You get to the wedding hall a little earlier than you
expected, when the relatives and close friends of the hosts
are still seated by their quarter- chicken portion, and you
feel out of place. It's not as if you don't have your
invitation in the catch-all drawer at home. For sure. Still,
it's not so pleasant. It's not so comfortable to come to a
wedding knowing hardly anyone there. And if you are
acquainted with someone, she is probably deeply engrossed in
conversation with someone more interesting [to her] than you.
So you feel awkward and out of place, almost like in exile.
And you wonder -- how does `the woman in the green dress'
feel at the simchas she attends?
*
"Our son's engagement party took place in Bnei Brak," my
friend Malka tells me: "When we got to the hall, I noticed a
woman in a green dress standing by the doorway. Just standing
there." She looks like she's waiting for someone, I
couldn't help thinking. She's probably from the other
side. It slipped my mind until some time later when I
happened to pass near the door, I saw her again, still
standing there. I went over to her.
"I understand that you're waiting for someone," I said to
her. "Why don't you just come in and wait for her inside? Why
don't you help yourself to something? A drink, perhaps?" She
entered. I didn't exactly remember her in the coming moments,
what with the general commotion. The kalla arrived and
the tenoim ceremony began. The gold watch, the plate,
the excitement. You know how it is. When it began to die
down, the guests, myself included, sat down by the tables.
Then the kalla's mother approached me.
"Tell me, who's that lady there, the one in the green dress?"
she asked, nodding towards the woman seated by a round table.
"That table is reserved for the teachers of the school where
I work, but none of them know who she is."
"I don't know her, either," I said. Something about the
figure sitting there, surrounded by women talking above her
head, pained me. I approached her and sat down next to her. I
prepared a plate of food from the array on the table and laid
it before her. She thanked me and took a bite.
"Do you know many of the people here?" I asked her.
"No," she replied, looking at me directly. "I don't know
anyone. And you? Do you know the people here?"
"Yes, I know some of them," I replied.
"I come from a good family," she said, suddenly. I was
confused. "My father was a good Jew," she continued. "My
husband was also a good Jew. But now I don't have anyone. I
am all alone."
"I am sorry," I said, bewildered. She seemed not to hear.
"I live around here in a tiny apartment. I like to be happy."
Undoubtedly, this woman was extraordinary. "I love to dress
up and go out," she continued. "Is my dress alright?"
"Your dress is very nice," I said. "And so is your
sheitel." She veritably glowed.
"I come here to be happy with people. I choose some wedding
hall in Bnei Brak and stand by the doorway. I never enter
inside if I am not invited. Someone invited me to come inside
here tonight. Oh, wait a minute." She looked at me. "Wasn't
it you?"
"Yes, I invited you in."
"That's nice of you. So I came in. If anyone offers me some
food, I eat. If not, I don't touch a thing. As far as I'm
concerned, the reason I come is for the simcha. I want
to be happy. There's light here, and music. Otherwise," she
said, lowering her voice, "I'd be all alone in the evening,
and sad. Hashem created joyous occasions for people. Nu,
good, I've talked enough about myself. Who are you?"
"I am the mother of the chosson," my friend Malka
answered. "And I am truly happy that you are participating in
our simcha."
*
"She didn't sit there for long. She left a short while later
and we were summoned to smile before the camera lens, to
shake hands, to gather up the gifts, to see the tablecloths
being folded up and the serving dishes emptied of their
contents. We returned home, to Yerusholayim. All along the
way I thought about the woman in the green dress. She had
gone home to a tiny, dingy apartment. I could imagine it from
her description. There was no one to talk to there, to
exchange a few words with her about her experiences, to ask
her whom she had met or seen, if she had spoken to anyone at
the engagement party."
This story reminded me of something. One of the first
simchas in the family. People sitting around tables,
everything very festive. A poor woman comes in, a beggar, and
sits herself down by a table.
"I'll tell her to go," someone suggested, but the hostess
shushed her immediately. She went over to her, laid before
her a full plate of food, and spoke to her cordially. She
later chided all the others, "How can one make a Jewish
simcha and tell a poor person to leave?"
*
How many people are there -- men, women -- standing by the
sidelines of festive occasions, wanting to touch it, to be
part of it, and not being able to do so?
