It was the hand- writing on the inside cover of the battered book that immediately fascinated me. By its style, I immediately felt it was by the hand of a youth: ‘A girl’™s in all probability,’ I thought. Then, at the end of the script – a name ‘¦
But this is a digression. This story actually begins exactly twenty one years ago ‘“ the day maturity lead me to search for a deeper meaning to life. I felt then the need to feed the spirit and soul something not found in a trip overseas, upon a dining table, or other amenities and joys of everyday living. I began attending services at a synagogue quite close to our home.
As a synagogue, the place was almost in a state of collapse. Not the building itself mind, although it, too, was terribly run down but there were so few regulars attending prayer that even the required quorum of ten would sometimes not be present.
The hall had an atmosphere of neglect with dust on every surface, the prayer books with covers separated from their bodies and loose pages everywhere.
The mean age of the few in regular attendance must have been some thirty years on from my mere fifty years so I was happily welcomed to the congregation as a young blood.
I asked the Gabbai about acquiring some new prayer books but his ‘œNew books? From where do you expect the money to come?’ was a prod for me to do something about the broken and torn myself. After all, a book whose cover hangs loose and pages that have long since separated from their brethren is hardly conducive to elevate a heart and soul heavenward.
To improve the mood, therefore, I began a crash self-taught course of repairing books. They really were so abject looking and in such pathetic shape one could well sympathise with a believer – a reluctance to take them to hand and face an almighty God with their powerful words.
Slowly, an improved atmosphere brought about partly by the repaired books, led to a few new members adding their presence to the small community. Then, one bright day, the almost empty synagogue was ‘œdiscovered’ by new immigrants chiefly from South Africa and Zimbabwe.
With this, new life and spirit came to the place and to see the three and four year olds in their special Sabbath clothes, was to me seeing cherubs and fairies among the congregation joyfully receiving the Sabbath bride.
Of course the place really took off then with a good cleaning, coats of fresh smelling paint and re-varnished seats and desks. All this, to say nothing of the four hundred books which were now neatly repaired, bound and far stronger than new.
Book repairing became part of my routine and I reached the stage that I would spot a book in need of a repair as a eagle spots a mouse.
Something then happened on New Year’™s eve. A book I did not recognise and in a particularly pathetic state caught my eye. About three rows of desks ahead, it’™s cover tucked into its body, it was crying out for attention – the book mentioned at the opening of this story.
Of course I made a bee line for it, sweeping it from its place with a stealthy swipe so that no particularly religious soul, knowing no doubt the intention behind the move, would be hurt!
I made no attempt to look at it then and there but took it home to be examined at leisure. After the two days New Year holiday I took it to hand.
Written on the inside back cover was a quote from a psalm done in gold with a marker: ‘œI hold the Image of the Lord before me at all times,’ while on the inside of the front fly leaf was a similarly done inscription: ‘œThese words are the gates to House of the Lord.’
Of course I was moved. On the upper corner was a penned name; Iris Vindraub. There was also a Hebrew date which I did not bother to compare just then with a regular calendar. The style of the hand was neat but undeveloped and I envisioned a girl, probably between the ages of seventeen to twenty odd. The book would, no doubt, have been precious to the owner and I felt that a repair would delight her.
After a fine job on the book, I asked some young girls in the congregation if they knew of Iris. None did. I then opened up a local telephone directory. This yielded only two entries of the same surname. I immediately phoned the first of them.
‘œIris? Why yes! She was my sister. Who is this asking?’
I briefly gave her the details. ‘œWas?,’ I asked.
‘œShe died almost twenty one years ago.’
The words brought with them a little shock of sadness. Iris’™ sister continued: ‘œI suggest that you contact my father and mother on the matter. Their number is the other one in the book.’
After that brief talk, the Hebrew date took on a new significance and relevance. I examined it carefully. It turned out to be dated almost exactly twenty one years before – almost to the day.
I called the parents but it was only on the third try on the following day that I got them at home. This delay had now brought me to the morning before’  the eve of the fast of Yom Kippur.
On the line was Iris’™ father who said, rather casually: ‘œWe donated Iris’™ religious books to the synagogue last year. I think you should take it back there so others can make use of it. We are not religious and have no need for it.’
I closed the phone somewhat disappointed but accepted the realities of differing approaches to life. My feelings for Iris’™ words had influenced me in the repair. The book was now stronger than it had ever been and being a true romantic, it seemed almost to smile up at me as I held it.
The telephone rang a moment later. It was Iris’™ mother this time.
‘œI’™m Gretta. I would love to see the book. Is it possible?’
‘œOf course, Mrs. Vindraub, you live quite close. Let me bring it around. I would love to meet you and see the home in which Iris grew up.’
A short while later I was standing outside the Vindraub’™s door in expectation. ‘œThis is it,’ I said to Gretta who had opened the door, handing her the book. She welcomed me with warmth but, I thought, with a somewhat sad, though winsome, smile.
‘œCome in. Please come in. You have brought to me today a strong and wonderful memory of our lovely daughter.’
She turned the book over in her hands lovingly, then opening it, began examining the gold script with eyes that became suddenly wet.
We were standing in their lounge when Gretta, who was a short, homely-looking person, looked up at me and, pointing to a large, beautifully framed photograph of a young girl on one wall said: ‘œThat is of Iris taken just one year before she died. She died on this very day, twenty one years ago ‘“ the eve of Yom Kippur!’
I was deeply moved by what a desire to repair a torn book had brought me. I stepped toward the picture in order to examine’  the photograph with care.’  It was as if by a close scrutiny I would get to know a little of the young girl behind the carefully done script in the prayer book.
As I scanned her face I felt as if the image became just a little alive in the frame. She was slim. Her black hair with a silky sheen hung to her shoulders crowning an angelic face. Her eyes, bright and lively, reflected a faint smile that seemed to carry just a little sadness. I had a strange feeling as I looked intensely at her that Iris was looking also at me with a kind of understanding. I felt that I would always remember that image. I looked back at Gretta whose tears were now plain.
‘œShe is truly lovely,’ then, realising what I had said, added, ‘œin the photograph. She was very, very beautiful. What caused her death?’
‘œIt was over in a matter of a few days. The savage germ the doctors call it. There’™s no known cure.’
While we spoke, Gretta’™s husband stood silently by us letting his wife do all the talking. The large, rather stout man, about my age, now shook my hand warmly and said, ‘œIt was also exactly this day last year that we donated Iris’™ books to the synagogue. Iris decided’  to be religious while in the army.’
I turned to Gretta and began taking my leave. Meeting Iris’™ family and seeing her image had been a wonderful ending to what might have been just another book repair. Given me something I shall long remember. I also felt that perhaps the prayer book just may have found a new home.
I became sure of this when Gretta, seeing me to the door, the open book still in her hand, said: ‘œThank you, again. For me this book is a small treasure. So strange that today of all days this came to me. It’™s as though Iris has sent me a message through you. Since her death I have felt so much closer to God. Iris’™ few words have taken on new meaning. It took all these years for me to appreciate what she wrote in its cover with so much understanding and love.’