The Little Black Book

It was a normal start to a normal day for a normal working week. I followed my comforting ritual - breakfast, brush teeth, comb hair, hop in car and drive to the station. Each day I got the morning paper to read on the train, took a window seat and saw the usual faces. The young hair dresser doing her nails, the middle aged executive on his laptop, the old gentleman reading a little black book. I opened the paper and waited for my stop.

The train slowly pulled into the platform so I gathered my things and stood up waiting for a gap in the aisle. I noticed a small black book had been left on the seat of my usual travelling companions. I picked it up and looked for the face that had sat directly across from me. The old gentleman. He wasn’t there.

So I put the book in my pocket, hoping to return it and, thinking nothing more of it, I followed the pack.

Routine frustration, routine anonymity and routine breaks.

The crisp wind on the blustering station chilled my hands. Shoving them deep into my pockets. Ah, the black book! I could return the book to the owner, after all, I knew the owner's face.

I sat in my usual spot, read my usual paper and waited patiently. Curiosity got hold of me and I took a brief peek at the contents of this little black book. There was nothing special, just alphabetical tabs like an address book. The only difference was that most of the pages were blank and a handful just had random numbers of differing lengths penned on them in black ink.

The train rolled into his stop. He was not there. I was confused because he always got on this train and had done so for the whole time I had. What was I to do now? My routine broken, I was uncertain of how to return the book to its rightful owner. I was, however, determined to do so.

For the next two weeks I followed my normal morning and afternoon ritual, but with the burden of that little black book. The man with the lined face did not return. Worry gnawed at me.

The burden and worry of that little black book changed me. Lunch came on time on the last day of the long working week. I needed distance. I decided to go somewhere different for lunch. I found a tiny coffee shop several blocks away. I found a cosy spot and sat down. I was an island of routine in a sea of worry. I ordered my normal lunch (a toasted cheese and tomato on rye and a long black).

It was like a benediction. Surprised, a woman asked if she could sit next to me to have her lunch. It was the hair dresser from the train. I reluctantly acquiesced. We got to talking and soon I unburdened my worry. I mentioned the little black book I had found on the train and how determined I was to find the owner and return it.

Such astonishment came over her face that I asked why. She told me that she knew the old man who owned this book and he was in hospital and dying. She said that he mourned the loss of his book. I asked her for this man's name and the address of the hospital. I assured her I would go to him the next morning.

The next morning I arrived at the hospital and found out which room my fellow traveller was in. When I got to his room I saw that he seemed to have aged even more. He was awake. He recognised me. I introduced myself and handed him his little black book. Tears started streaming down his face. Tears of happiness tinged with sadness. He thanked me time and time again shaking my hand with such firmness. My burden of worry was lifted.

I asked him why he was so happy to get the book back. He told me that this little black book held the numbers that had been tattooed on his friends arms in Auschwitz. Every number meant a friend whose name he held in memory, for each had lost their life. The pages they were on was the number of days between each death. But, there was one special number 189547. The number of his wife. It was this that brought him joy and grief. He said it was the only way he could remember the people - by putting a number to a face he could remember their names. We exchanged names and good wishes and with tears in my eyes I bid him farewell.

Time passed by, and even the tenor of my comfortable routine returned. The aged man did not. Neither did my worry. A month passed and I received an official looking letter - registered mail.

“Dear sir,

please find enclosed a bank cheque for $20,000. Our client passed away three weeks ago and has left you the balance of his estate and his black book.

Yours Sincerely,

A & J Roechburn - Lawyers “