一个筹款盒的力量

梁军+

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.

当时在一家犹太人疗养院工作，在那儿我了解到犹太人建国基金筹款盒的真实意义。这个蓝色的筹款盒不只是我们投放善款的盒子。它其实是一个梦想和愿望的储存库，还承载着几代犹太人的艰辛努力。

那天，为了勾起我们小组参与者的记忆，讲出他们往日的故事，我端出一盘物件。我在盘中摆了一对小巧的蜡烛架、一对海贝壳、一条带有花边且绣有名字的手帕、一个蓝色筹款盒和其他零碎物件，然后将盘子递给组员并传递下去。

疗养院中的老人们用手指触摸着这些物件，然后将盘子传递给旁边的人，当盘子传到每个人的手中时，总会有一个物件勾起他们的回忆。他们就会讲一则有关此物件的轶事。

那天，一个助理把克莱拉带到我们的活动小组中。克莱拉中过一次风，之后半身瘫痪，而且患上某种失语症：她听得懂别人的话，但当她想表达自己的意思时却很难找到合适的语言。

克莱拉很在意自己的残疾。她易怒、对人不礼貌并且爱捣乱。而且，基于她运用语言的障碍，讲故事对她来说真是个非常不合适的活动。但是她已经来了，而且我在忙于照顾小组的其他成员，我不能把克莱拉推回到大厅去。我只是希望她不要太过分，造成喧闹。

当盘子在组员们中传递时，克莱拉用她能动的那只手拿起了那个蓝色筹款盒，并将之紧贴在胸前，不想放手。由于其他人都没有从盘子里拿走物件，其他组员稍有微词，表示不满。“每个人都可以讲一个与任何物件——盘中或其他物件有关的故事。”我说。抱怨声渐渐消失了，然后大家开始讲故事。一位妇女说，海贝壳使她想起了还是孩子的时候，每个夏天都会去海滩。另一位讲述说，花边手帕使她想起在二战前夕，她与一名士兵私奔时也带着一条这样的手帕。下一个轮到克莱拉了，但是排在克莱拉后面的那个人知道她从未参加过任何小组活动，所以她清了清嗓子，准备发言。但克莱拉摇了摇那个筹款盒，说：“我，该我了。”另一个老妇（以前曾是个社工），喊道：“克莱拉想发言！”克莱拉点了点头，房间里都安静了下来。

克莱拉慢慢地、结结巴巴地讲起了她的故事。在讲故事期间，她经常会说出一些说不通的句子。其他老妇一般用两三句就讲完了她们的回忆，但是，尽管讲故事对克莱拉来说是个费力的事，她还是坚持讲出了故事的每个细节。

她说，当时她儿子六岁，正是二战结束的时候，集中营已是众所周知了。克莱拉住在波士顿，是一位年轻的家庭妇女。尽管她所有的家人都已经来到了美国，她还是很悲伤，为那些挤在难民营中的幸存者感到心痛，希望能够帮助他们。经过一番考虑之后，她想出了个计划。每天下午，等她儿子从学校放学回家，她就一手牵着儿子，一手拿着蓝色筹款盒，为以色列建国筹款。克莱拉挨家挨户地拜访周围的犹太人家庭，每个人都有捐赠。但是她并不满足于此，她又到更远的街区去筹款。“爱尔兰人、意大利人，还有希腊人，每个人都有捐赠。”

“那些人对我说：‘我十分同情你们犹太人。谢谢你给我这个机会提供帮助。”克莱拉告诉大家。直到她第二个孩子即将出世，有两年时间，她和她儿子几乎每天都要出去为以色列筹集善款，这些钱最后用来帮助幸存者来到他们新的祖国。

当克莱拉讲完后，房间里鸦雀无声。她吃力而又详尽的叙述，将那往昔的日子清晰地展现在我们每个人的脑海中。突然有一个老妇开始鼓掌，随后掌声响彻整个房间。克莱拉向组员们点头示意，她那能移动的半边嘴巴绽放出笑容。

那天晚上，克莱拉又中了一次风，她完全不能说话了。但是在我和其他那些听她讲述过那个故事的人的眼中，她不再是个残疾的女人。相反，我们看到的是那个有活力、有爱心的女人。

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