Letter in the wallet - 持续了60年的爱情故事

WodkaLimes

It was a freezing day, a few years ago, when I stumbled on a wallet in the street. There was no identification inside. Just three dollars, and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years.

　　The only thing legible on the torn envelope was the return address. I opened the letter and saw that it had been written in 1944 — almost 60 years ago. I read it carefully, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the wallet’s owner.

　　It was a “Dear John” letter. The writer, in a delicate script, told the recipient, whose name was Michael, that her mother forbade her to see him again. Nevertheless, she would always love him. It was signed Hannah.

　　It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, beyond the name Michael, to identify the owner. Perhaps if I called information the operator could find the phone number for the address shown on the envelope.

　　“Operator, this is an unusual request. I’m trying to find the owner of a wallet I found. Is there any way you could tell me the phone number for an address that was on a letter in the wallet?”

　　The operator gave me her supervisor, who said there was a phone listed at the address, but that she could not give me the number. However, she would call and explain the situation. Then, if the party wanted to talk, she would connect me. I waited a minute and she came back on the line. “I have a woman who will speak with you.”

　　I asked the woman if she knew a Hannah.

　　“Oh, of course! We bought this house from Hannah’s family thirty years ago.”

　　“Would you know where they could be located now?” I asked.

　　“Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home years ago. Maybe the home could help you track down the daughter.”

　　The woman gave me the name of the nursing home. I called and found out that Hannah’s mother had died. The woman I spoke with gave me an address where she thought Hannah could be reached.

　　I phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home. She gave me the number. I called and was told, “Yes, Hannah is with us.”

　　I asked if I could stop by to see her. It was almost 10 p.m. The director said Hannah might be asleep. “But if you want to take a chance, maybe she’s in the day room watching television.”

　　The director and a guard greeted me at the door of the nursing home. We went up to the third floor and saw the nurse, who told us that Hannah was indeed watching TV.

　　We entered the day room. Hannah was a sweet, silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw it, she took a deep breath. “Young man,” she said, “this letter was the last contact I had with Michael.” She looked away for a moment, then said pensively, “I loved him very much. But I was only sixteen and my mother felt I was too young. He was so handsome. You know, like Sean Connery, the actor.”

　　We both laughed. The director then left us alone. “Yes, Michael Goldstein was his name. If you find him, tell him I still think of him often. I never did marry,” she said, smiling through tears that welled up in her eyes. “I guess no one ever matched up to Michael...”

　　I thanked Hannah, said good-bye and took the elevator to the first floor. As I stood at the door, the guard 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 probably won’t pursue it further for a while.” I explained that I had spent almost the whole day trying to find the wallet’s owner.

　　While we talked, I pulled out the brown-leather case with its red-lanyard lacing and showed it to the guard. He looked at it closely and said, “Hey, I’d know that anywhere. That’s Mr. Goldstein’s. He’s always losing it. I found it in the hall at least three times.”

　　“Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked. “He’s one of the old-timers on the eighth floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s wallet, for sure. He goes out for a walk quite often.”

　　I thanked the guard and ran back to the director’s office to tell him what the guard had said. He accompanied me to the eighth floor. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.

　　“I think he’s still in the day room,” the nurse said. “He likes to read at night...a darling old man.”

　　We went to the only room that had lights on, and there was a man reading a book. The director asked him if he had lost his wallet. Michael Goldstein looked up, felt his back pocket and then said, “Goodness, it is missing.”

　　“This kind gentleman found a wallet. Could it be yours?”

　　The second he saw it, he smiled with relief. “Yes,” he said, “that’s it. Must have dropped it this afternoon. I want to give you a reward.”

　　“Oh, 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 disappeared. “You read that letter?”

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

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

　　I hesitated.

　　“Please tell me!” Michael urged.

　　“She’s fine, and just as pretty as when you knew her.”

　　“Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow.”

　　He grabbed my hand and said, “You know something? When that letter came, my life ended. I never married. I guess I’ve always loved her.”

　　“Michael,” I said. “Come with me.” The three of us took the elevator to the third floor. We walked toward the day room where Hannah was sitting, still watching TV. The director went over to her.

　　“Hannah,” he said softly. “Do you know this man?” Michael and I stood waiting in the doorway.

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

　　“Hannah, it’s Michael. Michael Goldstein. Do you remember?”

　　“Michael? Michael? It’s you!”

　　He walked slowly to her side. She stood and they embraced. Then the two of them sat on a couch, held hands and started to talk. The director and I walked out, both of us crying.

　　“See how the good Lord works,” I said philosophically. “If it’s meant to be. It will be.” Three weeks later, I got a call from the director who asked, “Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Yup(=yes), Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!”

　　It was a lovely wedding, with all the people at the nursing home joining in the celebration. Hannah wore a beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. The home gave them their own room, and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 78-year old groom acting like two teen-agers, you had to see this couple.

　　A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.





　　几年前的一个寒冷的日子，我在路上拣到了一个钱包。里面没有任何身份证明，只有三美元和一张揉皱的信，看起来好像有好几个年头了。

　　上面惟一能够辨认出的是破旧信封上的回信地址。我打开信，发现是在1944年写的，也就是60年前。我仔细读了一遍，希望能够找到任何识别钱包主人的线索。

　　这是一封绝交信。写信人娟秀的字迹告诉一个叫迈克尔的收信人，她的母亲禁止她再和他见面。但是，她将永远爱他。署名是汉纳。

　　这封信写得非常优美，但其中除了迈克尔这个名字之外，没有任何能够识别失主的东西。也许，我询问咨询处，接线员能够找到信封上地址的电话号码。

　　“接线员，您好，我有一个不同寻常的请求。我拣到一个钱包，希望能找到失主。钱包里有一封信，上面有地址，您能否帮我找到这个地址的电话号码？”

　　接线员把电话转给主管。主管说虽然找到了这个地址的电话，但是她不能把号码给我。不过，她可以替我打电话解释一下情况。如果对方同意谈话，她将和我联系。几分钟后，她回到电话旁告诉我：“有位女士要和你谈话。”

　　我问那位女士是否认识汉纳。

　　“当然了，我们在三十年前从汉纳手里买的这幢房子。”

　　我问道：“那您知道她们现在住哪儿吗？”

　　“几年前，汉纳把她母亲送到了养老院。也许你可以在那里得到些帮助，找到汉纳。”

　　这位女士给了我养老院的名字。我打过去电话，了解到汉纳的母亲已经去世。接电话的女士又给了我一个地址。她说汉纳可能会在那里。

　　我拨通了电话，接电话的女士说汉纳本人也住在养老院。她把号码给了我。我打过去，得到了回答：“是的，汉纳在我们这里。”

　　我询问能否去探望她。这时将近晚上10点了。主任说汉纳可能已经睡了。“不过，如果你想来试一下的话，她可能还在休息室看电视。”

　　主任和保安在养老院的门口迎接我。我们一起去了三楼，见到了护士。她告诉我们说汉纳确实还在看电视。

　　我们走进了休息室。汉纳是一位非常慈祥的银发老人，她满脸微笑，眼神和蔼。我把捡到钱包的事情告诉了她，并拿出了那封信。在看到信的那一刹那，她深吸了一口气，说：“年轻人，这封信是我最后一次与迈克尔联系。”她转过头去凝视了一会，深沉地说：“我非常爱他。但当时我只有16岁，妈妈认为我太小了。他非常帅气，就像肖恩-康奈利(《007》扮演者)一样。”

　　我们都笑了。这时，主任走了出去，屋子里只剩下我们两个。她说：“是的，他叫迈克尔-戈尔茨坦。如果你找到他，请告诉他，我依然非常想念他。我一直没有结婚。”她微笑着，泪水从眼眶涌出。“我想没有人能够配得上迈克尔……”

　　我谢过汉纳，乘电梯到了一楼。在门口的时候，保安问我：“那位老妇人对您有什么帮助吗？”

　　我说她给了我一些提示。“至少，我知道了失主的名字。但是我可能无法继续追查下去了。”我跟他说我一整天都在找钱包的主人。

　　说话的时候，我拿出了那个镶着红短花边的黄皮钱包给保安看。他凑到跟前看了一眼，说：“嗨，我知道这是谁的。它是戈尔茨坦先生的，他经常弄丢。我在大厅至少拣到过三次。”

　　我问道：“戈尔茨坦先生是谁？”“他是住在八楼的一位老人。这肯定是迈克尔-戈尔茨坦的钱包。他经常出去散步。”

　　我谢过保安，回到主任的办公室，告诉了他保安的话。他陪我来到了八层。我希望戈尔茨坦先生还没有睡觉。

　　护士说：“我想他一定还在休息室。他喜欢在晚上读书……是一位非常可爱的老人。”

　　我们来到惟一一间还亮着灯的房间，有位老人在那里看书。主任问他是否丢了钱包。迈克尔-戈尔茨坦找了找，翻了翻背包，然后说：“天哪！竟然丢了。”

　　“这位好心的先生拣到了一个钱包。是您的吗？”

　　他一看到它便如释重负，说道：“是的。就是它。一定是今天下午丢的。我要给您报酬。”

　　我说：“不，谢谢。但是我要告诉您一件事情。我读了里面的信，希望能找到钱包的主人。”

　　他脸上的笑容顿时消失了：“你读过那封信？”

　　“我不仅读过，而且知道汉纳在哪儿。”

　　他顿时脸色苍白：“汉纳？你知道汉纳在哪儿？她过得怎么样？她是否和年轻时一样漂亮？”

　　我没有说话。

　　迈克尔催促着说：“请告诉我！”

　　“她很好，和您认识她时一样美丽。”

　　“您能告诉我她在哪儿吗？我想明天给她打电话。”

　　他抓住我的手说：“您一定知道些什么。在我收到信的那一天，我的生活便结束了。我从未结婚。我想我一直爱着她。”

　　我说：“迈克尔，跟我来。”我们三个人乘电梯来到了三层。我们走进休息室，发现汉纳还在看电视。主任过去告诉她说：“汉纳，您认识这个人吗？”

　　迈克尔和我站在门口等待她的回答。

　　她扶了一下眼睛，看了一会，但是没有说话。

　　“汉纳，我是迈克尔，迈克尔-戈尔茨坦，你不记得了吗？”

　　“迈克尔？迈克尔？真的是你？”

　　他慢慢走到她的旁边。他们相互拥抱，然后坐在沙发上，双手紧紧地握在一起，开始交谈。主任和我走了出去，我们两个人都禁不住流下了眼泪。

　　我意味深长地说：“真是天意啊。天意如此就该如此。“三个星期后，我接到主任的电话，他问：“这周日能否抽出时间参加婚礼？”他没等我回答，便说：“是这样，迈克尔和汉纳终于喜结良缘了。”

　　那是一场非常感人的婚礼，养老院所有的人都参加了。汉纳穿着一身米色礼服，看起来非常美丽。迈克尔穿着深蓝色的西装，显得非常高大。养老院为他们提供了单独的房间，如果您想见见76岁的新娘和78岁的新郎像年轻人一样，就来看看他们吧。

　　这个持续了60年的爱情故事终于有了圆满的结局。