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By STEVEN WENICK

The expression “to kill time” most aptly applies to many doctors’ waiting rooms. I don’t like killing time; it’s a waste of time. Nevertheless I resigned myself to wait my turn in Dr. Iyan’s office, along with a dozen or so people who were just sitting, snoozing or thumbing their way through the pages of old magazines. I tried to console myself by wishfully thinking that maybe some of the patients-in-waiting were really not patients, just people accompanying them. The only thing I knew for certain was the inevitability of a long and tedious wait.

Because I was in an ophthalmologist’s office, it came as no surprise when I spotted a Snellen Eye Chart on the wall opposite me. But there was something about the chart that didn’t look right. I squinted and strained my eyes trying to decipher the character sitting at the top of the chart because it definitely was not the customary iconic large capital “E”.

During my self-administered pseudo-eye exam I realized that all the characters on the eye chart were in Hebrew. That surprised me since I was in Philadelphia not Israel. There was a second eye chart hanging next to the one in Hebrew, it was printed in Arabic. I could only speculate as to the doctor’s motive in placing the Hebrew and Arabic eye charts next to each other. Perhaps it was his indirect attempt to heal the ideological fracture between Israelis and Arabs that have left them on opposite sides of an ever-widening fault line.

It seemed to me that, since all efforts at reconciliation had failed in the past, using Snellen eye charts was a novel way to try to coax some kind of détente between the sons of Abraham. I believe that the doctor and I share the same dream-like fantasy that someday those combative Middle-Eastern cousins will reconcile their differences.

So I settled in for the long wait and as I felt myself nodding off to sleep I glanced at two of Dr. Iyan’s patients sitting immediately beneath the eye charts. Both men appeared to be in their mid-thirties and possibly of Middle Eastern descent. As it turned out it was more ironic than coincidental that they happened to have claimed and occupied two chairs whose arms butted against each other, because one was an Israeli and the other an Arab.

At first I could not make out what they were whispering to each other. However, when their whispers escalated into loud hissing sounds I knew that they had embarked upon a verbal war, and soon I managed to hear enough of the bits and pieces of their arguments to determine the basis of their grievances.

The fact that they held divergent political views came as no surprise. What amazed me was that, in spite of their differences, there seemed to be some invisible force drawing them together. Perhaps it was their shared Middle Eastern background, similar body language, and the measured pace at which they adhered to the daily rhythm of life that made them appear so much alike. With so many apparent similarities outwardly it was surprising that inwardly they had nothing in common, except maybe for a few remaining strands of DNA.

From my perspective the clear vision necessary to arrive at a successful resolution to their conflict was nowhere in sight, and abutting eye charts would not bridge their differences that persisted along with this shared quality—an abnormally large negative scotoma (a blind spot) caused by intransigence and magnified by unwillingness to compromise. (Regrettably history shows that repeated attempts at reconciliation between the two opposing sides have burst like so many punctured party balloons, only to fall flat on the floor.)

Perhaps it is fitting that I found myself that afternoon sitting and waiting while nodding in and out of a daydream which gave rise to an imaginary debate between an Arab and Israeli about a real life dispute.

And with no clear resolution visible, I’m still sitting, dreaming and waiting.

By STEVE WENICK

As I drained the last drop of tepid coffee from my mug a series of questions percolated in my head. For example, “Why is it that the United Nations Human Rights Council underscores Israel’s real or imagined abuses while those of other nations are glossed over or ignored?”  I could tell by coffee pot’s lack of heft that only sludge remained – and my questions.

Why is it that when Jews were systematically gassed and incinerated in ovens by the Nazis, the ‘world’ didn’t take much notice. But when Hamas launches rockets into Israel targeting civilian population centers there is grave concern over how Israel will respond.

Why is it that when Jews were defined by their religion, not by their nationality, there were no protests decrying ‘Jewphobia?’ When they were not regarded as ‘authentic’ nationals like the Poles, Austrians, Germans, Latvians, Estonians, and the French, there were no accusations of racial profiling. Jews were regarded with suspicion and mistrust, partly because out of ignorance and partly because of their religious beliefs and practices were different than those of the vast majority of citizens. And that was justification enough for the so-called enlightened Europeans to treat them shabbily and banish them to the ghettos and worse.

Why is it that when the monsters of the Third Reich went on their murderous rampage, few eyebrows were raised but many eyes were shut? Those brown shirted miscreants were equal opportunity murderers of Jews. All were targeted for extermination: the pious, the agnostics, the atheists, and yes, even the self-haters. If a drop of Jewish blood was detected in the pith of their family tree, they were uprooted, bundled, stacked and stamped, then carted off to the death mills of Europe.

Why is it that when fascists went about their grizzly business of exterminating Jews, the world remained silent? Absent were the outcries, the boycotts, and flotillas. The appalling mistreatment of Jews was encouraged by some, ignored by many, and of no concern to others. Those swastika adorned homicidal maniacs, who gleefully goose stepped proudly as they paraded Jews to oblivion, were revered by their countrymen. They pinned the Star of David upon their victims’ chests and burned numbers into their arms like cattle, as they hurled epitaphs at them of: rat, ogre and subhuman. The predators of yesteryear and those who emulate them today still thirst for Jewish blood because six million innocent souls did not sate their ravenous appetites.

Why is it that the despicable Nazi practice of referring to Jews as rats, ogres and subhuman went uncensored? And today that dehumanizing lexicon has been amended by those cretins who emulate the fascist. Today they have added to their verbal garbage: monkeys, dogs and pigs in accompaniment to their mantra of, “Death to the Jews”. I hear ominous and disturbing echoes from the past; only the species’ names have changed.

Why is it that the same world, which fancies itself civilized, self-righteously claims it is protecting the rights of Palestinians’, could not find room in its hypocritical heart to protect the lives of Jews?  It was a world that was not deaf, was not dumb, and was not blind; it was a world that just didn’t care.

And finally, why is it that when accusations are flung at other countries and protests are mounted against their leaders, the criticism calls for changes in policy and government. But when grievances, real, imagined or concocted are hurled at Israel the only change the demented demand is to ‘wipe Israel off the face of the map”.

Today the Jews who live in Israel, citizens of their ancestral homeland, are no longer subjected to the ‘tyranny of the majority’. They are the majority. However there are those who can’t help but fall all over themselves in their haste to publicize anything negative about the Jewish homeland. More than once, I’ve heard the cynical and taunting question, “Why is that many in the world think ill of Israel and her supporters?” Of course the veiled allegation is that ‘they’ must have done something wrong to deserve such widespread condemnation. Their rhetorical question is both scornful and derisive. My answer comes dripping with a generous portion of sarcasm, “Is that the same ‘world’ whose efforts to prevent the Holocaust were virtually non-existent?”

Israel’s detractors are infuriated when their ‘holier than thou’, posturing is exposed for the hypocrisy it is. Israel rightfully disregards their duplicitous and hollow tirades. The Arabs and Iranians, icons of intolerance and bigotry, outnumber Israel in terms of land mass 650 to 1 and in population 56 to 1. Yet, they are obsessed with eliminating the tiny State of Israel, whose very existence sticks in their collective craws. They along with their willing minions of like minded anti-Semites have no grounds upon which to claim the moral high ground, their footing is mired in quicksand.  Consequently, they feel humiliated, disrespected and embarrassed; ironically their plight is a consequence of their own contemptuous handiwork.

For the Arab and Iranian dictators and thugs, who rule with the fist and sword, while strapping suicide belts around their followers; saving face trumps saving lives. An arsenal of lies, threats, intimidation and terror are their weapons of choice. Rather than devise strategies to reverse the course of their continuous march to failure, they engage in the barbaric tactics of terror. Unfortunately they regale in regression, not progress. They curse rather than bless. They tear down, rather than built up. They embrace suicide and shun revitalization. They envy and despise everything Israel accomplishes because their own corrupt and stagnant regimes are mired in the muck of their own making, while Israel’s remarkable growth and achievements take flight.

Sadly, the anti-Zionist (read Israel and Jews) continue to march to the beat of their own orchestrated hateful rhetoric. The seeds they plant yield a harvest of intolerance. Armed with a battery of rockets, which they fill with lies and launch with deceitfulness, they reap what they sow, a legacy of failure and defeat. Crouched in their spider holes, they claim victory over a decadent America and Israel. Alas, they delude themselves because they are a cowardly lot, therefore respect will elude them. Their only reward will be a key to the executive lounge located in the rear of the cave in which they are hiding. Although that pack of malcontents and unhinged anti-Semites will undoubtedly continue waging their campaign to disparage, dismantle and destroy Israel, their efforts will drown in the wake of their own folly.

Like the Biblical Amalakites, there are truly malevolent people who are beyond repair and beyond redemption. But they are a scant few. However, apart from the few but dangerous homicidal enemies of Israel, there are still those among Israel’s critics, who are well meaning and right to hold Israel accountable for her misdeeds. Regrettably, there are also well meaning souls who have succumbed to the lies and deceit spawned by propagandists. And not surprising there are trusting souls who have unwittingly abandoned reason and fallen under the seductive spell of wishful thinking and naiveté.

Some have suggested that we should look to the future and seize every opportunity to build bridges of harmony and peace with our enemies. I agree, but as we construct bridges to reconcile differences we must not ignore that there are forces determined to undermine those noble efforts. As the wicked stealthily labor to undermine reconciliation between adversaries, they cloak themselves in self-righteousness. By turning away in the face of evil, rather than confronting it, only serves to enable, encourage and perpetuate it.

The Book of Isaiah teaches that Israel is, “A light unto the nations”. The Jewish nation is charged to serve as the mentor of spiritual and moral guidance. Therefore Israel is and should be held to a higher standard. But at times even the brightest flame flickers and its glow momentarily diminished. However Israel’s fire will not be extinguished. Paradoxically, the brighter the light the darker the shadow and so it is with Israel. As her radiance increases, her detractors grow darker and more malevolent. Hopefully future generations of all nations will have the wisdom and courage to eliminate the shadows of intolerance and hold aloft the torch of human kindness lighting the path on their way to repair the world.

I was inspired to share this very personal event in my life because of something I learned from Rabbi Aaron Krupnick, who wrote, “We all make mistakes. The question is what we do with them.” This is my answer.

By STEVEN WENICK

I was a sophomore in high school when I made a mistake—an error in judgment—that would shadow me my entire life. It happened during the change of classes. You know the scene—when the hallways are filled with a cacophony of sounds as students frantically push their way through crowded hallways en route from one classroom to another.

So there I was, alternately tripping over my own feet and juggling an arm full of books, desperately trying to get to my next class when I noticed something fall from my classmate Alan’s pocket and drop to the floor in front of me. I bent down, picked it up and saw, to my amazement, that it was a $20 bill. Hesitating momentarily, glancing over both shoulders to see if anyone was watching, I then made the regrettable mistake of stealthily slipping the bill into my pocket.

Finding $20 back then seemed like a fortune to me—and a stroke of good fortune as well. Since my high school was not a neighborhood school, it was populated by academically inclined students from every neighborhood of the city; consequently its population reflected all strata of the social and financial spectrum. Although my family stood on the lower rung of the economic ladder, it wasn’t the lack of money that caused my poor choice. It was solely lack of good judgment.

Having thought of that episode from time to time over the ensuing years, I always managed to convince myself that I found the money in the hallway, when in fact (to use a politician’s terminology) I misappropriated it. I considered myself so lucky to have been in the right place at the right time and I was blind to the fact that the shadow of guilt had become my silent partner for life.

I remember the hard times when my mother asked me to walk to my grandfather’s house to see if she could borrow five dollars until the end of the week when my father got paid. I learned at an early age that even hard work and careful budgeting were no guarantee that there would be sufficient income to make it through to the end of the week. Regrettably, I had not learned the importance of integrity or frugality because I managed to squander my newly absconded funds within a week. But unlike that misappropriated money, the burden of guilt that came with it lasted me a lifetime.

I always regretted making that error in judgment but regrets were not the sufficient balm for a guilty conscience. I needed something more. There is a concept in Judaism that true repentance can be achieved by not committing the same transgression again if given the same opportunity to do it. In other words, I could achieve absolution if I were to be presented with the same opportunity to benefit from someone else’s loss, and resist the temptation to capitalize on it.

Over the ensuing years I did not recognize an opportunity to repent for my misdeed. I spent over 50 years tethered to shame and bound with regret for that one mistake made long ago, vowing, constantly, that if the opportunity for me to make amends should present itself, I would seize it. Eventually I made this pact with myself: If I ever saw Alan again, I would return the $20 he lost, and I stole. I was able to honor this pact one Wednesday evening during a performance at the Walnut Theater in Philadelphia.

A season ticket holder, I usually attend Thursday night performances, but because that particular show fell on a Jewish holiday, I had obtained Wednesday seats. I don’t recall the name of the show, but I’ll never forget the drama that unfolded that Wednesday night.

Sometime during the first act, the lights flickered momentarily and then went completely dark. At first I thought it was part of the show, that is, until I saw the ushers carrying flashlights and directing theatergoers to the lobby where the lights remained lit. Meandering around the crowded lobby along with all of the other patrons, I caught a glimpse of a man identified to me as a Judge Emeritus of the Philadelphia Municipal Court who I recognized immediately as my classmate Alan.

I could barely contain myself as I nudged my way towards him through the crowded lobby. Thoughts and phrases raced through my mind as I rehearsed what I would say, and how I would explain what had happened so long ago, and what I was about to do.

Suddenly we were face to face and I wondered if he would recognize me after so many years. “Hi Al, do you know who I am?” His silent stare was his answer.

“I’m Steve, Steve Wen…” His eyes flashed, his face sprang to life and before I could finish my name, he did it for me, “Wenick!” We both smiled and shook hands vigorously. It had been more than half a century and we still recognized each other. But only one of us remembered the mistake.

Suddenly a burst of light illuminated the entire theater. The problem has been fixed. As we began to leave the lobby, I recalled my pact.

Pulling Alan aside, I told him that I wanted to repay him for something I’d owed him since high school. He looked puzzled as I implored him not to refuse this payment, but to give it to charity or to a grandchild if it would make him more comfortable. Then, as he stood dumbfounded, I placed a $20 bill in his hand.

Since the show was about to resume, I quickly explained when and how I came to owe him $20. Whereupon he managed to sputter some unintelligible sounds but could hardly speak. “Well what about the interest?” he quipped, when he had finally gather himself. I could see that he was still visibly amazed at my revelation.

As we headed back to our seats he thanked me for returning his $20, noting, almost sheepishly, “I never knew that I lost that money. But thanks anyhow. It’s never too late”.

I smiled thinking how providence had graced me with the opportunity for redemption. I felt truly blessed to have unloaded the burden I carried for so very many years and to free myself from that mistake I made so long ago.

It was at then, at that moment punctuated by the simple act of returning a $20 bill to its rightful owner, that I understood it was not Alan’s forgiveness I sought, but my own.

By Steven Wenick

It was on a miserably cold and rainy December evening in 1959 that Montezuma decided to visit his revenge upon me for the first time.

As a new member of a communal farm named, Kibbutz Sheluchot in the Beit She’an valley of Israel, I had adapted quickly to most of the rigors of kibbutz life—but not all. My primary job was to gather and vaccinate recently hatched chicks to immunize them against a deadly strain of avian influenza. Working amidst the droppings of thousands of recently hatched chicks, as they chirped, fed and pooped their way to adulthood, foreshadowed what was to follow.

I soon discovered that I was not immune to a wicked intestinal virus, commonly found in the Middle East and called Shilshul by the locals. In the interest of propriety I’ll only say that the sound of its name is an accurate onomatopoeic description of what it is. The hut I occupied at the time had neither indoor nor outdoor plumbing—not too good for someone with my condition.

Fast-forward to just before last Passover, the day before my daughter Jennifer’s wedding. Although the nuptials were conducted in a hotel in Jerusalem, Montezuma was still able to track me down from Mexico to my room at the Mt. Zion Hotel (I guess GPS technology isn’t all good.)

Twice stricken, I frantically sought a stopgap in order to get through the wedding day. When I told the hotel concierge that I needed something for an “upset stomach,” he hailed a taxi to take me to a pharmacy. The cabbie turned out to be an elderly Sabra named Yaakov Mizrachi. His deep Mediterranean complexion nicely complemented the silver mustache he sported, in an Omar Sharif kind of way. His black beret added a finishing touch helping to make his appearance suit his name.

As I clambered into the back seat of Yaakov’s garishly appointed cab, replete with hamsa (good luck charm) and dangling tassels, he asked why I needed a pharmacy.

“Hmmm,” he responded knowingly, suggesting a remedy that would fix my problem chick chock (immediately). “It’s better than anything a doctor will tell you to do,” he guaranteed. What was it? “Just eat cooked rice and drink plenty of Coca Cola,” he said, in a voice with the gravitas of a gastroenterologist’s.“If they don’t do the trick, I’ll pay for them,” he added as an afterthought.

Having put the cab in gear Yaakov slammed down on the accelerator, thrusting my head against the headrest as we bolted forward, signaling that our quest for a cure had started. After making stops at a near bye Super-Pharm for pills, then at Ezra’s Grill for a take-out order of cooked white rice and finally at the local convenience store for a liter of Coke, our ride came to a screeching halt at the hotel entrance. I caught my breath, paid my fare, gathered my packages and climbed out of the cab. As we parted, Yaakov volunteered some added pro bono advice, saying, “And eat some bananas too.”

The cures—or at least one of them—worked, and I was able to celebrate my daughter’s wedding without any unwanted visitors. To this day I wonder about where to direct my gratitude. To a cabbie named Yaakov? A pill? A bowl of rice? A liter of Coca-Cola? Or just a bunch of bananas?

Let’s hope I never have to answer that question again.