The Rosh Hashanah lesson in an aged yellow envelope

Way back when, if you told someone you came “by way of Canarsie,” it meant coming in a roundabout manner. Canarsie was considered the boondocks, a remote area of wetlands that were only filled in the 1960s when developers built homes there.

Rafi and I grew up together in Canarsie, which, in the 1960s and 1970s, was predominately Jewish and Italian. We spent hours playing basketball at Bildersee Playground on Flatlands Avenue. The playground and the adjacent school were named after a Jew named Isaac Bildersee.

Dr. Bildersee was the assistant superintendent of New York City’s public schools in charge of schools in Brownsville, Canarsie, and East Flatbush. He made national headlines in December of 1947 when he issued a ban on the singing of Xmas carols in the schools under his jurisdiction. His wrote, “There must not be any reference in dramatizations, songs… to any religious significance. Xmas carols… may not be sung…”

At the time, of the 30,000 public-school children in his jurisdiction, 20,000 were Jewish.

Rafi and I, of course, were never aware of our park’s namesake’s controversial yet brave stand on this religious issue. The only thing that interested us was that Bildersee Playground had basketball hoops and we were the happiest boys in the world. We would play basketball and speak about our dreams and our hopes for the future. We imagined ourselves married and with kids.

We eventually left “Bildersee,” and went to Eretz Yisrael. I went off to litvishe yeshivos, and Rafi drifted toward chassidus. I had heard he was living in Monsey. However, our paths never crossed.

Over the summer I heard his mother had passed away and I remembered her walking by “Bildersee Playground” every morning to bring Rafi and me drinks and cookies.

I recalled her generosity and decided to be menachem avel.

Rafi, who now goes by Refoel, was dressed in full chassidish garb and immediately recognized me. He nodded to me and asked if I could go with him to another room. He closed the door and removed an envelope that had yellowed with time.

Refoel looked at me and said, “Last week as I sat with my mother, she told me that after she goes, to look for an envelope in the bottom drawer of her desk. She said, ‘Open it during shivah, and you will know what to do with it.’

“I did not question her strange request. And after she passed away and we began shivah, I opened it. Here, read it for yourself.” He handed me the envelope.

I carefully unfolded the yellow piece of legal-pad paper and read the following:

“Dear Refoel,

During my shivah, I know that Ron Yitzchok Eisenman will come to be menachem avel. When he comes, give him this money. It’s for the time at Bildersee Playground he lent you the money to buy a snack when I was unable to come. I clearly remember that I did not pay him back, and I want him to be paid back, so I have no outstanding debts. When you return the money I can go to the Next World with a clear conscience, as the real Day of Judgment is when you leave This World. Thank you.”

At the bottom of the envelope were one dollar and 43 cents.

I had not seen Rafi or his mother in over 40 years.

I had no idea I would hear about her death and go to Monsey to pay a shivah visit.

How she knew I would come to be menachem avel remains a mystery to me.

However, I never experienced a greater lesson to prepare me for the din of Rosh Hashanah than seeing the one dollar and 43 cents in an aged, yellowed envelope.