She flicked through the recipe book, stopping at pictures of mouth-watering desserts. Did she need another one? She knew she really didn't, just as she didn't need another salad. But this one really looked delicious, and until her four sons came home from school she could work on it. She started to read the directions, figuring out if she still had all the ingredients.

   She was startled by the ringing of the doorbell. Who could that be? Very few people visited at that time and she wasn't expecting any deliveries.

   Still thinking about her dessert, she opened the door. An elderly Jew was standing there, shivering a little from the cold. She half recognized him as one of the neighbors in the large apartment building opposite.

   "Please could you help us," he said in a heavy Russian accent. The man had the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

   "I will fetch my purse."

   "No, no, I don't need help with money, thank you. That isn't a problem, Baruch Hashem. I am sorry but I just rushed out without even putting on a jacket."

   She ushered him in through the doorway and stood facing him in the hall. Irritability flashed through her. What did this man want? Would he need her time? She didn't have any time!

   She pushed these thoughts out of her mind and prepared to listen. "What can I do for you?" she asked. She wanted to say ŒWhy me? Aren't there scores of people in your building?'; but she didn't, and he answered her unspoken question.

   "I came to you because I know you are frum, I see your husband going to Shul and your children taking the Jewish School bus. I sort of felt I could trust you... and also...

   "Thank you," she said simply.

   "It's my wife," he continued. "I am very worried about my wife, Mara."

   "Is she ill? Has something happened?", asked Dina. Was it something urgent? Had she collapsed or something? Surely he would be in more of a hurry if something dreadful had happened.

   "Well, she is, and she isn't," he said.

   Dina motioned him to sit down and sat opposite him. The new dessert wouldn't take up too much time. She could spend a few minutes listening. She gave him her full attention. He seemed to sense this and appreciate it.

   "I don't want to take up your time," he began.

   She reassured him and he went on.

   "It's my wife," he said again. "There is something wrong with her, something very deeply wrong with her."

   "Has she seen a doctor?"

   "She has seen many doctors and many many specialists," he replied. "No one seems to know what is wrong with her. She has been to neurologists, psychiatrists and physicians."

ŒThen why me?' she thought but remained silent.

   "Her condition seems to be quite unusual," he said. "Would you come and see her?"

   Why me again rang through her mind. Then came concerns about the dinner party and the extra dessert. Dina knew once the boys came home she would be very busy with them. But she would certainly have time tomorrow. "In the morning, tomorrow?" she began.

   "A few moments, just a few moments, is all I ask. She is getting worse. Today is a bad day. No, I don't mean a few moments," he said, correcting himself. "I exaggerate. Half an hour, exactly. Your baby son won't be home for another hour."

   She looked at him strangely. How would he know the time of the school-bus? But then, if you were old with nothing to do except look out of the window, perhaps you would get to know everything your opposite neighbors were doing.

   Well, she did have enough salads, and she didn't really need the extra dessert. She could save that for another dinner party.

   "Alright," she said. "In half an hour I have to be back."

   The man smiled with relief and for that moment the heavy lines of anxiety on his face softened. "I will get my jacket if you would wait," she said, disappearing down the passage to her room. Strange, very strange, she thought, putting on her jacket. But it was not something she could really refuse.

   When Dina came back into the hallway the man was standing looking at a picture of the family.

   "Beautiful sons," he said, putting down the photograph. "Tell me please, what is the name of your baby son?"

   "Shmueli, after my great uncle.

   Dina followed the man into the dingy hallway of the apartment opposite and they took a creaking elevator to the third floor. The man stopped outside apartment 33 and opened the door with a key. The small apartment had a strange, sweet smell of some exotic perfume that lingered in the still air. She heard a moan from the lounge and noticed the man's face light up.

   "Oh, Mara is awake. She is calling me."

   There was something about the woman that both attracted and frightened her. She was thin and frail with wisps of white hair peeping out from under a knitted blue cap. Furtive dark eyes flickered around, piercing Dina when they finally focused.

   The man introduced Dina and the woman nodded while pointing to a framed photograph of. . . yes, it was. . . her son, Shmueli.

   Dina gave a gasp. Maybe it was someone who looked like Shmueli. But no, there was Shmueli's T-shirt with the helicopter on it. This was most definitely a picture of Shmueli. "Where. . . when did you get that picture."

   "I took it myself," said the man with a note of pride. Your small son let me take a picture of him. It was several weeks ago. His big brother said it was alright."

   She vaguely remembered the boys coming in on their bikes, saying that an old man had been taking pictures and had wanted one of Shmueli. It had not seemed strange then, but it seemed strange now. Very very strange. Stranger still when the man handed his wife the picture and she proceeded to cover it with kisses, tears filling her eyes.

   "Mara would like to meet the child," said the man. "She wants to meet him very very much."

   He became aware that Dina was becoming uneasy and he explained.

   "My wife and I are both Holocaust survivors," he said. "We met in Russia, after the war, having both lost our families. My wife had a little son who looked just like Shmueli. He didn't survive the war. Ever since Mara saw Shmueli, she has been saying that he is her lost son. I think something has happened with her mind. She talks about him constantly, and these last few weeks she has stopped speaking. No one knows why. She didn't have a stroke or anything like that. But she still hugs and kisses the picture, or sits for hours at the window waiting for Shmueli to come home, waiting for the school-bus. My wife is deteriorating fast. I want to ask you, would it be possible for you to bring Shmueli over to meet her. Not today, I know you have a lot to do, but tomorrow, perhaps?"

   Dina nodded, her mind filled with conflicting emotions. She did not want her son to be the morbid focus of the old lady's misplaced affections, and yet, she had suffered so much, and lost her own son. But Shmueli wasn't the woman's son. He was hers. Surely, it would make things worse when Shmueli didn't recognize her, and Shmueli was a very independent young man, one of those children who didn't really like being kissed or cuddled. How would he react to the woman's intense emotions about him?

"I will ask my husband," she murmured, making a polite but hasty retreat.

   The dinner party was a success. As usual Dina had overcatered, so the family would be eating leftovers until Shabbos. She did not have time to really think about the old couple across the road, but when scenes from the afternoon's visit flashed through her mind she felt vaguely disturbed. She would talk to Raphael, her husband, about it.

   But during the night she heard the shrill whining of an ambulance, stopping right outside her gate. Late that next morning, on her way to the shops, a neighbor told her that the old Russian Jewish lady from the building opposite hers had died.

   Dina wondered how the old man was, how he had taken it, and she felt a pang of sorrow for his despair.

   It was two weeks later that she met him stumbling along the street with some milk and bread in a plastic bag. He had aged, and his eyes were red from crying.

   She crossed to his side of the road, wanting to offer condolences. But as soon as he saw her he told her the news.

   "Mara is very very ill. She has had a major heart attack. We thought, heaven forbid, that she was dead when they took her to the hospital, but they managed to revive her in the ambulance. But she is bad, very very bad. She still doesn't speak and the doctor says there is very little hope.

   She waited for him to ask about Shmueli but he didn't. Maybe he too had lost all hope.

   At that moment Dina made her decision.

   "Where is she? Which hospital is she in?" she asked.

   "It's the other side of the city, two bus-rides away", said the man, "Brendon State Hospital."

   "I will speak to Raphael, my husband. Perhaps we could go tonight. What time are visiting hours?"

   The man's face cleared. "Thank you, oh thank you. I have spent most of my time at the hospital. I couldn't leave her. I just came home to sort out some business. Perhaps, if you are going, I could come with you and stay there," he hesitated, then said at last, "Please ask your husband about Shmueli."

   Shmueli was fascinated by the long corridors, the men in white coats and the nurses and orderlies rushing around with trolleys and all kinds of interesting equipment. Having never been in hospital himself, he had none of the fears which many children acquire from painful experience.

   He had felt very privileged to go with his parents and Mr. Sher, the old gentleman who lived over the road. He remembered very well being photographed by him. He knew he was being taken to see Mr. Sher's wife who was very very ill and was flattered but not surprised that she particularly wanted to see him.

   Eventually they came to the ward and found Mrs. Sher, eyes closed hooked up to many flashing and beeping machines.

   Mr. Sher drew close to her and called her name, "Mara, Mara," but there was no response.

   They stood in silence for almost a full minute. Even Shmueli, now held high in his father's arms, was overawed by his surroundings.

   Dina took a Tehillim book out of her purse and quietly asked for Mara's Hebrew name and started to say Tehillim for her.

   Again, Mr. Sher called his wife's name, and this time she opened her eyes, looked at her husband and then became aware of the tall, bearded man, holding a child. She stared at the child for a few seconds and a slow smile appeared on her lips as she tried to speak, the sounds became clearer and clearer as she addressed the child, "Di-di."

   Raphael brought Shmueli closer to the woman and she reached out to him with a bony hand. Shmueli reached out his hand and touched hers and her tears coursed down her cheeks as she said the name "Didi, Didi," over and over. But then the machines went wild and the nurses arrived and asked all visitors to leave.

   Mr. Sher was allowed to stay behind, and Raphael promised to bring Shmueli again.

   It was only when they reached the foyer that Dina saw how pale Raphael had become. He was still holding Shmueli, but he appeared to be somehow deeply shocked. "Didi," he kept repeating, "Didi."

   Suddenly Raphael turned to her. "The woman's name is Mara," he said. "Is it possible for you to go back and somehow find out her real name, her Hebrew name?"

   "But I have it," said Dina. "I was saying Tehillim for her and I will continue to do so. She is extremely ill."

   They had reached the car and as they drove off Dina mentioned the name. "It is Miriam Raizel,"

   Her husband became paler.

   "Raphael, are you alright?" she asked. "Why has this affected you so much?"

   "Miriam Raizel," he said after some time. "If we had had a daughter that would probably have been her name."

   "Maybe that is why we haven't yet been blessed with a daughter."

   There were so many questions that Dina would have liked to have asked, but she sensed that this was a time to be silent. She would hear soon enough.

   Immediately after they got home, Raphael closed himself in his study and put through a long distance call to his parents. They spoke for a long time. When he finally emerged he looked as if he had been crying. He had told his parents enough to convince them to catch the first available flight.

   It was on the following day that Raphael, Dina and Shmueli once more visited the hospital. This time they were accompanied by Raphael's parents, Rabbi Dovid and Rachel Dozinitski.

   They had checked with the doctors to be certain Mrs. Sher was a little better and could have visitors, but when they got there her condition had deteriorated.

   "Only the Rabbi can go in," said the doctor.

   Rabbi Dozinitski spoke to him quietly.

   "Alright, Your grandson also," said the doctor reluctantly. "What you tell me is a very unusual story, an amazing story, and Mrs. Sher's condition is highly unstable, but perhaps this might be just what she needs to motivate her to pull through. There are so many emotional factors affecting her health.

   Mr. Sher came out to greet them. He had already spoken to the Rabbi on the phone and had confirmed certain facts. He shook the Rabbi's hand warmly. "I've said nothing to her," he said. "I didn't quite know what to say.

   The Rabbi and the small boy tiptoed into the ward and stood quietly by the bed. The old lady was dozing and Shmueli took her by the hand. She opened her eyes. "Didi," she said, "My Didi".

   The Rabbi could not hold back the tears as he drew close to her.

   "I'm your Didi," he said. "Mama, I grew up, I'm your Didi. Mama, when we were separated at the camp, I went with Aunt Gertie. She looked after me. I knew Tattie had died. I thought you had died too.

   If you hadn't recognized Shmueli as my grandson, and he really looks exactly as I looked when we parted, I would never, ever have found you. Mama. . . I'm your Didi.

   The woman stared at him, stared at the child, and then back at him. Her dazed expression faded as she woke up to reality. Through her tears she smiled a radiant smile.

   "My Didi," she said, as she took his hand. "You really are my Didi. I really have found you. I searched my whole life for you, my own Didi."

Ruth Benjamin is a clinical psychologist and popular Jewish author in Johannesburg, South Africa.