After hearing that, I didn’t stop studying. But I did give in to the temptation to bring a tiny crib sheet of my own to the tests. I wasn’t proud of myself — this was cheating. I justified it to myself by reasoning that I was only using the crib sheet when I was absolutely stumped, and I wasn’t doing it out of a desire to beat the system.

None of that mattered, though, because one day, in the middle of a test, I glanced up and saw the teacher walking toward me. He must have seen my crib sheet.

I remembered a story about the Rambam, when one of the sultan’s ministers was jealous of him. The minister got the sultan to agree to have the Rambam choose between two pieces of paper, one inscribed with “death” and the other, supposedly, with “life.” Really, the minister had written “death” on both pieces of paper. But Rambam outsmarted him; he chose one paper and immediately swallowed it. When the minister protested, the Rambam replied that if the other paper had the word “death,” it would prove that his paper said “life.”

I used the Rambam’s brilliant plan and quickly swallowed my crib sheet.

But my teacher was not persuaded of my innocence, like the sultan had been with the Rambam, and next thing I knew, I was sent to meet with Reb Kalman Stern, the menahel.

“Before we get into whatever it was that you did or didn’t do,” Reb Kalman began, “I want to stress that the most important thing for a Yid is to be an erliche person who tells the emes. Hiding the truth might help someone avoid punishment in the short term, but it will hurt him terribly in the long term.”

Reb Kalman looked me straight in the eye. “Our job here is to train you for your future. Now we’re going to discuss what happened. You might be tempted to lie, but it will be much better for you if you tell the truth.”

I nodded.

Reb Kalman told me what the English teacher had reported and asked for my side.

Feeling I could trust him, I didn’t hold anything back. I admitted I had been cheating and told him how overwhelmed I felt by the weekly vocabulary test, on top of all my other studies.

Reb Kalman was very understanding, encouraging me to come talk to him about any problems.

“Had you come to discuss this issue with me, I could have arranged something with the teacher,” he said. “But cheating is not tolerated here, and I have to punish you for what you did.”

He explained that anyone who cheats gets suspended for a week, and that even though my Torah learning would be hurt by this, the rosh yeshivah held “bitulah zeh hu kiyumah” — the punishment would help me recognize the severity of my actions.

“I want to salvage your honor, though,” he said, after a slight pause. “Today is Monday, and I really should send you home now. But then everyone will know why you’re not here.”

He instructed me that for this off Shabbos, I should leave on Thursday with everyone else, but instead of returning Sunday night, I should come back Wednesday, and if anyone asked, to say I had a personal issue to deal with.

Reb Kalman concluded, “This won’t go on your record. It will remain between me, you, and the rosh yeshivah — and I’ll call your father to explain.”

I had a lot of time to think about Reb Kalman’s words during my suspension. Did the whole thing cause me bizyonos? Yes, but not in the yeshivah — only personally. And as he predicted, I still remember that suspension, and that cheating is not an option, and to this day, I carry with me Reb Kalman’s lesson: “Shivisi Hashem l’negdi tamid” — Hashem is always watching over me. —

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1103)