Today is Wednesday, April 30th, 2003; Karen's Korner #43

This is from "Chicken Soup for the Soul" which I received via e-mail this morning. It is quite lengthy. I hope you read it and enjoy it, if you have the time. If not, delete.....

 

The Wallet
By Arnold Fine

As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a
wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and
looked inside to find some identification so I could call
the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and
a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there
for years.

The envelope was worn and the only thing that was
legible on it was the return address. I started to open
the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then I saw the
dateline - 1924. The letter had been written almost sixty
years earlier.

It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting, on
powder-blue stationery with a little flower in the left-
hand corner. It was a "Dear John" letter that told the
recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the
writer could not see him any more because her mother
forbade it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love
him. It was signed Hannah.

It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way,
except for the name Michael, to identify the owner. Maybe
if I called information, the operator could find a phone
listing for the address on the envelope.

"Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I'm
trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is
there any way you can tell me if there is a phone number
for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?"

She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who
hesitated for a moment, then said, "Well, there is a phone
listing at that address, but I can't give you the number."
She said as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain
my story and ask whoever answered if the person wanted her
to connect me. I waited a few minutes and then the
supervisor was back on the line. "I have a party who will
speak with you."

I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she
knew anyone by the name of Hannah. She gasped. "Oh! We
bought this house from a family who had a daughter named
Hannah. But that was thirty years ago!"

"Would you know where that family could be located
now?" I asked.

"I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a
nursing home some years ago," the woman said. "Maybe if
you got in touch with them, they might be able to track
down the daughter."

She gave me the name of the nursing home, and I called
the number. The woman on the phone told me the old lady
had passed away some years ago, but the nursing home did
have a phone number for where the daughter might be living.

I thanked the person at the nursing home and phoned
the number she gave me. The woman who answered explained
that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.

'This whole thing is stupid,' I thought to myself.
'Why am I making such a big deal over finding the owner of
a wallet that has only three dollars and a letter that is
almost sixty years old?'

Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which
Hannah was supposed to be living, and the man who answered
the phone told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us."

Even though it was already 10 P.M., I asked if I could
come by to see her. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "if you
want to take a chance, she might be in the day room
watching television."

I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The
night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door. We went up
to the third floor of the large building. In the day room,
the nurse introduced me to Hannah. She was a sweet,
silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and a twinkle in
her eye.

I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the
letter. The second she saw the powder-blue envelope with
that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and
said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever
had with Michael."

She looked away for a moment, deep in thought, and
then said softly, "I loved him very much. But I was only
sixteen at the time and my mother felt I was too young.

Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the
actor.

"Yes," she continued, "Michael Goldstein was a
wonderful person. If you should find him, tell him I think
of him often. And," she hesitated for a moment, almost
biting her lip, "tell him I still love him. You know," she
said, smiling as tears welled up in her eyes, "I never did
marry. I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."

I thanked Hannah and said good-bye. I took the
elevator to the first floor and as I stood by the door, the
guard there asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"
I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have
a last name. But I think I'll let it go for a while. I
spent almost the whole day trying to find the owner of this
wallet."

I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown
leather case with red lacing on the side. When the guard
saw it, he said, "Hey, wait a minute! That's Mr.
Goldstein's wallet. I'd know it anywhere with that bright
red lacing. He's always losing that wallet. I must have
found it in the halls at least three times."

"Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked, as my hand began to
shake.

"He's one of the old-timers on the eighth floor.
That's Mike Goldstein's wallet for sure. He must have lost
it on one of his walks."

I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the
nurse's office. I told her what the guard had said. We
went back to the elevator and got on. I prayed that Mr.
Goldstein would be up.

On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, "I think
he's still in the day room. He likes to read at night.
He's a darling old man."

We went to the only room that had any lights on, and
there was a man reading a book. The nurse went over to him
and asked if he had lost his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked
up with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said,

"Oh, it is missing!"

"This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if
it could be yours."

I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet, and the second he
saw it, he smiled with relief and said, "Yes, that's it!
It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon. I
want to give you a reward."

"No, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you
something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out
who owned the wallet."

The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. "You read
that letter?"

"Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah
is."

He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she
is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was?

Please, please tell me," he begged.

"She's fine...just as pretty as when you knew her," I
said softly.

The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, "Could
you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow."

He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something, mister?
I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came,
my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I've
always loved her."

"Michael," I said, "come with me."

We took the elevator down to the third floor. The
hallways were darkened and only one or two little night
lights lit our way to the day room, where Hannah was
sitting alone, watching the television.

The nurse walked over to her.

"Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael, who
was waiting with me in the doorway. "Do you know this
man?"

She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but
didn't say a word.

Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, "Hannah,
it's Michael. Do you remember me?"

She gasped. "Michael! I don't believe it! Michael!
It's you! My Michael!"

He walked slowly toward her, and they embraced. The
nurse and I left with tears streaming down our faces.

"See," I said. "See how the good Lord works! If it's
meant to be, it will be."

About three weeks later, I got a call at my office
from the nursing home. "Can you break away on Sunday to
attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie the
knot!"

It was a beautiful wedding, with all the people at the
nursing home dressed up to join in the celebration. Hannah
wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael
wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They made me their
best man.

The hospital gave them their own room, and if you ever
wanted to see a seventy-six-year-old bride and a seventy-
nine-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to
see this couple.

A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted

nearly sixty years.


Back