Lamentations

“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 the Tisha b' Av is a period of time when we

purposely deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating

in this solemn fast day characterized by the reading of the

Book of Lamentations, communal mourning for the destruction of the

Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of our Jewish

national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical

tragedies 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 come

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?” I

asked.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.

I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but chose not

to do so. 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 was a bit hard of hearing.

"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents,

you have yahrzeit?” Twisting his left forearm over with the

assistance of his right hand, he revealed the 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 the tattoo

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 just 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

discovering that a 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 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 slowly 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.

“As long as he’s comfortable,” I thought.

Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei

v'secha,” we davened Mincha after which Rabbi 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.

I 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 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 10/12/07