一個籌款盒的力量

梁軍+

hen I worked in a Jewish nursing home, I learned the true meaning of the Jewish national fund blue box. A blue box is not just a box into which coins are put. It is the repository of dreams, prayers and efforts of generations of Jews.

One day, to stimulate memories among the participants in my group, I brought a tray of objects. I set out a pair of small candlesticks, a couple of seashells, a lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief, a blue box, and other odds and ends on the tray and passed it around.

The residents would finger the objects, then pass the tray on. When their turn came, theyd share a personal anecdote that one of the objects had brought to mind.

That day, an aide had brought Clara to the group. Clara had suffered a stroke that left her paralyzed on one side and somewhat aphasic: She understood language but had trouble finding the correct words when she wanted to speak.

Clara did not take her disabilities with grace. She was angry, hostile and disruptive. Storytelling was the most inappropriate activity of all, for it focused attention on her language disability. But there she was, and I was too busy with the rest of the group to wheel Clara back into the hall. I just hoped that Clara wouldnt raise too much of a ruckus.

When the tray went around the room, Clara grabbed the blue box in her good hand and clasped it to her chest, refusing to relinquish it. Although no one else took an object off the tray, there were grumbles from the other participants. “Anyone can tell a story about any object—these or any others,” I said. The grumbles died down. Then the stories began. One woman told how the seashells reminded her of going to the beach every summer as a child. Another described the lacy handkerchief she carried when she eloped with a soldier on the eve of World War Ⅱ. The next person was Clara, but the person behind her, knowing Clara never participated in a group, cleared her throat. Clara waved the blue box and said, “Mine, mine.” Another old woman, a former social worker, said, “Clara wants to speak!” Clara nodded, and the room became silent.

Slowly, haltingly, Clara began her story. Often she said something that made no sense. Other old ladies had told their memories in two or three sentences, but in spite of her laborious method of storytelling, Clara told her story in detail.

Her son was six, she said, when World War Ⅱ was over and the news of concentration camps became public. Clara, a young Boston housewife, was devastated, although all her family was already in America. Her heart ached for the survivors, crammed into displaced persons camps, and she wanted to help. After much thought, she made a plan. Every afternoon, when her son came home from school, she would take him by one hand with her blue box in the other hand, and she would collect money for Israel. Clara went door to door through the Jewish neighborhoods, and everyone gave. But she couldnt just stop, so she started going through other neighborhoods. “The Irish and the Italians and the Greeks, everyone gave.”

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“They said, ‘I feel so bad for your people. Thank you for giving me a chance to help.” Clara told the group that for two years, until the birth of her second child was imminent, she and her son went out almost every day to collect money for Israel, money to bring the survivors home to their new land.

When Clara finished, the room was silent. Her painfully told, detailed account had brought those days back clearly in everyones mind. Suddenly one old woman began to clap, and then applause filled the room. Clara nodded at the group, and the side of her mouth that could move curved into a smile.

That night, Clara had another stroke, one that left her completely unable to speak. But in my eyes and those of the other people who had been in that room that day, Clara never again looked like the mere wreck of a woman. Instead, we saw the vibrant soul of a woman who cared.

當時在一家猶太人療養院工作，在那兒我了解到猶太人建國基金籌款盒的真實意義。這個藍色的籌款盒不只是我們投放善款的盒子。它其實是一個夢想和愿望的儲存庫，還承載著幾代猶太人的艱辛努力。

那天，為了勾起我們小組參與者的記憶，講出他們往日的故事，我端出一盤物件。我在盤中擺了一對小巧的蠟燭架、一對海貝殼、一條帶有花邊且繡有名字的手帕、一個藍色籌款盒和其他零碎物件，然后將盤子遞給組員并傳遞下去。

療養院中的老人們用手指觸摸著這些物件，然后將盤子傳遞給旁邊的人，當盤子傳到每個人的手中時，總會有一個物件勾起他們的回憶。他們就會講一則有關此物件的軼事。

那天，一個助理把克萊拉帶到我們的活動小組中。克萊拉中過一次風，之后半身癱瘓，而且患上某種失語癥：她聽得懂別人的話，但當她想表達自己的意思時卻很難找到合適的語言。

克萊拉很在意自己的殘疾。她易怒、對人不禮貌并且愛搗亂。而且，基于她運用語言的障礙，講故事對她來說真是個非常不合適的活動。但是她已經來了，而且我在忙于照顧小組的其他成員，我不能把克萊拉推回到大廳去。我只是希望她不要太過分，造成喧鬧。

當盤子在組員們中傳遞時，克萊拉用她能動的那只手拿起了那個藍色籌款盒，并將之緊貼在胸前，不想放手。由于其他人都沒有從盤子里拿走物件，其他組員稍有微詞，表示不滿。“每個人都可以講一個與任何物件——盤中或其他物件有關的故事。”我說。抱怨聲漸漸消失了，然后大家開始講故事。一位婦女說，海貝殼使她想起了還是孩子的時候，每個夏天都會去海灘。另一位講述說，花邊手帕使她想起在二戰前夕，她與一名士兵私奔時也帶著一條這樣的手帕。下一個輪到克萊拉了，但是排在克萊拉后面的那個人知道她從未參加過任何小組活動，所以她清了清嗓子，準備發言。但克萊拉搖了搖那個籌款盒，說：“我，該我了。”另一個老婦（以前曾是個社工），喊道：“克萊拉想發言！”克萊拉點了點頭，房間里都安靜了下來。

克萊拉慢慢地、結結巴巴地講起了她的故事。在講故事期間，她經常會說出一些說不通的句子。其他老婦一般用兩三句就講完了她們的回憶，但是，盡管講故事對克萊拉來說是個費力的事，她還是堅持講出了故事的每個細節。

她說，當時她兒子六歲，正是二戰結束的時候，集中營已是眾所周知了。克萊拉住在波士頓，是一位年輕的家庭婦女。盡管她所有的家人都已經來到了美國，她還是很悲傷，為那些擠在難民營中的幸存者感到心痛，希望能夠幫助他們。經過一番考慮之后，她想出了個計劃。每天下午，等她兒子從學校放學回家，她就一手牽著兒子，一手拿著藍色籌款盒，為以色列建國籌款。克萊拉挨家挨戶地拜訪周圍的猶太人家庭，每個人都有捐贈。但是她并不滿足于此，她又到更遠的街區去籌款。“愛爾蘭人、意大利人，還有希臘人，每個人都有捐贈。”

“那些人對我說：‘我十分同情你們猶太人。謝謝你給我這個機會提供幫助。”克萊拉告訴大家。直到她第二個孩子即將出世，有兩年時間，她和她兒子幾乎每天都要出去為以色列籌集善款，這些錢最后用來幫助幸存者來到他們新的祖國。

當克萊拉講完后，房間里鴉雀無聲。她吃力而又詳盡的敘述，將那往昔的日子清晰地展現在我們每個人的腦海中。突然有一個老婦開始鼓掌，隨后掌聲響徹整個房間。克萊拉向組員們點頭示意，她那能移動的半邊嘴巴綻放出笑容。

那天晚上，克萊拉又中了一次風，她完全不能說話了。但是在我和其他那些聽她講述過那個故事的人的眼中，她不再是個殘疾的女人。相反，我們看到的是那個有活力、有愛心的女人。

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