There are those who have their lost object returned to
them and those who come across it.
Mali, a young woman, was standing at the bus stop near
Binyanei Hauma where there are a number of bus stops in a row
and a taxi stand as well. It was crowded, and Mali felt a
little lost. "Everyone wants to go somewhere," she thought
miserably. "But they have where to go and I don't, really."
From the moment she had arrived that morning in Jerusalem to
run errands, a strange feeling of helplessness had descended
upon her, which she wasn't used to.
At her Moshav, she had been the one who had put forth the
idea to bury their father in Jerusalem; her sister, Rachel,
had gone along with the idea. The Moshav's secretary had
heard her request and had taken care of all the details of
the funeral, from summoning an ambulance to transferring the
deceased by way of the Moshav's synagogue square, to
arranging for the bus to transport all the residents of the
Moshav who still had the strength to travel. He even worried
about getting the local Rav to give a eulogy before the
cortege departed.
Not that she had heard a word of the eulogy; she had been too
absorbed in her sorrow. But the gesture was appreciated, Mali
thought. The secretary had arranged everything so well that
all the two grieving sisters had to do was to get on the bus
to Har Hamenuchot and to take leave of their dear father
until the coming of the Righteous Redeemer.
During the funeral, Mali didn't think much about herself. She
was too occupied with the grief of parting and worrying about
her younger sister. But afterwards, during the shivah,
the questions began gnawing at her: What would the two of
them do now? They wouldn't be able to manage the property
themselves. And there was no one to do it for them.
Orphanhood fell heavily on Mali. Since the death of their
mother almost a decade earlier, Mali had taken on herself the
responsibility of running the house. But Abba was always the
head of the family. And suddenly, in a heartbeat, she had
become the one solely responsible and it frightened her. What
would happen if she made a mistake?
First of all, she had to order the headstone. The secretary
had been willing to do even this for her, but when she had
asked him, he advised her to go herself. "Ordering a
headstone by phone isn't the same as checking things out for
yourself. There are things only family can decide and I can't
do it for you."
Mali had agreed. It was better that she choose for herself
the type of stone, the epitaph and what type of letters would
be used. Somehow, she found comfort in this as if by doing
so, she was providing another small service for her father
who had never asked anything for himself.
A bus arrived. Not the one Mali had been waiting for. People
who had been waiting at this stop and at others changed
places, got on and got off and disappeared on their way. It
became less crowded. Near the taxi stand, a few yeshivah boys
remained standing, talking quietly among themselves, waiting
for an available taxi.
Oh, if only she had merited marrying one like them! But she
hadn't. She didn't take care of that when the time was ripe.
And the reason? They lived far away and Father, her good
father, who so wanted her good, was too busy with another
matter, with her ailing mother. Shidduchim seemed to
everyone, including her, as far away as east from west.
Mali had wanted to establish her own home, but felt compelled
to help out. And it wasn't possible to burden her parents
with this worry as well. At least not at that stage.
Shidduchim were postponed for a year or two, until Ima
got well, but the two years turned into four and six and Ima
didn't get well. After years of suffering, she died and left
the three of them in shock. They were sure she was
recovering. They had always hoped, but their hopes were
dashed.
Mali was then 24 and her younger sister was 10. Again, it
seemed to her inappropriate to discuss a wedding. What would
become of little Rachel? How could Abba, in his broken state,
care for her alone? So she ignored the opportunities that
landed on her doorstep and remained at home to care for and
comfort her father and be a mother to Rachel.
Eight years had passed since then, years of unity and warmth
and giving in their small family. Mali felt fulfilled through
her ability to give to her family but it prevented her from
thinking seriously about herself, her life, her future.
Time had not been at her advantage. If at the beginning there
were inquiries from the small amount of their acquaintances
and friends, after being rejected, they stopped inquiring and
accepted the situation as status quo. In other words, that
Mali would stay single forever.
Now Mali was lamenting the missed opportunity. If only she
had known at the time that no one is given a long-term
opportunity; that the time for shidduchim is so
limited, perhaps she would have acted differently and she
would have had her own children by now. Maybe. Maybe not.
Now Rachel was about to finish seminary. Perhaps it was her
job to make sure that her younger sister not lose out on that
elusive happiness. An approaching taxi stopped. Among the
boys there was some movement. A few bid their friends goodbye
and got into the taxi, folding themselves and their bags
inside. Three remained behind. Apparently, there wasn't
enough room in the taxi.
Mali imagined the face of her sister Rachel. What an
endearing child! Always doing everything and speaking
quietly! Really Rachel deserved the best. If necessary, they
would sell the property and there would be enough to buy an
apartment for the young couple and something small for her.
She didn't need a lot, only that it be nearby so that she
could be a good aunt.
Another taxi stopped at the station. The boys opened the
trunk and stuffed their bags inside. Then they got in and the
last one slammed the door. The sound of the door slamming
woke Mali from her reverie and suddenly, in front of her on
the sidewalk, where the boys had previously been standing,
she saw a black bag. One of them had forgotten his bag. Mali
quickly raised her arm to signal to the driver to stop but he
was in a hurry to get away and Mali was left alone with her
arm stuck out in front of her.
"That's so like my life," she thought gloomily. "I always
miss the boat. Okay, now I have the mitzvah of
returning a lost object. But how will I run around Jerusalem
with a heavy bag in addition to my own?"
She approached the black bag and picked it up. "It's a good
thing the bag is light. Perhaps the owner's name is written
inside."
The bag was full of papers. Dozens of papers written in a
crowded and neat handwriting that Mali liked. Chiddushei
Torah.
"Oh, if only I had merited . . . " she shook herself and
closed the bag. She searched for the taxi dispatcher but
there was no one like that there. There was only a sign that
read, "Taxi."
When she arrived at the headstone office, she thought, she
would ask someone how one goes about returning a lost object
in Jerusalem. At the Moshav there was no problem. Everyone
knew what belonged to whom and simply put it in their home or
their yard. "According to the pain is the gain," she thought.
"There's no choice, it appears, and I'll have to carry the
bag with me on all my errands."
When she entered the monument office, she was distracted. She
was hardly able to choose a type of stone and the type of
print she wanted. When it came to the epitaph, she froze. The
owner of the workshop left her alone with her thoughts,
holding a pencil in her mouth, a yellow order form in front
of her, and went to help another customer who knew exactly
what he wanted: a straight square marble stone, the whitest
there was. Black letters. The customer leaned over his form
to write the epitaph.
"He'll probably get the wording quickly and easily, not like
me, hesitating over every word and forgetting in the middle
of the sentence what I wanted to say. It's too bad I didn't
come with it already prepared. I didn't think it would be so
hard." But the client didn't write. His eyes were drawn to
the black bag next to Mali.
"Excuse me."
"Yes?" Mali raised her head and encountered a questioning
look.
"The black bag, where is it from?"
"Oh, that. It was left by the taxi station." Mali told the
stranger about the bag. "It isn't just a bag," she
emphasized, adding reverently, "It's full of chidushei
Torah. Sorry, I opened it to peek to see if there was the
name of the person who lost it inside."
It only then occurred to her that maybe she was speaking with
that person himself. Otherwise how would he know that the bag
wasn't hers? The man gave her half a smile and his tired,
pained face brightened.
"That's my son's bag. I bought it for him for his writings.
He's a bit distracted now. An orphan, you understand."
"Ah!" Mali quickly transferred the bag to him. "Check,
everything's inside."
"There's no need. Thank you very much. I see that you've come
to arrange a headstone for . . . "
"My father, Rav Yaakov Finkelstein, z"l."
"Rav Yankel, Really! I met him years ago. He learned a few
grades ahead of me in Yeshiva. Do you still live in the
Moshav?"
"Yes, but I don't think for long," Mali became confused. "But
it isn't for public knowledge. It seems we'll have to
leave."
"Err, sorry, but have you both finished with the stones? I
want to close," the owner interrupted.
"Right away," said the man who had spoken to her, scribbling
something quickly on the yellow paper before he left the
store. She would remain stuck there. But no . . .
"If you'd allow me, I wrote a few words in memory of your
father. Perhaps it's to your liking?" the man handed her the
paper. Mali read it with tears in her eyes. Was it to her
liking? Of course it was to her liking when someone helped
her deal with paperwork. Paperwork was never her strong
point. And his inscription was written from the heart, from
someone who had known her father . . .
"Thank you, that's exactly what I needed," she whispered.
Afterwards, they both left and each went his own way.
Mali wasn't surprised when the man-with-the-bag arrived on
the thirtieth day for the unveiling. He knew her father from
Yeshivah after all.
And then . . .
It's a bit strange that I am the one being offered a
suggestion. I was thinking that now was the right time to
find a match for Rachel, she thought. She had no one to
share this thought with and there were as yet no reasons to
reject the honorable match. She agreed without checking it
out much.
Only after she saw the man with the bag did she understand
what a detour this bag had to take to be the matchmaker
between her and its owner.
