As told to Sharon Gelbach

Igrew up in one of the relatively new Israeli neighborhoods, with mostly young families. We had a large Bais Yaakov nearby, but my parents opted to send me to a smaller private school that attracted families who gave their children a more sheltered upbringing. Since the school was just starting out, there were only three grades, and, lacking a building, it was housed in a few caravans in a parking lot, about a ten-minute drive from our home. Consequently, while most of my friends from our neighborhood walked to school and back every day, I, together with a handful of friends from the surrounding neighborhoods, were bused.

Taking a school bus sounds like a simple arrangement, and the morning ride was, in fact, pretty uneventful. Although, I have to add, the word bus is being overgenerous — our tender was a cranky old minibus that looked like it had been resurrected from the garbage dump. Inside the diesel-scented interior, there were no seats, only narrow benches running along both sides of the vehicle, so that you leaned back against the unlined metal shell, banging into the exposed siding every time the irascible driver slammed on the brakes.

The drive back probably also should have been uncomplicated, but for the fact that we were a bunch of spirited kids in grades one to three who were made to wait on the sidewalk, hungry and tired after a long morning of sitting in class, and under the supervision of our luckless chaperone, Levana — a weary, ageless woman who was accompanied by her autistic daughter, Ilana. Add to that the fact that our collection point was at the corner of a main street that wound around and around and then suddenly became straight, so that most cars naturally sped up exactly where we stood, adding to Levana’s angst.

On most days, our ride arrived on time, and Levana didn’t have much to do other than herd our group of about 20 girls onto the minibus, and then sit up front with Ilana to make sure we behaved. There were days, however, when the minibus was delayed, and we were left to languish in the broiling midday sun. A few of the bolder girls would pretend to run away, giggling and scampering off to a shady refuge, much to Levana’s consternation. On those occasions, she’d become exasperated, huffing and puffing as she tried to keep an eye on us.

“Girls!” she’d shout, “next time you do that, I’m going to tell Morah Malka, and it won’t be funny,” a threat that was usually enough to bring us back in line.

Looking back, I feel sorry for her; she really had a tough job, and a rough time with us. (Things are much more regulated today, but in those days, conditions were primitive in our fledgling neighborhood.)

My friend Suri was more mischievous than the rest of us, and had a streak of impulsivity. She was always up to something, and often got into enough trouble to earn a phone call to her mother. In a larger school with a more varied student body, her behavior probably wouldn’t have garnered so much attention, but in our school, she really stood out.

One day, as we were waiting for the minibus to come, it seemed as if Suri had made it her mission to provoke Levana big time. After repeated infractions, Suri suddenly hopped onto the street. Levana ran after her in a rage, and grabbed her arm roughly.

“Enough! That’s it!” she said through gritted teeth.

Suri withdrew her arm violently and in the process, delivered a blow to Levana. Shocked at Suri’s chutzpah, I ran to the other girls to tell them the sensational news.

“Can you believe it? Suri hit Levana!” To this day I don’t know what moved me to do this, but I then seamlessly added: “And she also said that she stinks like a sewer!”

Our group, which had been unruly and restless, suddenly froze for a second. None of us would ever hit a grownup, much less call them names. After that, mayhem broke out, with everyone talking at once.

“Suri actually hit Levana? How could she?”

“Stinks? Like a sewer? That’s mean!”

“Who’d believe that even Suri could go that far?”

“She’s really in for it this time…”

By the time the minibus came, Levana was convinced she’d heard Suri address her with the insult — and that was exactly what she repeated to Morah Malka later that evening, when she gave our teacher a rundown of the miserable incident.

The repercussions were swift and harsh. Suri’s mother was summoned to school and Suri was suspended for a few days. Suri was ashamed, but also angry. She knew she was guilty of chutzpah, she knew she deserved to be punished, but the false claim devestated her.

“I never said that!” she cried, “It was someone else!”

But no one believed her. Why should they? She was always getting into some kind of trouble, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d given lip.

At one point, still claiming innocence, she asked the principal to call me as a witness. “Ask Faigy Teitelbaum! She’ll tell you that I never said such a thing!”

I was later called to the principal’s office, where I felt my skin crawl with trepidation. But there was no way I could tell the truth. I had to save my own skin.

“Yes, she said that,” I said. I felt for the first time in my life what it means to betray a friend.

“You see?” the principal scolded Suri. “Even Faigy Teitelbaum said that you said it. How can you keep denying it?”

In our small school, the scandal was talked about for a long time. Unfortunately, Suri’s relationship with Morah Malka, which had never been great, was now ruined. Suri, who’d always been known as problematic, was now branded with a stigma that she could never live down. And since Levana continued to chaperone us for another couple of years until the school moved to a building, Suri continued to suffer from the bad blood with her, too.

As we got older, Suri would recall the incident every so often, reliving the hurt all over again. Sure, she liked to keep things hopping in class, but she was honest — that’s why it was so inconceivable to her that anyone else would say such an outright lie.

“Remember how they accused me of saying that Levana stinks? I’ll never forgive the girl who said that.”

“Really! What a mean thing to do!” I’d agree with her, while deep inside I felt like the worst hypocrite and liar that ever walked the face of the earth.

After eighth grade, Suri and I went to different high schools and rarely saw each other anymore. I’d be exaggerating if I said I was haunted by what I did; it’s not as if she’d been blameless, and I didn’t dwell on it. However, whenever the thought did cross my mind, I felt weighed down by terrible guilt.

In high school, I had wonderful teachers who helped me discover the depth of Yiddishkeit and who gifted me with the tools for self-study. I remember feeling the delight of mastering classic texts, while growing in ruchniyus. We also learned about the teshuvah process, and every Erev Yom Kippur I’d feel that I had to tell Suri the truth and ask for mechilah, but I could never muster up the courage.

Meanwhile, we both finished high school, then seminary, and went our separate ways. Years passed. Suri married a fine avreich, but was still waiting for children. And me? Somehow the natural progression of things eluded me — I’d fallen into the category of “older single,” still waiting for my bashert. I can’t point to any specific reason why, but one Elul, I decided the time had come to finally do what I had to do — fix up my account with Shamayim and… Suri. I was still afraid to own up to the truth, though. I went to the Kosel Hamaaravi and davened to Hashem with all my strength. As I hugged the wall, my eyes closed, and I begged for the courage to confront Suri and tell her what I’d done so many years ago. When I finished davening, I started walking away from the Kosel, backward, until I reached the edge of the women’s section. When I turned around, I found myself face-to-face with Suri and her husband.

I was shocked beyond words, and felt the blood drain from my face. I knew I had to act fast before I lost the momentum, and my courage. “Suri, I have to tell you something,” I said, pulling her aside. Her husband took the hint and proceeded to the men’s side. Then I sat down with Suri and told her everything.

She wasn’t angry. She didn’t say the slightest thing to make me feel bad. All she asked was that I clear her name. “Could you track down Levana and tell her the truth? I’d always wanted to ask her for mechilah for the hard times I gave her, but I couldn’t get myself to do it. Would you do it for me?”

I managed to locate Levana without difficulty. Suri remembered her last name, and she still lived at the same address. When I spoke to her, she immediately recalled those years. She didn’t remember my name, but she sure remembered Suri. “You girls were really very bad,” she said. “It was torture having to look after you.”

I let her speak. I knew she was right. Then I apologized, for all of us, and especially for Suri. “Remember that day, when everyone said Suri said you stink like a sewer? Well, it wasn’t Suri. It was me. I made that up. And I’m sorry, Levana. I can’t tell you how sorry I feel. How sorry Suri feels. We both want to ask you mechilah.”

Levana was quiet for a couple of seconds. “No, you’re wrong,” she said. “I remember. She said it! I heard it with my own ears! But let bygones be bygones. I forgive her. And I forgive you, and all the girls.”

“No, Levana, listen. Suri never said that! I’m telling you! I made it up. It was… a lie.”

“Okay, okay, I hear what you’re saying. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I forgive you. Machul lach. Shanah tovah. Goodbye.”

I said goodbye, the phone still in my hand. I guess I expected to feel closure, relief. I’d finally mustered up the courage to tell the truth. I thought I’d feel like a big tzadeikes. But I didn’t feel any of that. Levana’s reaction was kind of anticlimactic. True, she accepted our apology, but she didn’t believe me. In her mind, my little lie would never be erased.

But, as Levana herself said, I guess that doesn’t really matter. And, I know, too, that doing the right thing doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to feel good, or righteous. Doing the right thing is its own reward. That year, the Yamim Noraim were different for me; I knew I’d done my part — the outcome wasn’t in my hands, but I finally felt that my burden of guilt had been lifted off my shoulders, even though I could never totally undo the damage. Yet that feeling of resolution accompanied me the whole year until the following Elul, when I saw Suri at my vort, holding her precious firstborn son.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 751)