Arise, my darling;
My fair one, come away!
For now the winter is past,
The rains are over and gone.

—The Song of Songs 2:10-11 (NJPS)

Jakob Wasserman’s soul scrutinized the members of the Burial Society as they began to clean under his nails and between his toes and to cut away several pieces of dried skin from his corpse. He asked the mal’akh ha-mavet if it would be all right to stay longer and observe the men working; he was curious. The angel consented and told Jakob they did not need to leave until after the burial.

The men preparing Jakob’s body were earnest about their work and meticulous in its execution. They had performed these purification rituals for many years. Even so, from time to time, Jakob would see what he believed to be an infraction of the correct procedure and wanted to bring it to the men’s attention. The angel reminded Jakob that the men could neither see nor hear him. Jakob found it difficult to conceal his annoyance. “Did you see that?” he asked. “That fellow there did not completely dry my feet; I’m certain of it.” In life, Jakob had been fond of pointing out the mistakes of others; “constructive criticism,” he had called it. Being unable to do so now was profoundly frustrating, especially since the remains undergoing the preparation were his.

The men were nearing the completion of their work. They wrapped the body in a shroud and positioned it on a stretcher. Two muscular young men rose from where they had been sitting on white plastic chairs leaning against the wall. They stood, one at the head, the other at the foot of the stretcher, lifted it, and carried it through the room’s double doors outside, under a concrete awning. There, they set it atop a raised marble slab. Jakob and the angel followed the men out.

Jakob, expecting masses of mourners, was shocked to see only five people, not counting the Funeral Director and the cemetery staff. There wasn’t even half a prayer quorum, three men, a middle-aged woman, and a teenage girl.

The Director asked if anyone would like to say a few words. The men looked down at their shoes. The woman said nothing. The girl didn’t hear the question, for, at that precise moment, one of the young men who had carried out the body had attracted her attention. She was admiring his slim waist, rising to broad shoulders, and his thick dark hair. “If not,” the Director said, “we may proceed directly to the burial.”

The young men lifted the litter with Jakob’s body off the slab and placed it in the bed of a utility trailer drawn by a small tractor modified to carry such cargo. The tractor began to make its way slowly to the burial site. The five mourners fell in line behind it. The sky was pale gray, and a biting cold crosswind buffeted the small procession.

At the gravesite, the men lifted the body out of the trailer. The Director lowered himself into the pit. The men transferred Jakob’s body to the Director, who positioned it within the grave, using his feet to nudge Jakob’s legs into alignment. He exited the pit and handed a shovel to one of the three male mourners. The man shoveled some dirt onto Jakob’s body. His action was followed by the other two. The woman preferred to pick up a handful of earth and spread it over the corpse, dropping it like dark rain from her fingers. The girl waved off the opportunity. Finished, the mourners headed to the parking lot while the cemetery staff completed burying Jakob’s body.

Lingering beside the grave with the angel, Jakob found it hard to hide his disappointment. He thought about all those hours, days, weeks, months, and years of study. And this was its end: three men, a woman, and a teenage girl. The angel gently enveloped Jakob in its wings. “Close your eyes and lean into me,” it whispered. “We’ll be home shortly.”

***

As the woman and girl neared the exit gate, they heard someone behind them calling out. “Slikha. G’veret, slikha!” The woman turned around and saw the Director walking briskly toward them, with one hand holding his unbuttoned topcoat closed and the other clasping the brim of his hat.

“I’m sorry to hold you up,” the man said, pulling abreast of them, pausing to catch his breath before continuing, “but I need to ask you a question. Would you mind telling me your name?”

“I don’t mind,” the woman replied, “but may I first ask you why?”

The man cleared his throat and glanced at the girl. “Sweetheart,” the woman said, turning to the girl, “please wait for me over by the taxi stand.”

Once the girl was out of earshot, the man began. “A few months ago, Mr. Wasserman, the recently departed, came to my office to purchase a burial plot. At the end of our transaction, he asked me if it would be possible to do him a favor. I told him that if I could, I would. He handed me a sealed envelope with a woman’s name on it. He said that if a woman attended his funeral or at a later time ever asked where he was buried, if her name was the one on the envelope, I was to give it to her.”

“How mysterious!” the woman said. “My name is Rachel Davis.”

“Ah,” the man sighed with visible disappointment. “Then I must apologize. I’m sorry to have kept you.”

“It’s quite all right,” the woman said. “By the way, would you mind showing me the envelope?” The Director hesitated. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your secret is safe with me.” The man reached inside his coat pocket. “This is it,” he said, holding it up so the woman could easily read it. It said: To Ms. Leah Lakin.

“Thank you,” the woman said, turned, and walked away.

***

Leah asked the front desk clerk at the hotel if it was still possible to get lunch. He looked over his shoulder at the wall clock behind him. “Yes, Ms. Lakin,” he replied.

While her daughter Dinah studied the menu, Leah’s thoughts turned to a late summer night in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, fifteen years ago. She had a guest that night, a man passing through on his way to a conference in Texas. Quite by chance, some months earlier, she had come across Jakob Wasserman’s website. She had found Jakob’s writing engaging, his thoughts liberating. She went to his Contact page and sent him a four-word message: I must meet you.

Jakob loved to travel but needed to do so inexpensively, as much as possible, on someone else’s nickel. Over the years, he’d developed an extensive network of contacts worldwide. He would work odd jobs, save what he could during the winter, and then spend the summer months traveling abroad, staying at the homes of people who knew him, often only through his writing. They were all seekers, religious pilgrims, serious, and curious. They felt privileged and honored to host a scholar from the Holy Land, to benefit from his profound learning, feed him, wash his clothes, and ferry him around town. A crowning achievement would be to get him to speak in their home or at their organization or club and introduce him to their friends. They enjoyed knowing him and having others see that they knew him.

It wasn’t long after contacting Jakob that Leah received a response from him. She sent him her address and phone number, as requested, and extended an invitation for him to visit her in Hattiesburg if he ever happened to be in the neighborhood, which, she felt, was highly unlikely. Well, he replied to her offer, as luck would have it, he expected to travel through Mississippi to Houston next summer to give a talk. Maybe he could meet her then. Would it be possible, perhaps, even to lodge with her overnight? Leah was thrilled.

The following summer, she met Jakob. Leah—dressed in a simple summer cotton print dress with short sleeves and wearing a broad white sun hat—picked him up at the bus station. She had butterflies in her stomach. Jakob’s dark hair, thick beard, and exotic accent were everything she had hoped for when she had allowed herself to hope for anything.

They stopped at the local farmers’ market for fresh fruits and vegetables. Next was the grocery store for paper plates, cups, plastic utensils, and, she noted, a cold six-pack of beer. She was only too happy to pay for everything. She was also delighted when Jakob offered to prepare their meal. She ran a warm bath for him. Afterward, they sat down for a candlelit dinner. Jakob talked, talked, and talked, waved his hands enthusiastically in circles, and laughed. Oh, how he laughed! Leah was enchanted.

After clearing the table following dinner, the couple sat together, rocking slowly in a swing on Leah’s front porch. After a while, Leah stood up and walked to the porch railing. She rested her hands on it, gazed into the darkness, and deeply inhaled the cool, moist night air. She turned to Jakob and said, “Feels like rain.” Leah didn’t remember much of what happened the rest of the night, only how it felt: how it felt to have a man’s warm body next to hers, the touch of the wind through the partly opened bedroom window, and the sound of rain, the soft, soothing sound of gentle rain.

The following morning, Leah drove Jakob to the bus terminal. Jakob told her he hoped to see her on his way back home; she wasn’t surprised, however, when she received an email a week later telling her he would be unable to make it. There had been a change in plan. He had to take a more northerly route due to other speaking engagements in Oklahoma, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania. She replied that she understood, wished him well, and said perhaps next summer.

Jakob didn’t come the following summer, but a daughter with beautiful dark curly hair, big black eyes, and an intense curiosity about everything did arrive in the early spring. Leah named her Dinah.

***

“Mom…Mom?”

Leah woke from her daydreaming and looked at her daughter. “Sorry honey. What?”

“We need to order.”

Leah laughed. “Right.”

As the waiter left to place their order, Leah gazed out the window by their table at a well-manicured garden behind the hotel with flowers neatly arranged in rows. The flowers were in an abundance of different colors. Not Mississippi, she thought.

“Mom, may I ask you a question.”

“Of course.”

“But first you have to promise me that you won’t get mad at me, no matter what the question is.”

“Now, that’s a fascinating beginning. OK. I promise.”

“There’s this…guy at school. We’re friends, good friends.”

Leah was silent.

“Now I need you to remember your promise. Sometimes, we skip study hall and sneak over to the park near the school. We like to sit and talk. We’re careful, and so far, we’ve never been caught.”

Leah was still silent.

“The other day, he gently held my face, and kissed me. He told me he liked me a lot.”

“How do you feel about him?”

“I think he might be a good starter boyfriend.”

Leah could not control herself and laughed, covering her mouth with her napkin as politely as possible. “I’m so sorry sweetheart. That phrase takes some getting used to; it’s an interesting idea. Anyway, you said you had a question, right?”

“Yes. Can you tell me what love feels like?”

The waiter stopped with a large bottle of sparkling mineral water and hot bread.

“Mom, hold that thought. I’m starving. I need to wash my hands. I’ll be right back.” When she returned, Dinah whispered a blessing and broke off some of the bread. “Whoa! This bread is great; do you want some?”

“No, thanks. No bread for me today. But to return to your question. Do you remember when we went to your aunt Linda’s in Louisiana for your bat mitzvah?”

“Sure.”

“Do you remember what happened on the way back?”

“You mean crossing Lake Pontchartrain in that storm?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I? I’ll never forget that. It started raining soon as we got on the bridge, and before long it was coming down really hard.”

“At the beginning you were scared. You were afraid the bridge might break, and you and I would wind up in the cold waves below us.”

“It scares me a little bit now even, remembering it.”

“In order to calm you, I reminded you that we were together, safe, inside a warm car, and that you were with me, someone you trusted.”

“Yeah, that made me feel better.”

“So much better, that by the time we were about in the middle of the bridge, you asked me if you could roll your window down. You wanted to feel the rain.”

“That was so cool.”

“Well, that’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“That’s what love feels like.”

“Rain?”

“Yes. It feels like rain.”

***

Efraim Matzif sat at the polished mahogany desk in his spacious office in the Old City neighborhood of Beersheba. The Funeral Director was wrestling with his conscience. The unopened envelope lay before him in the center of his desk blotter. What to do?

He summoned his reason to help justify what he wanted to do. Undoubtedly, if the woman named on the envelope were that important to Mr. Wasserman, and, of course, if he were that important to her, she would have attended his funeral. There was only one woman present, you had to discount the girl, and she was not the named woman. But, then, perhaps the woman didn’t yet know he had died. Oy! How long must he, Efraim Matzif, bear the weight of this unfulfilled favor? Maybe the designated woman would never come or, since he was not always available to assist customers, she might come when he was away. Then what? She would never get it.

Also, if what Mr. Wasserman had intended to give the woman was that important, there might be some additional identifying information in the envelope’s contents. And in the worst case, he could always create another envelope; he would type the woman’s name. Who would ever know?

Efraim opened his middle desk drawer and took out an ornate silver letter opener, a gift from his wife brought back from her last trip to India. He placed the sharp end into the small opening on the right side of the envelope and opened it in one neat, quick cut. He turned it upside down and shook it. Nothing came out. He separated the two sides and removed the contents, a thin piece of notepaper. On it, written neatly in Hebrew block letters, were the words: Thou causest the wind to blow and the rain to fall. It was signed, Af-Bri.

***

In the dim yellow glow of the lamp on the nightstand, Leah sat on the edge of her twin bed in the hotel room she shared with her daughter. She was applying lotion to her hands. The cold wind at the cemetery had chapped them. She mused that even at the edge of a desert, it gets cold in Israel in winter.

She thought back over the day’s events, about Jakob, his funeral, and the funny man who held the envelope up so she could read to whom it was addressed. Had she done the right thing? She turned and looked at Dinah, asleep in the bed beside hers. Dinah’s dark curly hair contrasted sharply with the white of the cotton pillowcase. How beautiful she was, like her father.

She turned back around, leaned over, and pulled off her slippers. She fluffed her pillow, pulled the comforter over her, reached out, and switched off the bedside lamp. She turned her head to the window and listened. She heard the sound of rain, the soft, soothing sound of gentle rain. After a while, she fell asleep.

– Gershon Ben-Avraham