Menachem Conditon, known as Condi, the owner of the luxury garage "Condi, Ltd.", thought he was going to faint in a moment. That's all he needed, really just that. He—may he be healthy—was overloaded with work up to the sky, the clients asking for service, his wife complaint about his frequent absences, and all he needed now was Condy, took a deep breath, sat down in the next chair, sat down with the finger of his calloused right hand, his wide, shiny baldness, and felt that he was sinking into embarrassment, which he had no tools to deal with.
Wait, patience, what exactly was Mr. Condi missing or not missing? Mr. Conditon, the wealthy mechanic, has only one son, and he loves him. Love of soul. Condi looked at the huge knitted white skullcap of his only son, Tzvi, at his dangling tassels, at his dancing legs, and continued to whisper, "That's the only thing I missed." "Father, be happy. I am repentant, I am with the Creator of the world, and you will be satisfied with me, smile Father smile, the garage is not the whole world, there is a Father in Heaven, there is Torah, there is Rebbe Nachman..."Zviki held his father's hands and tried to pick him up and dance with him a cheerful Breslov dance in the style of "In you Rabbeinu Nagila, in you Rabbeinu we rejoice." But Condi felt that his legs were heavy, his head was dizzy, "Zviki is repentant." "I am healthy, strong, and happy, and it is a great mitzvah to be happy, may Father rejoice in me." Zviki opened the orange plastic bag he was holding in his hand and peered inside. "What's in the bag?" asked Condy, who had recovered from the shock of the morning. "Two sandwiches and a few more papers..." The son answered. Tzvi Conditon, 21, took it upon himself to spread the Torah of our Rabbi. Booklets, books, stickers, all so that Jews would be happy, so that they would believe that there is no despair in the world. And so a front opened up between father and son.
"Look, Tzvi," Condi said to him, "your mother and I went through the crisis of your repentance, you are our only son, I love you and respect you, but do me a favor, stop sticking stickers with slogans on my jeep, and not on the cars of the clients in the garage, it makes the clients angry." Tzvi didn't exactly hear, and at least once or twice a week, he would come to his father's garage and paste. He would glue, and Condi would take it out. The rear window of the family jeep was loaded with colorful stickers, Lots of hope, love, and faith. Tzvi catches up, Condi takes it off. It has become the norm that they have already stopped being angry about.
At 6:30 a.m. on a weekday, while the kettle was boiling water for his morning cup of coffee, Condi angrily uprooted six new stickers that Zviki had pasted on the rear window of the jeep. "It gets on my nerves sometimes," Condi murmured. At 7:30 A.M., Condi got into the jeep and headed for the garage. At the entrance to the industrial zone, there was a long traffic jam. Lots of beeps, buses, children with bags on their shoulders, and an oppressive traffic jam. Condy was listening to the morning news, his leg changing pressures, sometimes brakes, sometimes gas. Behind him was a silver Mercedes that conveyed luxury. Only at 8:00 A.M. did the traffic jam come loose, and Condi accelerated the jeep toward the garage, right to left and right again. The silver Mercedes was still behind him. Condi parked the jeep in front of the garage, and the Mercedes stopped next to him. A man dressed in a fancy suit got out of the Mercedes and walked over to the bewildered Condi. Sir, the man said, "You saved my life, just like that, you won't believe it,
