為に生きんとす

オーストリア国の地図をつらつらと眺めていたら、Bad　と名のついた土地が幾つかあることに気が付きました。例えば、目に付いたのだけでも挙げてみると、Bad Schallerbach,　Bad Goisen, Bad Hall　と言った風です。仔細に探せばもっと出てくるかと思います。Bad　とは勿論、地名の一部ですが、温泉が湧くところに付けられているようです。 あっ、有名な　Bad Ischlもありますね。

先週の土曜日、そのひとつ、Bad Hall に我が奥さんをはじめ、知り合いの仲間たち、コーラスグループの仲間たちですが、色々と出し物を用意してBad Hall （ついわたしは英語読みをしたくなりますが、ドイツ語ですね。バートハル）の老人ホームを訪れました。音楽の集いを催したのです。ホームのご老人たちに気分転換を図って貰いましょう。

Bad Hall の近くに住むオーストリア人男性がHad Hall の老人ホームの人たちに何かをして上げたいと常々思っていたのですが、一人だけでは力が足りないと、週一回持ち回りでメンバーの家で練習を繰り返す、我が奥さんも加わっている、無名のコーラスグループにお呼びが掛かったといった次第です。

ホームでは昔のお父さんお母さんたち（失礼！）がご存知のオーストリアの歌を何曲か合唱したり、コーラスグループに属する奥さんの娘さん二人による合奏、お母さんはキーボードで伴奏、娘さんはバイオリン、曲目はJohann Sebastian Bach の有名な　”Air"、落ち着いた、でも何となくもの悲しいような切ないような調べ。

デジタルビデオカメラで撮影され様子をDVDに焼付けたもの、それを見た後、今、こうして綴っています。Air　の調べがわたしの心をつかんで離そうとしない。

　

老人ホームで暮らしているお年寄りたちは毎日何を楽しみに過ごしているのでしょう？　どうして老人ホームにやってきて暮らさなければならくなったのでしょう？　配偶者がなくなったり、子供たちも大きくなって身寄りのない状況にあって、唯一の拠り所がホームということだったのでしょうか。 事情はいろいろでしょう。そんなことを詮索する必要もないでしょう。

人間、誰しも例外なく、黙っていても（もちろん喚いても）歳を取るのですね。若くあり続けたいと願っても、望んでも、寄せる波に抵抗しても歳には勝てません。勝手に歳の方が先に一緒に行きましょうと手を差し伸べてくるのですよね。あたたも、わたしも、 あの人も、例外ではありません。

　

オーストリアの人口、8.8百万だそうです。最近の新聞報道によると、もう直ぐ、つまり2035年までには、3人に一人は60歳以上になっているとのことです。 ドイツ語でÜberalterung などと表現しています。歳の取り過ぎといったニュアンスもあるようです。人口の老齢化現象。

わたしはオーストリア人ではありませんが、オーストリア人の中に住む、暮らす、生きる一人としてその頃には優に６０を越えていることになるのです。ああ、この事実は今、目の前にあるわけではないのですが、新聞の見出し を忠実に引用すると、Bad、いや、Bald　もう直ぐ、ですかね。

翌日、そのオーストリア人の男性は協力してくれたお礼だということでフランス製のマーマレードセットをコーラスメンバー一人一人に配っていました。そして、そのお礼と一緒に一通の話が添えられていました。以下の通りです。原文のままです。

　

The Cab Ride

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.

But, I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked.

"Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice.  I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

　

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s' movies. By her side was small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.  All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counter. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

Would you carry my bag out to the car? she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.  She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm just in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked into the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

　

For the next two hours, we drove through the city.  She showed me the building where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds.  She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.  Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up.  They were solicitors and intent, watching her every move.  They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.

The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.  She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little movement of joy," she said.

"Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

　

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift.  I drove aimlessly lost in thought.  For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?  What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.  But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, - BUT - THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

You won't get a big surprise in 10 days if you send it to ten people. But, you might help make the world a little kinder and more compassionate by sending it on.

Thank you, my friend....

Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well dance.  Every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special.  Every day, every minute, every breath truly is a gift of God.

Sometimes all we need to do is listen, hold a hand and understand... God does all the rest! Bless you!　　　　　　　　　　　　(author unknown)