"Oh, hello . . . Bluma? . . . " The gentle voice behind me
sounded vaguely familiar. I turned around, surprised. Who
knew me here in the new housing project we'd just moved
to?
A glance at the speaker and a quick search of my memory . . .
Yes, I do know her. That's Devora, a girl I remembered
from my high school class.
We were both excited to meet each other. Even though we were
never exceptionally close, it was nice to meet up with
someone recognizable in this new, unfamiliar neighborhood.
Devora invited me to come to her apartment that evening for a
cup of coffee and some cake so we could catch up on the
news.
The invitation came at a perfect time. At eight o'clock
exactly I put my one-year-old's coat on him and got ready to
leave a houseful of half unpacked boxes. It would be nice and
different to sit and chat a little, to reminisce about our
childhood antics, and to forget all the work that was waiting
for me so that my house would stop looking like a storage
room!
As I was walking out the door, my eye fell upon the box that
held my wedding albums. Devora wasn't at my wedding; she
herself had gotten married the night before, and therefore I
wasn't at her wedding, either. It would be nice to look at
the albums and to experience each other's simchas,
even if we were three years late.
Devora was waiting for me in her small homey kitchen. Her
baby was crawling on the floor and my one-year-old Shloimi
joined him. The two of us, like all ladies, sat and
schmoozed.
"Oh, I forgot! I brought my wedding albums with me . . . " I
suddenly remembered. One after the other, I took out the
albums and spread them on the table.
Devora quickly took the albums and started looking through
them, commenting the whole time on how nice the pictures came
out. I told her that we were quite disappointed with the
quality. True, when you look hastily at the pictures they
look fine, but at a closer look, you realize that they aren't
as sharp and clear as they ought to be. Any professional
would see that they are inferior pictures. Some are
relatively dark; in others, the eyes are red . . . I
continued pointing out the problems.
"It's not that important," Devora claimed.
"Why do you think it doesn't matter?" I wanted to understand.
"These pictures are my memento for life. You know how much it
bothers me that they didn't come out the way I had expected
them to!?"
"The main thing is to see the great happiness," she comforted
me and continued looking at the pictures, fascinated.
"Here, look at this," I showed Devora one of the pictures
taken before the chuppah, in my house. "If the
photographer would have just stood at a different angle, the
magnificent bouquet I was holding would have come out so much
clearer. And also this picture," I persisted. "He didn't
photograph it the right way; the background came out too big
and it just doesn't look right . . . "
"What's important is that everything went well," Devora
commented as she continued flipping through the pictures and
following the wedding through them.
Devora had succeeded in annoying me a little by now. Pictures
from a wedding are a precious souvenir; why was she so
passive about my disappointment? Let's see her not minding if
her pictures would be such terrible quality!
When she finished looking at the last album, I spontaneously
asked: "Nu, where are your albums? I'm interested in seeing
how your wedding album came out!"
"Boruch Hashem, our wedding was joyful and stunning; pictures
would never be able to capture its real beauty," Devora
answered.
Obviously, I agreed with her. Pictures are pictures and the
real thing is reality. But even so, pictures are special
keepsakes that are very valuable. "Let me just see the
pictures instead of sitting here philosophizing."
But Devora didn't hurry to bring them. I started to think
that she wasn't comfortable showing me her gorgeous albums
after she saw how disappointed I was over mine.
"It's okay, Devora," I told her, "I just want to see your
wedding photos, without comparing the pictures."
"I truly want to show them to you," Devora answered quietly,
"but I simply don't have any!"
"What?!" I almost screamed: "Are you trying to tell me that
you didn't have a photographer?"
"We sure did have one." And with a smile she began to tell me
the story of the pictures that weren't.
"The day after our wedding, the photographer drove into a gas
station. He went out of the car for a minute, and while he
was approaching an attendant, someone burst forward and in a
mad frenzy, entered the car and drove off. By the time the
photographer realized what was going on, the thief was
already way out of sight.
"The trunk of the car contained the photographer's expensive
equipment, and also our films, which he had planned on
developing that same night. They quickly called the police
but unfortunately, they were not able to find the stolen car.
Most probably, he brought the car to a junkyard in one of the
Arab villages, and there they took the whole thing apart.
They probably sold all the equipment, and my pictures were
probably thrown out carelessly, into a nearby trash can."
I had difficulty digesting the story. She suffered such a big
loss? What a great disappointment! She must have felt
terrible, being left with not even one picture of the most
central occasion of her life! But Devora reminisced about it
with such peace, as if she were talking about a lost pair of
glasses. Maybe, maybe time eased the pain?
"Devora," I couldn't hold back from asking, "tell me, if
then, too, right after the wedding, as newlyweds who wish to
keep on reliving the fantastic event — did you relate
to your loss then as you do now?"
She became preoccupied: "You know what?" she said to me.
"This really was a very great loss, but there was also a lot
that we gained from it."
"And what exactly could that have been?"
"We found what is really going on inside of our hearts; we
figured out what we really wanted from life."
I looked at Devora, waiting for an explanation. She took a
deep breath and continued:
*
"Like every newly married couple we had anxiously awaited our
pictures. That's why my parents didn't tell us what had
occurred until after the sheva brochohs; they didn't
want anything to take away from our happiness. The day after
the last sheva brochos, I was already growing
impatient; the photographer had assured us that within four
days he would bring us the photos. What could have happened
to him? Why was he behind schedule?
"And then my mother told me that he had already called, two
days after the wedding, and he tremblingly told told my
mother what had happened. And she herself had a hard time
repeating the story to me. She knew how much it would upset
and hurt me.
"As soon as I understood that there were no pictures, and I
would never have a memento from my wedding, I was blinded by
my tears. My soaring spirit fell at once. I went home,
brokenhearted. I couldn't even get myself to prepare
dinner.
"When my husband came home he was shocked to see the way I
looked. `Did something happen, Devora?' he asked
worriedly.
"`You bet!' I cried, and told him the whole story.
"My husband listened quietly and didn't say anything. I
realized that he felt the loss but didn't dwell on it; he
immediately started thinking of what to answer me.
"`Devora, really, why are the pictures so important?' he
suddenly asked.
"`What do you mean?' I couldn't believe my ears. `They are
the mementos from the most important event of our lives
together. In fifteen, twenty, or even in forty years we would
have been able to relive the wedding . . . as often as we
liked . . . '
"`And without pictures we'll forget everything?'
"`Oh, of course not,' I answered as I wiped away the tears.
`We'll always remember our wedding, but pictures help us
remember every aspect; and relive the entire
simchah.'
"`You're right,' my husband agreed, `The pictures do help to
recollect every small detail: how the hall looked, what
everybody wore, who was there, and who wasn't, how we danced,
who recited the Brochos under the chuppah, and
more. But on the other hand, what we felt in those uplifting
moments, what we accepted upon ourselves, what we prayed for -
- the pictures could never remind us of these. In order to
relive those thoughts and feelings, we don't need pictures,
right?'
"I nodded, understanding the direction in which he was
heading. The pictures are the exterior of the wedding. In
order to experience the internal part, the real part, you
don't need any pictures.
"The uplifting excitement, the closeness to Hashem, the great
joy — to remember these, pictures won't help. Pictures
can even detract, as we get caught up in them . . . Instead,
you need to work on yourself . . . "
*
I sat, mesmerized. Devora looked at me with her simple smile
and finished:
"Don't worry, it took me a long time to make peace with this
'catastrophe,' even to be able to think about it without
feeling like my heart is breaking into pieces. And I found
myself often thinking about what I told you now. I understood
that this hardship was from Hashem and it was meant to teach
me to concentrate on the really important things in life, and
not only on the insignificant aspects that we often emphasize
by mistake. I put a lot of effort into reliving the wedding,
without the pictures' aid. Believe me, it's not any less
wonderful . . . "
I got up, and picked up Shloimi. Devora picked up her baby
too, and walked me to the door.
"You know what this reminds me of?" she suddenly asked. "I
once heard a joke about a proud grandfather wandering around
in a nice park, holding his grandson's hand. An acquaintance
met up with him and said, 'What a cute grandson . . . '
"'This is nothing,' replied the grandfather, and he starting
fishing around in his pocket. 'Just look at the
pictures.'"
I laughed. Our obsession of pictures and cameras really does
blur our vision of life itself.
I wrapped my Shloimi well in his blanket before taking him
out to the cold night air. Devora also hugged her son,
protecting him from the winds coming in through the open
door.
"Tell me, Devora," I said, pointing to the four of us, "isn't
this 'picture' here worth more than thousands upon thousands
of photos?"
[Translated with permission from Marveh laTzameh.}
