passed around the following note: “As you’re all aware, Rabbi Kohn’s unibrow has been causing him major shalom bayis problems. His wife is considering leaving him, and he must shower her with gifts to keep her. Unfortunately, on his salary, this isn’t possible. Please consider contributing to this important tzedakah campaign.”

When Rabbi Kohn found the note, his face turned red, and he demanded to know who’d written it. Yehudis denied responsibility and there wasn’t any proof, but everyone knew only Yehudis would have the chutzpah to do something like that.

There were a few girls that Yehudis chose to pick on regularly. Masha, the daughter of Russian immigrants. Jenna, whose family became BTs when she was eight. Tamar, who always sat in front and waved her hand around frantically whenever the teacher asked a question.

Yehudis was always getting called into the principal’s office, but her parents gave major donations to the school. No matter what she did she always walked away with nothing more than a discussion about the importance of “respecting everyone in the classroom.”

I looked up to Yehudis for her bravery and sense of humor. I thought she was hilarious and cracked up at all her jokes. It didn’t hurt that she always treated Sheva and me when we went out for pizza or ice cream, and that her parents gave us a great time when we slept over at her house for Shabbos. In my ninth-grade naivete, I didn’t realize just how mean-spirited her jokes were, how hurtful her ona’as devarim was. I just loved that this cool, clever, daring girl wanted to be friends with me.

My parents had no idea what was going on. Yehudis always dressed tzniyusdig, she came from a “good home,” and she was always respectful when she came to my house. My grades were good, and because I wasn’t the ringleader, I hardly ever got in trouble. One of the teachers mentioned to my mother at a parent-teacher conference that Yehudis wasn’t a good influence on me, but my mother never knew the extent of it.

As I got older, Yehudis’s antics started to make me uncomfortable. I’d get a knot in my stomach when she’d start to make a joke at someone else’s expense. Sometimes I’d laugh a little, then say, “C’mon, Yehudis, be nice!” But I was afraid of rocking the boat too much. If Yehudis dumped me, where would I sit at lunch? Would I even be able to make new friends at this point?

When we got into different seminaries, I was relieved. I could finally start over without Yehudis. And once I got back from seminary and started college, I hardly thought about Yehudis, or my own behavior in high school. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t feel particularly bad about it. Yehudis had done the really mean stuff; I’d just laughed along. Anyway, we were all kids at the time, and high school felt like a long time ago.

Eventually I was redt to Yosef, and we hit it off. We went out a few times, and I started to realize that this was really heading somewhere. Soon enough, we dropped the shadchan, and things began to look serious. Very serious.

On one date, he mentioned that his  cousins had gone to the same high school as me.

“I think one of my cousins might have been in your year,” he said.

“Really?” I asked. “What’s her name?”

“Masha Grossman.”

“I remember her! Yeah, she was in my class What’s she up to these days? How’s she doing?”

I wasn’t a bit worried. I had nothing against Masha, and I didn’t think she had anything against me. We had just been high school kids joking around. Sticks and stones, right?

But the next day Yosef called me. “My  mother spoke to my cousin, and she said you were a mean girl in high school. She said she cried every day in the bathroom because you and your friends were so awful, making fun of her clothes and her parents’ accents. She said you’re a bully.”

“A bully? I promise you I wasn’t. I never said anything nasty to her. It was all coming from another girl, and anyway she was just joking around.”

“It wasn’t just joking to Masha.”

“I’m sorry if I hurt your cousin. I can apologize to her.”

“I’m sorry, Avigayil. I don’t think this is going to work out. My cousin said you made her life a nightmare. It will hurt her to see us together, and honestly… I don’t understand how you could have had any part in something like this. It scares me.”

I closed my eyes. Pain washed over me. “All right. I wish you the best. I’m sure you’ll make someone a great husband one day.”

The next day, I took a bike ride to clear my mind. It suddenly dawned on me that while I had been having a good time in high school, laughing at Yehudis’s callous comments and mean jokes, I’d really hurt people. I’d been laughing while they’d been dying inside.

I cried and asked Hashem for forgiveness, and then I called Masha and apologized.

“I’m sorry I was so mean in high school. I’m so sorry that I hurt you,” I said.

“You’re only saying that because you want to marry my cousin,” she said angrily. “Well, he’s not interested. Too bad.”

“No, I’m genuinely sorry. I want to ask mechilah.”

“I can’t give it right now,” she said grudgingly. “Ask again in a few months.” She hung up the phone.

I couldn’t apologize to everyone in my high school, but I did call Jenna and Tamar to ask them for mechilah. Tamar forgave me with an open heart and gave me brachos for the future. Jenna ripped me to shreds. “I’m not frum today because of you. Good luck when you get to Shamayim.”

I called my rav and asked him how I could atone for what I’d done.

“Don’t dwell on the bad,” he said, “instead, add to the good.”

He explained that feeling guilty is the work of the yetzer hara and only leads someone to depression, chas v’shalom.

I listened to his advice and started volunteering with an organization that helps special-needs kids. I signed up to learn two halachos of lashon hara a day and to be careful about what comes out of my mouth. I think I’ve grown as a person.

But Yosef wasn’t the only boy to say no to me after learning what I’d done in high school. There have been other shidduchim suggested that turned me down after hearing from a sister or a cousin that I was a high school mean girl. Back then, I never could have imagined much my going along with Yehudis’s nastiness would hurt others. Or how much it would hurt me.

A Broken Spirit

“Mendel, stop fidgeting and pay attention!”

“Mendel, stop kicking Tzviki’s chair right now! Do you want to go to the principal’s office again?”

“Mendel, you doodled all over the page! Now you need to start all over.”

The rebbi’s face was always a mask of anger whenever he looked at me. His eyebrows would knit together, his forehead would furrow, his voice would turn shrill and sarcastic. I would shrink in my chair whenever he so much as glanced in my direction. For years, his angry face haunted my dreams.

I was admittedly a particularly challenging ten-year-old. I wouldn’t be diagnosed with ADHD until I was an adult, but the signs were all there. I was trying so hard, though. I wanted so badly for Rebbi to like me. With the other boys he would smile, or laugh, or nod in approval, but I felt like I couldn’t so much as open my mouth without getting sent to the principal’s office. I tried to listen, to keep my hands to myself, not to fidget or call out, but I would inevitably forget — and Rebbi was there to catch my every mistake.

The other boys knew that Rebbi hated me, which only encouraged them to pick on me. The bullies would push me at recess, or hide my books and make fun of me. School was a living nightmare, and home wasn’t much better, with my parents struggling to deal with my impulsivity and the negative reports they constantly received from everyone.

“He’s a troublemaker.” The rebbi would call home to complain about me to my parents. “He has no respect for authority. You have to do a better job disciplining him.”

So after a horrible day at school, I’d come home and have my father yell at me, and my mother would sigh and say, “Oh, Mendel, could you at least try to listen to the rebbi?”

My only escape was drawing. I loved coming up with stories in my head and then drawing them. There weren’t any art classes in my school, so I’d draw on the margins of my notes or worksheets. Of course, that only got me into more trouble, but I couldn’t help it.

I was so happy when fifth grade was finally over. I felt like a prisoner serving his last day. Summer was a blissful respite from the stresses of the classroom. I went to camp, where I got to play sports and go swimming — I shone at both! — and I’d heard that the sixth-grade rebbi was nice. I davened that he would like me, and I’d have a better year.

After a great summer, I went back to school hopeful and excited. I had a new briefcase, new pencils and shoes, and a new attitude. This would be my year. I would pay attention and do well in school. The rebbi would like me, and my parents would be proud of me.

The new rebbi seemed nice. He was younger than last year’s rebbi; he seemed gentle and smiled often. But right before recess on the first day of school, Rebbi asked me to wait inside.

I stood next to his desk. Rebbi stroked his beard. “Your last year’s rebbi told me you like to cause trouble. Is that true?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Well, there won’t be any trouble in my class, is that clear?”

I looked at my shoes. “Yes.”

“Okay, you can join your friends outside.”

I went outside and found a tree to hide behind where I could cry without anyone seeing me. I had wanted a fresh start so badly. I’d been so optimistic that my rebbi would like me this year, but then last year’s rebbi had tainted everything with his ugly words. Now my reputation as a “bad boy” would follow me to sixth grade. I cried at the injustice of it all. No one truly saw me as I was. No one saw how hard I was trying, how desperately I wanted to be good. All they saw were my flaws.

Having been warned against me, Rebbi was on the lookout for any trouble from me. If I fidgeted, or clumsily dropped something on the floor, rather than see it as the mistake of a struggling kid, Rebbi would assume I was deliberately trying to make trouble. I was yelled at and sent to the principal’s office more than any other kid in the class.

My reputation followed me from grade to grade until I finally moved on to mesivta. The mesivta I went to was small, with a warm approach and rebbeim who understood and supported me. I continued from there on to beis medrash, where I also did well. After beis medrash, I decided to pick up those drawing skills again. Today, I’m an artist, and I baruch Hashem have a wonderful family.

But the scars are still there. The voice in my head that tells me I’m not good enough, that I’ll never amount to anything. I hear that voice all the time… and it sounds just like my fifth-grade rebbi’s.

One day I was in a different shul than I normally attend, and I saw my fifth-grade rebbi. He was older and grayer, but I recognized him instantly. My chest tightened. I turned to leave, when the thought struck me. Should I tell him what he did to me? I felt panicky at the thought, but I also remembered what I’d learned about lo sisna es achicha bilvavecha — don’t hate your brother in your heart. If someone has hurt you, you need to be straightforward and tell them what they did. Give them a chance to do teshuvah. With my heart racing and my palms sweating, I walked over him.

“Rebbi, do you remember me?”

He shook his head. “I’ve had a lot of students, baruch Hashem.”

“Well, I definitely remember you. I’m Mendel Hoffner. I was in your fifth-grade class.”

He smiled. “You know, I don’t remember all my students, but you, I can’t forget.”

I swallowed. “You know, Rebbi… that was a really hard year for me. I was just a kid, and I was struggling. You assumed I was trying to make trouble, but I really was trying to do the best I could.”

Rebbi nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that it was such a hard year for you. Some kids really do have a hard time in school, it takes them longer to grow up. But look at you, you look great. Your parents must be so proud.”

By now my chest was pounding but I forged ahead. “Yes. But… the reason I wanted to talk to Rebbi… I felt like Rebbi was always upset at me, that you didn’t realize how hard I was trying. Your rebuking me gave the other boys license to make fun of me, and it meant that my parents were always upset at me. And then, when I got up to sixth grade and learned that you’d warned my new rebbi about me… it just broke me. I felt that no one believed in me. Baruch Hashem, things straightened out in mesivta, but it was a really rough couple of years.”

Rebbi was no longer smiling. He looked at the ground, his face grave, and shifted his weight. Finally, he looked up and met my gaze.

“Mendel, please believe me that I’m so sorry for any way I hurt you. I didn’t know… I was doing the best I could do, too, Mendel. Will you be mochel me?”

I thought about it for a moment. He probably had done his best as a rebbi thrust into a classroom with 35 boys, without the training to deal with a kid with ADHD. I searched my heart and realized I had no animosity for him anymore. “I’m mochel you, Rebbi.”

We spoke for a few more moments, then shook hands. I walked away with a lump in my throat as I realized I was free at last from the anger and bitterness that had haunted me for so long.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 904)