The Human Touch

I have received the following letter from a correspondent to whose identity I have practically no clue, for reasons which will appear soon enough.

August 7, 1934.

Dear Mr. Salpeter:

This story has the human touch. I’ll be the equivalent of a Hitler off-spring if it hasn’t. If you can use it in your column, why go right ahead. Every story has a title. This may be properly called, “The White Envelope Bag.”

The opening scene is laid in a subway car on the Stillwell Avenue station in Coney Island. A Sunday crowd has just burst through the doors. I am among the last to leave. Within the reach of at least a dozen people a white envelope bag is lying on the rear seat furthest from the door. I pick it up casually and make my way gracefully through the car.

It costs me five cents to enact the next scene. I went to a lavatory where I assured myself that the contents were worth while. I found five dollars and some change. I transferred the white envelope bag to my bathing grip and left smiling.

The third scene depicts me spending a very unpleasant Sunday on the beach, wondering what exactly the contents were. Also a bit conscience-stricken. (The correspondent mistakenly wrote ‘conscious-stricken.’)

The fourth and next to the last one is at my home where behind barred doors I examine the bag and its contents. The bag, rather soiled and cheap in appearance, is crammed full. Newspaper clippings, letters, post-cards, pictures, poetry, receipts, bills, keys, compact, change-purse, hospital cards, dentist booklets, handkerchiefs, testimonials, registration cards, etc., etc., etc…. I had before me the complete biography of the average Jewish American woman. No adornments, no exaggerations, just straight biography.

The lady was born in Poland forty-one years ago. I won’t go into the details of her life, which are all before me. Her husband died during the war. Left with two children she struggled courageously to support them and herself. The details of this struggle almost made me weep. I was just about to close the bag and send it to the woman with my profound apologies when I espied a carbon copy of a letter sent by this woman to Klein’s department store in Union Square. She wrote in part:

“At some future date I will identify myself by means of this carbon copy. In the meantime watch Mr. — who is stealing merchandise. I expect a reward for d#vulging this information.”

The last scene shows me determined not to return the money. I am sending the original copy to you, the carbon to her. (I know she is a reader of the Jewish Daily Bulletin.)

I would like to read your comment in the ‘Bulletin.’

A Human Touch Reader,

(signed) Harold.

COMMENTARY

You are free and welcome to make your own moral conclusions. Good wine needs no bush and this story requires no appendage of commentary. We on the Bulletin must all be embarrassed by this story, for with finder and loser both readers of the Bulletin it becomes a little difficult to decide between them. I think, however, that it is within my province to tell Harold that every man, woman and child who finds anything, no matter how small, no matter how large, is always striving to give himself, or herself, reasons for keeping what has been found. In law, the finder keeps his find only after he has exhausted the means for discovering the real owner; in custom, we say, “as good as found money.”

I don’t want to take on a holier-than-thou attitude. I have lost money, but have never found any to speak of. Recently I found a dime in a street car and made no effort to discover the loser. Another time I rode in one of those open street cars and turned my head away indifferently when the conductor came around, thus saving myself a nickel fare. But I know that, at heart, I am no better than Harold; only my opportunities have been more limited than his.

But I think Harold is a little bit of a hypocrite, as I would probably be under similar circumstances. We find him, after presumably having pocketed the money, ready to dissolve in tears at the revelations of this widow’s struggle to keep her family going, and then becoming righteously indignant when he discovers that this woman has been doing a bit of spying and expects a reward for it. Had this detail not been confided to the white envelope bag, Harold’s moral problem would have been simple and, being simple, he might not have found it necessary to submit the evidence to this column for judgment. There is, however, one little bit of evidence the lack of which makes it difficult to assess the degree of Harold’s guilt, if any.

MORE EVIDENCE WANTED

How badly does, or did, Harold need that found money? As badly as the woman who lost it? Perhaps that would cut no ice in the moral issue, but I think it does make a difference. Much more of a difference perhaps than it should make to the finder of lost money how the person who lost it conducts himself, on what subjects he, or she, writes letters to Klein’s department store.

The advantage in a case like this is on the side of the wealthy. If Harold had found a million dollars in bonds, it would have been a very easy matter for him to have discovered the owner, and a very inconvenient thing for him to have retained possession. There would have been the likelihood of a reward and he would have achieved glory for doing the noble thing under cover of having taken the easier way. A man should be paid for the trouble he takes to return found goods. There is an expense in such matters; Harold, for example, spent a nickel to find out what was in the bag. Now when a Harold finds a purse containing a small sum, belonging, obviously, to a poor person, what reward can he possibly hope to receive, commensurate with the trouble taken to return the found goods? Very little, if any. Gratitude is a nice thing, but it doesn’t grease the axles. I cannot tell what Harold should do, but I think I understand why he does what he does. Instead of debating this issue like a Talmud student, let him either keep the money and purse, or return them. Nor do I desire that he confide any further in me, although I am perfectly willing to hear from other readers.

VACATION NOTE

But when you read this, I shall be en route to my vacation, or perhaps arrived, depending on when you read the Sunday Bulletin. I honestly believe that the worst thing about vacations is that you have to travel to the scene. I think I could use a magic carpet, and I don’t mean an airplane either. I leave desiring to enjoy my vacation and not really expecting to. Perhaps I shall begin to enjoy it after the annoyance of travel has worn off. Besides, I could use some found money myself. Au revoir!