Were You That Taxi Driver in 1989?

There are rare moments in our generation when we can still do the beautiful mitzvah (commandment) of hachnasat orchim—welcoming guests. In earlier times, it was common: a father would return from shul (synagogue) on Friday night and bring guests home for the Shabbat meal. But today, that’s not so easy.

Still, there’s one modern way you can welcome a guest—by giving someone a ride in your car. Just a simple act of kindness, like picking someone up and helping them reach their destination, can warm a heart and fulfill a precious mitzvah.

This week, I was lucky enough to have such a chance. With Hashem’s kindness, I gave a ride from Nahariya to Jerusalem to two warm, kindhearted Jews. Of course, we stopped along the way in Meron to visit the grave of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai.

But I didn’t come here to tell you about my own mitzvah. Because on that ride, one of my passengers—let’s call him Shlomo Zalman—shared a story that truly touched me. A story that’s stayed with him for more than thirty years.

In 1989, Shlomo Zalman was learning at the Ohel Yaakov yeshiva in Bnei Brak. The yeshiva had boys from many backgrounds—Litvish, Chassidish, Sephardic, even from outside Israel. Shlomo Zalman was known for being helpful and kind, the one everyone could count on.

One day, two brothers from overseas, also learning in the yeshiva, asked him to arrange a taxi for them to the airport the next day at three o’clock. Shlomo Zalman agreed happily. At that time, phones were hard to come by, so he did what many did back then—he stood outside and flagged down a taxi.

He asked the driver, who wasn’t wearing a kippah, to come the next day at 3:00 in the morning to the yeshiva’s address and pick up the two brothers. The driver agreed—but asked for 200 shekels in advance. He explained that he’d been tricked like this before—getting up in the middle of the night and showing up, only to find no one there.

Shlomo Zalman understood but explained that he wasn’t the one taking the ride and didn’t have the money to pay an advance. The driver hesitated but agreed—asking again, almost pleading, to make sure the passengers would be there.

Shlomo Zalman promised.

The next day, at 3:00 in the afternoon, the brothers came to him, confused. “Where’s the taxi?”

“It’s coming,” Shlomo Zalman said, “but only in twelve hours.”

The brothers looked at him, shocked. “We need it now!”

Only then did Shlomo Zalman realize the misunderstanding. They had meant three in the afternoon, not three in the morning. He had assumed they meant early morning—after all, who orders a taxi in the middle of the day in Bnei Brak, when taxis are everywhere?

Embarrassed, the brothers quickly flagged down a different cab and left for the airport.

And Shlomo Zalman stood there, horrified. The taxi driver would be arriving at 3:00 a.m. to pick up no one.

Shlomo Zalman was terrified. He felt guilty—he’d made a mistake, and now a hardworking man would be upset, maybe furious. Worse, the driver might think yeshiva boys can’t be trusted, which would be a chilul Hashem—a desecration of God's name.

He ran to the mashgiach (spiritual supervisor) of the yeshiva and explained everything. The mashgiach took 200 shekels out of his pocket, handed Shlomo Zalman his personal alarm clock, and told him to wake up at 2:30 a.m. and wait for the taxi. “When the driver comes,” he said, “apologize kindly and give him the money. That will make it right.”

Shlomo Zalman agreed. He set the alarm and went to sleep.

But in the morning—at 6:30—he awoke to the sound of birds chirping.

He had overslept.

Panic set in. He rushed around the yeshiva, asking everyone if they’d seen a taxi in the middle of the night. No one had. Only later did someone tell him they heard a driver banging on the yeshiva gate and shouting angrily in the darkness.

Shlomo Zalman was crushed. The mistake, the missed chance, the chilul Hashem—it all weighed heavily on him. As Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur approached, he sought advice from the great Rabbi Michal Yehuda Lefkowitz.

The rabbi heard the story, covered his face with his hands, and cried. He was so pained by the dishonor to Hashem’s name that he couldn’t offer an answer. Instead, he sent Shlomo Zalman to Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky.

Rabbi Chaim had an idea. “Take the 200 shekels,” he said, “and buy prayer books and Tehillim (Psalms). Put them at the Kotel (Western Wall), and write inside each one your name, phone number, and the story. Maybe that taxi driver will one day come to the Kotel, pick up a book, and read it. And through that, the circle will close.”

That was the end of the story.

Shlomo Zalman doesn’t know if the driver ever found those books or saw the note. But ever since that day, he has dedicated his life to public service—doing work that brings kiddush Hashem (honor to God) to help make up for what happened.

And he shares this story whenever he can, still hoping that one day it will reach that driver.

So if you were a taxi driver in 1989, or you know someone who was—this story might be about you. If it is, please reach out. Perhaps you can help close a painful and heartfelt chapter that has been open for over thirty years.

• Menachem Mann is a Haredi writer and publicist: yoredea.man@gmail.com
• This article also appeared in the 'Yom LeYom' newspaper.