by Eric Gutwillig

Dusk was beginning to set in. Husbands and wives departed their houses, dressed in their most festive apparel, to make their way to the synagogue. Many were accompanied by children, outfitted in white shirts, the boys carrying tallit bags under their arms. The streets were free of traffic. Nothing quite matches the atmosphere that surrounds Kol Nidrei, heralding the start of Yom Kippur.

This year, things in our household were different. We had always made a point of getting to the synagogue early — the three of us going there together — in order to gradually absorb the evening’s special atmosphere. But since the accident six months earlier, which had left our son Eitan paralyzed from the waist down, my wife Tovah and I rarely went out together. Occasionally we hired a babysitter, but on this evening of all evenings we did not want to leave Eitan without us. Moreover, it would have been impossible to find a babysitter, since they themselves would be in shul.

My wife wanted me to go to services while she stayed at home with Eitan. I offered that she go, knowing how much it meant to her. In the end she prevailed and I went on my own, thinking about Eitan and what the future might hold for him.

Again and again the A-mighty’s words to Abraham, “Is there anything too hard for the L-rd?” passed through my mind. Perhaps a miracle would occur and my son would one day walk again!

As the service progressed, I felt unable to concentrate, and an inner voice told me to go home. Perhaps Tovah’s prayers would be more effective than mine. Was it not the entreaty of our matriarch Rachel, crying for the Israelites on their way into exile, that prevailed when all others failed? I left the synagogue and walked the few blocks home.

My mind traveled back to that fateful Friday morning half a year ago. I had picked up Eitan at school. We were driving along our town’s main road at the speed limit when a car ran a stop sign and plowed into us. Our car turned on its side, and it took several emergency workers to extricate us. An ambulance arrived quickly and took us to the hospital.

My injuries were minor and I was released after a couple of hours. Not so Eitan. He was unconscious for three days; when he finally awoke, the head of the orthopedic department broke the news to me. “I’ll be frank, Mr. Simons. Your son has sustained some spinal damage. It is unlikely that he will walk again. But my colleague in neurology assures me that there is no brain damage, which should be a relief to you.” “In other words, maimed for life and bound to a wheelchair,” I interjected.

“We have had several cases of youngsters bound to wheelchairs who have gone on to successful careers. The main thing is for all of you not to delude yourselves. At present there is nothing we can do to make your son walk again.”

My friends congratulated me on how well I bore our misfortune, but none of them could read my heart. Inwardly I was shattered. We had entertained such high hopes for Eitan, hopes that now lay in ruins. We would certainly do our best to help him master a profession in line with his limitations, but our hopes for an able-bodied son, doing all the things kids do, had been dashed.

A day or two after Eitan came home from the hospital, there was a phone call for me. “Mr. Simons,” a male voice said, “I am not sure that you will want to speak to me. My name is Joseph Brody. I am the driver who made your car overturn. I know this will sound hollow, but I want to tell you how truly sorry I am.”

“Look, Mr. Brody,” I said, “our lawyers will do whatever has to be done to settle the legal aspect of the matter. As for the rest, I think the less said, the better. It will save both of us a lot of pain.”

“All the same, Mr. Simons, I really would like to see you. Please, Mr. Simons.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Brody, I’m afraid my answer is final. Goodbye.” With that I hung up the receiver.

My wife had listened to my side of the conversation. “Moshe,” she said, “are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I have a feeling there is some aspect to the matter we don’t know about that could change the whole picture.”

“Tovah, I can’t. There may be reasons why I should meet the man and hear him out and forgive him, but I just feel that I can’t, so please don’t press me.”

About three months after the accident, a letter from Mr. Brody arrived. “Dear Mr. Simons,” it began, “since you won’t receive me in person, I am writing this letter to you. You may be interested to know that I have stopped driving and turned in my license, although it was an important part of my livelihood. I want to be sure that what happened can’t happen again. I know, Mr. Simons, that my suffering is nothing compared with what you and your wife must be going through, not to mention the suffering of your son. And yet I venture to ask you, Mr. Simons, to receive me, to shake my hand, and to say that you have forgiven me.”

My first reaction was to ignore the letter. In the end my wife prevailed upon me to reply. “You see how genuinely remorseful he is. What more do you want from him?”

I thought that Tovah’s reaction was truly generous; after all, her suffering was no less genuine than mine.

“I still think there is something we don’t know about,” she continued, “and when we find out what it is, you will change your mind.”

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Write him a letter and tell him I have forgiven him. I just can’t bring myself to meet him. I just can’t do it.”

“Whom are you kidding, Moshe? In your heart of hearts you know that you haven’t forgiven him, and Mr. Brody doesn’t strike me as the type to be easily deceived.”

Nevertheless, Tovah sat down and wrote the letter.

I had thought that my written expression of forgiveness would put an end to the Brody saga, but I was wrong. A week before Rosh Hashanah, another letter arrived.

“Dear Mr. Simons,” wrote Brody, “in these somber days when we ask for forgiveness, surely you can find it within your heart to forgive me. From your last letter it is quite clear that you still bear me ill will. I won’t find peace of mind until there is an end to this rancor. Please, Mr. Simons, allow me to visit you and shake your hand, and give me your personal assurance that there is no longer any resentment.”

I tried to put the letter out of my mind. I had forgiven him in writing. What more did he want?

These were my thoughts as I made my way home that Kol Nidrei evening. To my surprise, Tovah was not at all taken aback to see me. “I had a feeling you’d be coming home,” she said. Then she put on her hat and coat and went to shul.

I went to Eitan’s room, where he had just finished saying his prayers. As usual, Eitan was ready to enter a discussion — preferably on matters of religion. One might have thought that the accident would weaken his faith. In fact, quite the contrary was the case. Why, he wanted to know, was the absolution of vows so important that on Yom Kippur night it is the subject with which the service commences. I explained that what distinguishes man from beast is the former’s ability to speak. What comes out of the mouth, therefore, is critically important and must be weighed doubly before being uttered. Eitan listed other characteristics that differentiate man from beast, and an interesting discussion developed. We were in the middle of this intense conversation when there was a knock at the front door.

“G’mar chatimah tovah, I’m Joseph Brody,” said a middle-aged man as I opened the door. Brody was accompanied by a boy of about twelve. Oddly enough, the boy was wearing sunglasses, despite the dark.

“Please excuse my intruding upon you in this manner, Mr. Simons,” Brody said. “May I have a few words with you?”

I reminded myself that it was Yom Kippur evening, definitely not the time for bearing grudges. Nonetheless I felt a little resentful at the unexpected, unwanted visit.

“G’mar chatimah tovah,” I replied. “Please come in.”

I noticed that he was leading the boy by the hand, and then it struck me — the boy was blind.

“Mr. Simons,” my guest began, “this is my son, Gideon. As you can see, Gideon does not see. He has expressed a wish to meet Eitan, so perhaps while we talk the two young men can have a discussion of their own.”

These days it was not often that Eitan had new friends coming to see him. Gideon seemed nice enough, and so I took him to Eitan’s room.

“And now, Mr. Brody, what is there left to say that has not already been said?”

“Mr. Simons, I must apologize to you for coming to you tonight of all nights. I had gone to your synagogue to try and speak with you. I saw you leave, and when I told Gideon, he insisted on our visiting you right now. You know what it is to have a handicapped son, Mr. Simons, and I found it hard to refuse him.”

“I fully understand you, Mr. Brody,” I said. “Perhaps the boys will strike up a friendship between them.”

“Mr. Simons,” Brody continued, “there is something else I came to talk about. I promise that I shall not ask for your forgiveness after tonight, but I just want you to know the background to the accident. Gideon, in addition to being blind, suffers from epilepsy. At the time of the accident, he was sitting behind me, and I thought I heard the sound of an attack coming on. I turned around for a fraction of a second, and then the crash occurred. Mr. Simons, I am not making an excuse, because there is no possible excuse for what I did, but I did want you to know the facts.

“I want to add two things. First of all, as I wrote to you, I have stopped driving. Second, if there is any chance that Eitan can be helped by treatment outside our city, I want to pay for the trip. And now, Mr. Simons, can you forgive me?”

I was about to answer — I’m not sure how — when I heard Eitan calling me.

“Dad, I am sure Mr. Brody and Gideon will excuse us for a few minutes. I want to talk to you alone.” I excused myself, leaving our visitors in the living room.

“Dad,” Eitan began, “I am sure you can imagine how hard life is for a blind boy. It’s amazing, the things Gideon does by himself. But there are many things with which he needs help. I am telling you this, Dad, because you and I are making things even harder for Gideon.”

“You and I — how is that?”

“Dad, Gideon told me that his father was a cheerful and invariably good-tempered man before the accident. Since then he has been mostly morbid and brooding. The only thing that would restore him to his former self would be if you were to wholeheartedly forgive him. Dad, please go to Mr. Brody, shake his hand, and tell him you have forgiven him. Dad, what more appropriate time is there than Yom Kippur night?”

“Son, until now I felt that while I might forgive a wrong that was done to me, I had no right to forgive a wrong that was done to you. If you forgive him, how can I refuse?”

“Dad, please ask Gideon to come in for a moment before they go. I want to discuss with him how we can stay in touch in the future.” I wanted to lead Gideon to Eitan’s room, but he assured me that he could find the way on his own.

“Joseph,” I said to my guest, “I have something to tell you.” Brody knew what I was going to say. He came towards me with outstretched hands, and we hugged each other like long-lost brothers.

Which, in a way, we were.

Eric Gutwilllig’s “The Bar-Mitzvah Present” appeared in the April 1998 Jewish Homemaker. He lives in Haifa, Israel.