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כפר הנוער יוהנה ז'בוטינסקי Yohana Jabotinsky Youth Town
בית ספר מקיף שש שנתי למדעים ואמנויות for Sciences and ArtsSix Year Comprehensive School
Literature 11th -12th grade - Short Story #5
4-5 points
Appointment with Love
Origin:
This story first appeared on the Internet in April 1996; it was originally published in a 1943 issue of Collier's magazine, and its author is S.I. Kishor.In its appearance in the 1996 Canfield and Hansen collection, A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul, the original author (Sulamith Ish-Kishor) is given credit for the work.
One of seven children, Sulamith IshKishor was born in 1896, in London, England, to Ephraim and Fanny Ish-Kishor. She attended school in London until she moved to New York in 1909 at age thirteen. Educated in London and then in New York, she later graduated from HunterCollege in New York City with a specialization in history and language. She achieved considerable stature as an author during her lifetime and died on June 23, 1977, in New York City.
Ish-Kishor began her writing career at the age of five and had published some of her poems in British periodicals by the age of ten. Her literary efforts range from well-received fiction for children and young adults to carefully crafted nonfiction for children, young adults, and adults. In all her work, she exhibits a thorough knowledge of Judaism and Jewish history coupled with an ability to tell a story in a style that triggers the reader's empathy. In addition to writing books, Ish-Kishor has contributed to periodicals such as the New York Times, the New Yorker, and Menorah Journal, writing on a variety of topics related to Judaism, music, art, and theater.
Her best-known work of fiction is Our Eddie, which was a Newbery Honor Book in 1970. Ish-Kishor received the Charles and Bertie Schwartz Award from the Jewish Book Council of America in 1964, recognizing A Boy of Old Prague as the best juvenile book on a Jewish theme. In 1972 The Master of Miracle: A New Novel of the Golem also won this award. The American Library Association listed A Boy of Old Prague as a Notable Book in 1963.
Six minutes to six, said the great round clock over the information booth in Grand Central Station. The tall young army lieutenant who had just come from the direction of the tracks lifted his sunburned face, and his eyes narrowed to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that shocked him because he could not control it. In six minutes he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past thirteen months, the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had been with him and sustained him unfailingly.
He placed himself as close as he could to the information booth, just beyond the ring of people besieging the clerks.
Lieutenant Blandford remembered one night in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of Zeros.He had seen the grinning face of one of the enemy pilots.
In one of his letters he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her answer. "Of course you fear ... all brave men do. Didn't King David know fear? That's why he wrote the Twenty-third Psalm. Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me..." And he had remembered, he had heard her imagined voice, and it had renewed his strength and skill.
Now he was going to hear her real voice. Four minutes to six. His face grew sharp.
Under the immense, starred roof, people were walking fast, like threads of color being woven into a gray web. A girl passed close to him and Lieutenant Blandford started. She was wearing a red flower in her suit lapel, but it was a crimson sweet pea, not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was too young about eighteen, whereas Hollis Meynell had frankly told him she was thirty. "Well, what of it?" he had answered. "I'm thirty-two." He was twenty-nine.
His mind went back to that book — the book the Lord Himself must have put into his hands out of the hundreds of army library books sent to the Florida training camp, Of Human Bondage, it was; and throughout the bookwere notes in a woman's writing. He had always hated that writing-in but these remarks were different. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Meynell4. He had got hold of a New York City phone book and found her address. He had written, she had answer. Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing.
For thirteen months, she had faithfully replied, and more than reply. When his letters did not arrive, she wrote anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him.
But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. This seemed rather bad, of course. But she had explained: "If your feeling about me has any reality, any honest basis, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I'm beautiful. I'd always be haunted by the feeling that you had been taking chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I'm plain (and you must admit that this is more likely). Then I'd always fear you were going on writing to me only because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you see me and then you shall make your decision. Remember, both of us are free to stop or to go on after that — whichever we choose..."
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.
One minute to six...
Then Lieutenant Blandford's heart leaped higher than his plane had ever done.
A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim, her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears. Her eyes were blue flowers; her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive.
He started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.
"Going my way, soldier?" she murmured.
Uncontrollably, he made one step closer to her. Then he saw Ho Meynell.
She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past forty, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump; her thick-ankled feet were thrust into low-heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose in the rumpled lapel of her brown coat.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. Blandford felt as though he were being split in two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his own; and there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible; he could see that now. Her gray eyes had a warm, kindly twinkle.
Lieutenant Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the small, worn, blue leather copy of "Of Human Bondage" which was to identify him to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even rarer than love — a friendship for which he had been and must ever be grateful...
He squared his broad shoulders, saluted, and held the book out toward the woman, although even while he spoke he felt choked by the bitterness of his disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant John Blandford, and you — you are Miss Meynell. I'm so glad you could meet me. May - may I take you to dinner?" The woman's face broadened in a tolerant smile.
"I don't know what this is all about, son," she answered. "That young lady in the green suit — the one who just went by — begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if you asked me to go out with you, I should tell you that she's waiting for you in that big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of a test. I've got two boys with Uncle Sam myself, so I didn't mind to oblige you."
In the autumn of 1998, an updated version of this tale appeared in the little-known "true life stories" magazine For Me. In this modern retelling, Gwen and Brian meet in an Internet chat room for writers, and the denouement takes place at the airport in Sydney, Australia. Thought the story has been moved forward fifty years, there's the same refusal to swap photos, same yellow rose, same old lady to direct the hero to where his beautiful lady love awaits him.
Now, read a rewrite penned by James A. Whitney. In his version we see into the heart of the woman who waits. If you thought the original was touching, you'll find tears in your eyes by the time you finish this one.
The Rose (rewritten) By James A. Whitney
"I'm too old to be doing something this silly," I thought to myself while in the taxi. The taxi was heading toward Union Station, where I would meet John Blanchard for the first time.
My interest in John first started when I received a letter from him, approximately four months after the death of my husband. It was April, 1944. The war had claimed my husband. Perhaps that led me find the hope in John's writings, wishing for a new love.
He claimed to have found a book of mine; one that I had only marked notes in. I honestly don't remember ever doing it, but I was willing to accept it. I wrote back. We exchanged several letters. He had been called to fight in the war, and he kept imploring me to write. During the next thirteen months, we grew to know each other through the mail. I couldn't help but hope that a new romance was budding. Even my friends teased me about him.
About ten months into our correspondence, he requested a photograph. Now, for a 37-year old woman with two children, I didn't look half bad. But I would never compare to the young women that threw themselves at sailors. And I knew it. I made some excuse that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what I looked like. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help but hope.
Three months later, John Blanchard came home. We arranged a meeting in Union Station at 7:00. Since I didn't want to give him a picture, I told him that he would recognize me by the rose in my lapel. As the taxi pulled up to the curb, I placed the rose in my lapel, paid the driver, and left the cab. My first impulse was to turn around, right here and now, and forget this crazy thing. But I pressed on.
It was 7:03 when I first saw John. I recognized him instantly; if the uniform wasn't a giveaway, then the book he was carrying was enough. He was a handsome man, cleancut and fresh from his tour of duty. He reminded me of my husband, and a tear formed in my eye. But he had not yet seen me.
As I began to approach him, a remarkably beautiful girl dressed in an elegant emerald suit passed in front of him and smiled. John looked at her, obvious in his desire. As she walked past, he took a step in her direction, and then finally he saw me. I stood still, looked back at him and smiled. He looked longingly at the young girl as she left the station, and stared for a good three seconds.
Then, finally, he approached me.
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard," he said, taking my hand and shaking it, "and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
He tried. He really tried to hide the disappointment in his voice, but I could hear it only too well. All of my fears had been realized, and I recognized that it would never work. Holding back my tears, I replied.
"I don't know what this is about," I answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she asked me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should tell you that she's waiting on the street corner for you. She said it was some kind of test."
That was all the convincing he needed. He thanked me and walked away. After three steps he started to run. After a few seconds, I called out to him.
"John, wait," I said, but it was too late.
I turned around and walked away, crying.
Looking back on it, I sometimes fantasize that I was the young lady. Or that John wasn't so quick to believe that I was. Or that I handled it differently. I wonder where John is; I wonder whether he found the young lady, and what he did when he found out that she wasn't me. Sometimes, I sit and look at the stars, and wonder what might have been.