Avrumi Finkelstein who was in the fourth grade was having a problem in school.
It began early in the year. By Chanukah his parents were in crisis mode.
Every evening when Avrumi sat down to do his homework he would insist that the rebbi only assigned half the questions on the homework sheet. Whichever older brother or sister had the “chore” of doing homework with him was only too happy to be finished helping Avrumi earlier and getting back to their own stuff.
However one Shabbos afternoon when Avrumi’s friend Nachum came over to play Nachum’s mother took Esther Finkelstein’s up on her offer to stay and chat.
As the mothers were talking they remarked how strange it was that the rebbi always assigned only half of the sheet for homework.
Soon it became clear that although both boys were in agreement that the rebbi only assigned half of the sheet each boy always claimed a different half was the night’s homework.
As neither mother wanted her son labeled as dishonest they both put off contacting the school. They also wanted to stop their sons’ chicanery however and that’s when they came to me.
They asked me to deal with the boys’ double-dealing without involving the school.
As the two boys entered my office I asked Hashem for special inspiration for I had no idea what to tell them.
I served them some kokosh cake with milk as I stalled to come up with something. And as I stared at the kokosh cake a memory filled my mind a memory from 45 years ago in Brooklyn.
Suddenly it became clear to me what to say.
“Boys let me tell you a story about a different kokosh cake from 45 years ago.
“When I was a boy I would often eat at my best friend Shimon Klein’s house on Shabbos. At the end of the meal his mother would serve kokosh cake. Mrs. Klein’s kokosh cake was known all over the neighborhood as the best.
“One Friday night there was a large crowd at the Klein’s. As Mrs. Klein was clearing the dishes one of the guests declared ‘We’ve all left room for your famous kokosh cake; I hope you baked today!’
“Shimon opened his mouth to say something but his mother waved him off saying ‘Of course there’s kokosh cake; what would Shabbos be without it?’
“As Mrs. Klein headed to the kitchen Shimon jumped up from his chair grabbed my hand and charged in after her.
“Shimon stammered ‘Mom I tried to tell you… Mrs. Gottlieb called this afternoon to tell you that she couldn’t bring over her kokosh cake because she broke her hip.’
“Mrs. Klein’s face turned red and then white as her years of deception of paying Mrs. Gottlieb to bake cakes for her and then serving them as her own were uncovered.”
I looked at the boys in my office 45 years later who’d stopped eating their kokosh cake and were looking at me with their mouths gaping open.
“Boys ” I said continuing the story “I don’t remember what Mrs. Klein said to her guests when she reentered the room. I do know however that from that day on Shimon and I never ever copied each other’s homework again!”
When I saw Mrs. Finkelstein in shul the next week she was ecstatic.
“Rabbi how can I ever thank you? Avrumi is a changed boy. He won’t tell me what you told them; he just said something about kokosh cake. Please tell me what you said!”
“Nothing really ” I said. “I just told them about a 45-year-old kokosh cake that was so good that although it was never eaten I can still taste it today.” —