A Ray of Light in a Dark Childhood

In 1991, I needed to travel somewhere far, so I called a taxi. The driver who arrived looked like a ba’al teshuvah—a Jew who had returned to religious life. He had a small beard, and something about his face struck me as very familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.

I kept thinking, until suddenly it clicked. I turned to him and asked, “Tell me, is your name David?”

He looked at me in shock. “Yes! How do you know?”

I told him I remembered him from the neighborhood.

He went on to tell me that he had spent ten years in prison. Now he lived in Eilat, had become religious, and had sons learning in Torah schools—Baruch Hashem (thank G-d).

A few moments of silence passed as we both stared ahead at the road. Then, the driver turned to me and said, “Want to hear something about the old neighborhood?”

“Sure,” I replied.

To understand the story he shared, you need some background: This happened about thirty years ago. In our neighborhood, there were two brothers who made life miserable for everyone. David and his brother acted like they were part of the criminal world. If anything was stolen, people automatically assumed it was one of them. No one envied their family. If anything, people feared and resented them.

I remember thinking, as I sat in the car, I never imagined I’d have any connection with this guy—and here I am, talking to him while he drives me to my destination.

David began to share his memories:
“Let me tell you something,” he said. “From that whole neighborhood, all I remember is darkness. People would see me coming and immediately cross to the other side of the street. They were afraid to even come near me.

“There was once a theft in the neighborhood that I actually had nothing to do with, but I was so sure I’d be blamed that I ran off to a nearby Arab village and hid out there until things settled down.

“I’m telling you, I only remember negativity and fear from that whole place—except for one Jew. One person I remember with warmth. His name was Rav Yochanan—the Erlau Rebbe. All these years, I’ve carried his image in my mind, clear as day.

“He was the only one who treated us like human beings. Ah… Rav Yochanan! What a tzaddik (righteous man).”

Today, David knows all of Rav Yochanan’s titles—the great Torah scholar, head of the Erlau Yeshiva, author of Imrei Sofer—but back then, he only knew him as ‘the righteous Rav Yochanan.’

David continued, his voice full of emotion:
“One year, on Purim, when no one would even think of talking to us, Rav Yochanan knocked on our door with a huge mishloach manot—a Purim gift basket. He came in, sat with us, placed the basket on the table, and even ate with us from it, since he couldn’t eat anything else due to kashrut concerns.

“He spoke to us like we were the greatest people in the world. He explained the story of the Megillah of Esther with such joy. He sat with us, made us feel seen, then got up and left. To this day, I can still picture the shining face of Rav Yochanan. That image has never left me.”

Who knows? Maybe it was that moment—Rav Yochanan Sofer’s warmth, his genuine smile—that remained in David’s heart all those years, and helped open the path for his return to Torah.

Sometimes, all it takes is a smile. A warm word. A gentle, respectful gesture. We never know how deep it might go, or how long it might last. Sometimes, a moment of kindness today becomes the reason someone finds their way back tomorrow.

This story was shared while the Erlau Rebbe was still alive, and many took it to heart as a beautiful example of how to draw others closer—whether they’re already near or feel very far away.