“Lamentations”

           The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of bereavement.  

My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen months, a mournful

experience not unlike the personal grief from which I have suffered since

November of 2000 when my first-born child Benjamin died.

          The three weeks prior to Tisha B’ Av is a period of time during

which we deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating in

this solemn fast day when we read the Book of Lamentations, a communal

mourning for the destruction of the Batei Ha Mikdash and a  heightened

awareness of our Jewish national identity. Our tradition holds that many

other historical tragedies also befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.

           It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was

scheduled for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw

an elderly man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied

though patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with

a smile.

"Good evening, Sir.”

"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had stopped

by to chat with him.

“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock

now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”

"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.

Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?”

"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.  I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his
Hebrew name, but did not.

I looked at him intently. He was dressed in

casual slacks, a pale yellow golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap. His

focus on my words suggested that he may have been a bit hard of hearing.

"Reb Talisman, for your wife, your parents you have yahrzeit?”

 He twisted his left forearm over with the assistance of his right hand

revealing six green numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos

before, but the manner in which he exposed it staggered me. His quiet,

dignity left me unsure if he bore it as a badge of honor or shame. He looked

up at me with glistening eyes and whispered "my parents.” His eyes,

sunken and sallow, were underscored by dark rings, an image almost as

indelible as his horrific tattoo.     

I wanted to take care of this man.

"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen

Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash.  I accompanied him down the hallway.

Together we opened the door. Reb Talisman paused. "Should we enter?

There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson going on."

Indeed there was. 

Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings, Rabbi Louis

was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after learning that an

electrical ceiling  ballast had blown out. It was an especially busy night at

shul. The sisterhood was holding a program and the junior minyan was

learning with the Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was escorting an elderly

gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for the next two hapless

fellows who followed us in after we had shut the door.

"Close it!” Rabbi barked.

"Abba,, it’s  8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s

older son who, as it happened, was one of the two who came in after us.

I directed Reb Talisman toward the one chair unlike any other in the beis

medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the stackable variety, well-

cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly pink in color. It had been the

favorite of Reb Helman, the late father of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I

turned to check on him however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed”

opposite the Ark.

“No problem,” I thought, “as long as he’s comfortable.”

Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” we

davened Mincha after which he lectured about the laws of Tisha B’

Av. Several minutes later, we prayed the Maariv service, but, by which time,

I had lost all my concentration. Now I know one should look to the heavens

should he feel his devotion waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of

Kallah. She filled my head, and I knew she'd not be there when I arrived

back home. I closed my siddur and stared out the window.

"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to the

doorway thinking  I had heard a feminine voice.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.

"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba …” The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb

Talisman to his car.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove

away.  I fumbled for my keys. "There surely has to be a lesson here," I

reflected, turning on the ignition.

During the minute that it took me to drive home, I fantasized about seeing

her car in the driveway, but then realized The One Above had sent Reb

Talisman to remind me others are grieving too. An act of chesed brought a

smile to an elderly Jew.

How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.

Alan D. Busch

Revised 10/29/07