Standing by His Word

By Rabbi Roy D. Tanenbaum

In a used furniture business, unlike new, you cannot order stock from a catalogue. People call in, and you have to go out and make an offer. "You can't sell what you don't have," my father would say. So making his calls was crucial for him.

When I was age thirteen, my father lost his store manager, a one-armed guy who could do more with his one arm than many will do with two. With his one arm, he used to hook a chair on a long pole, then arc it upwards in the air where he would slide it onto ceiling hooks until someone wanted to purchase it. With his manager gone, my father came to me. Until he found the right person, would I come in while he went out to answer the day's calls?

The store has tens of thousands of items. "People like to bargain," he told me, "so I don't mark prices. You just have to know a range."

He took me around. "A quarter-horse motor you can sell for four dollars. For a refrigerator, depending on the condition, you can sell for thirty-five dollars to sixty dollars. However, if it has a freezer all the way across, sell it for eighty dollars, in excellent condition, maybe one hundred dollars. If a gasket's loose, it's garbage. Otherwise, I don't charge for scratches. Dishes come in with a houseful of furniture, and I don't even figure them in when I give a price. You can sell them for a nickel to a quarter. Something really nice."

Every day after school, I would pedal down to the store. Soon after, I was writing up a sales slip for an attractive plate when my father walked in. I had asked a dollar and the guy did not hesitate. I was very pleased. My father glanced down at what I was doing, turned to the customer and said, "You sure got a bargain today. My employee gave you the price and that's the price."

Afterward, I asked my father, "What was that all about?"

It turned out it was an antique plate, worth a few hundred dollars. I was devastated. Here I was trying to help my father in the business and instead I was losing money for him.

He said, "I could've stopped the sale if I'd wanted to. You were just writing up the slip and hadn't yet taken the money. Besides, by civil law, you're under age. But, a Jew stands by his word and the word of his agent."

Cost my father a small amount of money to teach me a lifelong lesson in integrity.

The event has a sequel. Years later, my wife and I needed to wire a large sum of money to our daughter in Israel. A bank teller advised my wife Loretta that a VISA check carried no service charge or interest unless late. When the bank statement showed considerable charges, I went in and tried to explain to the branch manager that we acted on their advice to avoid charges. To everything I said, all she could reply was, "We're sorry, but the teller made a mistake."

I then told her the story of my father standing behind the word of his employees. I finished by saying, "This was even when it didn't cause a loss to the customer, and when my father caught the error before the transaction. How much the more so afterward! I expect my bank to behave with at least as much integrity as my father."

The branch manager had not said a word during all of this, and her silence continued as I sat back in my chair. I had no idea of how she was going to react.

When she began to speak, her voice had softened, and she said in a dignified manner: "The Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce will not be less than your father."

Then she promised that all the charges made to my account for that VISA check would be reversed.

As I thanked her and stood to leave, I was grateful that even in today's impersonal business world, a tale of integrity still had power to touch the heart and sway the conscience.

A Little Child Shall Lead Them

Pulling into the parking lot at Albertson's, I went over the grocery list in my head: chicken, lettuce, rolls, apples, milk, cereal for the kids, a premium ice cream. The last seemed like an extravagance, but we had friends coming for dinner. I still had some cleaning to do, and I needed time to shower and dress.

“Come on, guys,” I said to the kids as I shifted into park and turned off the ignition. “Let’s see how fast we can do this.”

I scrambled out, and lifted my two-year-old daughter, Andrea, from her car seat, holding her against my hip.

Seven-year-old Max, my oldest, volunteered, “Let me help.” “Okay,” I responded, “you close the door when everybody’s out.” With three kids, I always felt like I was forgetting something. Daniel...Where was Daniel? I felt a tug at my sleeve and turned around.

There he was, my four-year-old. He wasn’t one to say much. Even when we said our prayers at night, Daniel kept his thoughts to himself. I put my hand out and he grabbed it as we headed to the store.

We were halfway there when Daniel dropped my hand and walked over to the cart return area. He stopped, peering at something by his feet. “Daniel, leave it, whatever it is,” I said. “We need to go.” He reached down and picked up his prize, a grimy square of greenish paper. I glanced at it. A dollar bill. “I’ll take care of it till we’re home.” I shoved it into my pocket.

“Whose is it?” Daniel asked. “Won’t the people who lost it be sad?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Max agreed. “That’s a lot of money to lose.”

There wasn’t time to explain how little money a dollar actually was, not even enough to buy the dinner rolls. “No one will miss it, guys. Trust me.”

I put Andrea in the safety seat of the shopping cart while Max walked beside me, grabbing cereal boxes and putting fruit in plastic bags. Daniel trailed behind. We had almost made it to the cashier when Daniel said, “What about the money, Mom?”

“We need to go,” I said.

I coaxed a bag of M&M’s out of Andrea’s hand while I set our food on the conveyor belt. I wrote a check, wincing at the amount, and we left the store. As we passed the spot where Daniel had found his dollar, he lagged behind. “Mom, maybe someone really needs that money,” Daniel said.

“Look, it’s only a dollar,” I said impatiently, fishing the crumpled bill out of my pocket and unfolding it. I did a double take. “Daniel,” I exclaimed, “you found a hundred-dollar bill!”

“See, Mom,” Max said.

We sure could use that money, I thought as I pushed the grocery cart to our van. And someone out there surely needed it too. But how would we ever be able to track down the owner?

“Can you buy a lot of toys with a hundred dollars?” Daniel asked.

“Yeah!” Max said. “It’s so much money.”

Daniel stopped in his tracks, and looked up at me. “Then let’s give it back.”

“But how?” I asked.

“We wait here, and they come get it.”

The rocky road ice cream was melting, the milk was getting warm, Andrea was due for a nap. And I had to finish the vacuuming before our guests arrived.

“We don’t have much time to stand here waiting,” I said, though I hated to think of someone losing so much. But then Daniel looked up at me from beneath his dark eyelashes and said quietly, “Mom, you never have time when it’s important.”

I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. If I took a really quick shower and skipped vacuuming upstairs...

“Okay, we’ll wait ten minutes.” We put the groceries in the van and sat inside. I looked around the parking lot to keep from staring at my watch. All I saw were other people like me, distracted, hurrying to fit in all they needed to get done. If I had passed that hundred-dollar bill, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all. Lord, I asked, what else have I been missing?

Just then a battered white car pulled into the parking space opposite us, and a tired-looking couple emerged.

We watched as they walked toward the store, their heads down. To my amazement, they stopped by the cart return where Daniel had found the bill. Carefully, the couple searched the area, the man’s shoulders slumped, the woman near tears. “Wait here a minute,” I said to the kids. I jumped out of the van and walked over to the couple.

“Did you lose something?” I asked the man.

“Yes,” he replied. “A hundred-dollar bill.”

I pulled the bill out of my pocket. I watched the man’s eyes widen in disbelief, and he almost crushed me in a bear hug. “It’s a miracle!” he exclaimed. “Thank God.”

“Could you thank my son too? He was the one who found it.”

The couple hurried over to our van. The man thrust out his hand for Daniel to shake, and the woman patted his head, tousling his hair. “I knew someone needed it,” Daniel said.

I watched the relieved couple walk back to their car. Then I shifted the van into reverse, and looked over my shoulder at Daniel, whose deeds spoke louder than his words. Dinner might have been a little late that night, but Daniel’s lesson had come right on time.