In Eretz Yisrael today, every modern amenity in the world is basically available. Who could even imagine how it used to be, fifty years ago, when peanut butter and tuna were sent across the ocean by loving relatives overseas; when housewives in Yerushalayim used manual hand mixers to beat egg whites for their cakes; when pre-cut tissues were an expensive luxury, and tablecloths sold in the country were made of material that had to be laboriously ironed after every washing. And, speaking of tablecloths, there were no disposable plastic tablecloths to cover them with, so women were constantly occupied with washing and ironing their tablecloths again and again.
Polyester tablecloths that didn't need to be ironed were a novelty. In England, where we lived, they existed in abundance, but in Eretz Yisrael they were a rarity. That was how, when planning a trip to Eretz Yisrael, I came up with the brilliant idea of bringing with me a few suitcases of the tablecloths and selling them in order to cover the high cost of our tickets. The product was relatively light and easy to transport. I surmised that it would be snatched up by the first store owner to whom I'd offer it. I would hand it over and get the money to pay for our tickets, easy as pie.
We arrived in Eretz Yisrael with the goods, and indeed, we soon found a store in Yerushalayim willing to purchase the entire stock from us in order to sell it. But our negotiations did not go smoothly.
"The price you're asking is way too high," the store owner said with a certain finality. "I will never pay that much.” He made an offer that was far lower than what I'd had in mind.
I argued back, conceded a bit, and then we argued some more. This back-and-forth went on for a long while, and the atmosphere was not very pleasant. Finally, we settled on a price that was lower than what I'd wanted, but still left me with a profit. There was a bitter taste in my mouth about the whole thing, but I just wanted to close the deal and be done with it. It was easier to sell the whole lot to one person than to go from store to store.
I handed over the tablecloths, and the store owner paid me the price we'd agreed on. After all the concessions, I was still left with enough profit to cover the cost of our flight. I put the tiring ordeal behind me.
We spent several days in Yerushalayim, then packed up to continue our trip visit in Bnei Brak. Going through our suitcases in order to make the small move, I discovered that we'd clearly made an error when ordering the tablecloths. I had been sure that all the tablecloths were the same size, and that's what I'd told the store owner in Yerushalayim, when in fact half of them were significantly shorter than the rest, and thus worth less.
The conclusion: I owed the store owner money.
I must confess, as I retell this story so many years later, this was a real nisayon for me. My general feelings toward that man could be described, in short, as "goodbye and good riddance." I thought I was done with him, and now I had to return this money to him. I could easily have reasoned that the small sum I owed him was actually coming to me after all the bargaining and concessions I'd made. But my conscience whispered that the deal was closed on the premise that all the tablecloths were of the same length, which was not true. A shorter tablecloth is worth less!
I struggled with myself for a short while, then resolved to come clean and return the money. I put the money in an envelope and went out to mail it to the store in Yerushalayim.
When I returned to our rented apartment in Bnei Brak, there was a knock on the door. It was the neighbor from upstairs, who, incidentally, was the sofer sta'm from whom we'd ordered new mezuzos to bring back to our home in England.
"Listen," he said, "when I set the price for the mezuzos you ordered, I did so on the premise that I would have to prepare your mezuzos from scratch. In actuality," he continued, "that wasn't the case."
I looked at him questioningly, and then I noticed that he was holding an envelope. This was strange. It dawned on me that just as I'd just listened to the voice of integrity and returned a sum of money that wasn't honestly mine, this man was now doing the same for me.
"As it turned out," he was saying, "I had all the mezuzos ready from another order that was made, partially paid for, and never actually taken."
My jaw dropped.
"So," he concluded, "I'm not charging you more than I would in such a case, and I'm returning the change to you from the original price I gave you, which is my price for mezuzos written from scratch."
He handed me the envelope, wished me a good night, and left.
I counted the money, which, as stories written only by the ultimate Author on High often end, was exactly equal to the sum I'd just mailed to the store owner in Yerushalayim. It felt like a warm smile from Hashem.