Rebbetzin Reznitsky half lurched, half sank gratefully and
breathlessly into the nearest seat on the bus, piled her bags
and packages onto the empty seat beside her and propped her
dilapidated brown, wooden cane against the wall. She heaved a
sigh of relief, groped in her handbag for her Tehillim,
opened it, slipped on the reading glasses dangling from a
ribbon around her neck, leafed through, seeking the right
page and began to whisper quietly. But just as she was
getting comfortably settled, some words floated into her ears
from the seat directly in back of her own.
"...she wasn't much to look at, to begin with, and she was
getting older and older. The shadchanim were just
about ready to give up on her..."
The Rebbetzin's eyebrows flew upward -- almost colliding with
the tight elastic rim of her neat brown hat -- in shocked
disbelief. She'd scarcely glanced at the two women in the
seat behind her, when she sat (or fell) down, but she'd still
got a distinct impression of them: two young matrons. One's
sheitel was short and blonde, and the other's was an
auburn, medium-length pageboy. They'd looked so refined! How
could they be talking, in perfect English, with clipped
British accents, no less! -- such obvious, such blatant
loshon hora!
She glanced quickly over her shoulder, but the glance only
confirmed her original impression. Ladies with high-buttoned
collars and long sleeves, but... oy, oy, oy, the words
they were speaking! Blonde Sheitel, seemingly totally
unabashed by the Rebbetzin's stares, was continuing her
narrative wth verve and zest: "In the end, they finally did
find her some kind of a shidduch, but he was pretty
awful, too..."
Pageboy was evidencing every indication of avid interest,
nodding encouragingly, seemingly drinking in each word with
undivided interest.
What's the halacha? Rebbetzin Reznitzky wondered.
Am I required to move? To change my seat, rather than
listen to this? But it's not even as if they're whispering
guiltily, or talking in low, confidential tones. They're
speaking clearly and normally. I'd have to move several rows
back to avoid hearing them, but maybe that's what I should
do.
She reached for her cane, but just then the bus careered
sharply around a corner, on what felt like two wheels.
Goodness! This bus driver has missed his calling -- he
should have been a broncobuster at a rodeo! Trying to switch
places under such conditions really doesn't seem too
advisable. But what else can I do? Put my fingers in my
ears?
Across the aisle, an elderly gentleman, peering into a small
sefer, smoothed his silvery beard. The Rebbetzin
realized that she would feel very conspicuous with her
fingers in her ears. There are only a few more stops to
go. I just won't listen, that's all. I'll ignore them and say
my Tehillim. They haven't mentioned any names, and I can't
think of anyone I know of that description. She turned
back to her Tehillim.
"...but even when she finally did get married..."
Blonde Sheitel was saying, "she was such an awful wife, you
can't imagine!'
"Like what do you mean, `awful?' " Pageboy queried, with
interest. "In what way `awful,' exactly?"
Really! It was just too much! Did these women have no inkling
of the enormity of the sin of speaking loshon horah?
Had they never attended a shiur, listened to a tape?
How could that be? Or did they just not care? Where was their
ahavas Yisroel? Their yiras Shomayim?
Should I yell at them? Rebbetzin Reznitzky asked herself.
She wasn't the yelling kind -- far from it, but... Would
they listen? Or maybe I could just gently point out to them
that...
"...Oh, she was always, like, putting him down, you know what
I mean?"
"No, really?"
"Mmmm hmmm. Maybe not actually telling him -- but showing him
that she really despised him, that he wasn't good enough for
her and never would be."
"That's awful!" Pageboy exclaimed, disapprovingly.
And talking loshon hora isn't awful? the
Rebbetzin wondered. She felt, suddenly, very tired, very old
and disillusioned. She'd really thought that today's
generation was far more aware, was far more careful about
shmiras haloshon. In her younger years, she'd been
part of the campaign to wipe out loshon hora --
offering her home for weekly classes and study groups. Had
she been naive to believe that those efforts had helped to
make a difference? How would Moshiach come if the righteous
women didn't bring him? And this was hardly the way to bring
him!
Wrapped up in these thoughts of disillusion and despair,
Rebbetzin Reznitzky reflected that, at least, she was
managing to miss much of the narrative -- which was certainly
all for the good. But scattered phrases here and there were
still drifting her way. It seemed to be a very sorry tale.
"...Yes, but then, after that happened, she sort of like did
tshuva. She started being a really good wife, all of a
sudden..."
The Rebbetzin sat up straight, a perplexed frown flitting
across her lightly wrinkled forehead. Something -- she
couldn't put her finger on what -- something was ringing a
little bell inside her memory. Something was sounding very
familiar. Did she know the person they were talking about?
If so, she reprimanded herself, all the more reason
not to listen!
Except that now she couldn't help herself. Now,
automatically, her mind was groping, searching, to solve the
mystery. A key word here... and another there...
Light dawned. The Rebbetzin sat back, a wide smile of relief
creasing her countenance. [Ed. Should we keep the ending for
next week?]
Yes, she did, indeed, recognize the story. That's what it was
-- a story, the gripping plot of a story, so graphically
exaggerated to drive home its message! She'd read it, too,
some weeks earlier in a new book from her neighborhood Torah
library.
Moments later, two young matrons -- in blond and auburn
sheitlach -- wondered why the elderly lady with the
cane and packages was smiling and nodding at them so warmly
and approvingly as she passed by their seat on the way to the
exit door.
