The last time she came to the clothing gemach was
about three weeks before she passed away, a woman replete
with full days of mitzvos throughout her seventy
years.
She never spent less than a hundred shekel at a shot, and
none of it was for herself. Mrs. S. came about once a
month. I'm sure she would have loved coming more often, but
the very act of walking was extremely difficult as she
swayed from one painful, swollen leg to the other. It
seemed to me like she was in constant pain. Getting into
the cab to go home was a five minute ordeal, even with
volunteers loading her packages and helping her in. The
other factor that stopped her from coming more often was
funds. It was not right, she felt, to use household money
allocated by her husband for her chessed projects,
and so she insisted on earning the money she spent on
others -- by herself. The only way she could earn money was
by occasional babysitting, when her health was up to it.
Mrs. S. came with a list: some linens for the baal
tshuva couple that had just come to the neighborhood and
had entered marriage with nix, having defied their kibbutz
parents. Clothing for a few neglected children, something
for a family that had just had triplets. "Something nice.
New, if you have. And a warm sweater, long dress and a
sheitel for Rivka." Anything would be better than
what was on the head of that woman who straddled the seats
by the bus stop in Geula and solicited charity from passersby. The
ten-grush coins she was occasionally rewarded were not
enough for food, so Mrs. S. made sure that at least she
looked presentable and modest, since she did not have
enough presence of mind to take care of herself.
She was always a customer for large sizes, male or female.
She knew the needs of her proteges and rarely made a poor
choice. I do remember one time she brought something back --
despite our policy against returns. It was a pair of men's
shoes she had bought for an impoverished kollel man
who was going about almost barefoot. She had them
repaired (at about four times the cost of the shoes by us)
but after new soles were put on, the shoes were too tight.
"Let someone else enjoy them."
She wouldn't budge until most of the items on her list were
checked off and the pile had grown to three-four huge
garbage bags full of clothing.
On her last visit, she came accompanied by her daughter,
who happens to be one of our volunteers. Feigy whispered in
my ear, "My mother is very ill. We agreed to let her come
even though she is in terrible pain and just out of the
hospital. You see, she can't live without chessed.
Please try to help her finish this quickly. She really
shouldn't be out." Mrs. S. had terminal cancer.
*
I went to pay my shiva visit three weeks later and to
share my esteem for this remarkable person. And this is the
story I heard, a lesson in judging favorably, which would
serve our readers well:
Mrs. S. had been concerned with feeding the poor, as well,
and was once soliciting money for food for one particular
family.
"Hmmm. I wonder if they're really as bad off as you claim,"
said one neighbor skeptically. "Whenever I see their three
girls out on Friday night, playing with my own children,
they are always impeccably dressed. What makes you think
they are on the verge of starvation?"
Mrs. S. smiled her wise smile and said, "I am so glad that
you said that to me -- and not to anyone else. Where do you
think those lovely dresses come from? Would you believe it
if I told you that I got them for a shekel apiece at our
clothing gemach's Rosh Chodesh sale? Now you can
believe me that they don't have a grush to their name."
*
The other day, her daughter Feigy came again to volunteer.
With a list. "I need some baby clothes, and a man's
sweater, a very large size, for the beggar..."
