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 60 years ago.
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 anymore 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, that
the owner could be identified. 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 anyway 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 would ask them if they wanted her to connect me.
I waited a few minutes and then she 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 30 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. They told me the old lady had
passed away some years ago but they did have a phone number for where
they thought the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.
This
whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself. Why was I making such a
big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that had only three dollars
and a letter that was almost 60 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 oldtimer 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 16 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 began to well up in her eyes, “I never did marry. I
guess no one ever matched up to Michael…”
I thanked Hannah and
said goodbye. 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 oldtimers on the 8th 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.”
“Mr. Goldstein,” 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 towards 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 76-year-old
bride and a 79-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see
this couple.
A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.
Author Unknown
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