Part I

It was his valise.

Yes, it was really his. Do you hear? It was his very own valise, from the grooved handle down to the broad zippers which skidded towards each other from both sides and met in the middle -- if of course he had planned that meeting in advance.

It was possible to grasp each one between the index finger and the thumb, and to hold a competition. In general the zipper to the right would win, and close a larger part of the valise. But every now and then, the left one would overtake the right one. On one occasion, it even reached the pocket, because the pocket also belonged to the valise, if you didn't know that until now, and the valise, as we have already told you, belonged to Yonasan, and to no one else in the whole wide world.

It wasn't that Yonasan was acquisitive, like certain children who tend to think that everything they chance upon belongs to them. Quite the opposite. He was prepared to wholeheartedly admit that the plaid shirt folded so neatly in the valise was actually Shmulik's, as were the black Shabbos pants. The tzitzis, if you really want to be exact, were the gift of Abba Gold, who upon his first look at him, quickly exchanged Yonasan's tattered tzitzis for a new one from the closet. Ima Lenfeld had bought him the Shabbos yarmulke during one of his last weeks there, and he was very careful to cover it with a small plastic bag before packing, so that the fibers of the clothes and the dust wouldn't cling to the festive velvet. He had forgotten the precise origins of the sweater, the colored shirts, the pairs of socks in the valise, and the handful of books which were stashed into the briefcase.

But the valise, I repeat, was his -- don't ask from where. It had always been alongside him: in the upper closet in the Lenfeld kids' room, under the bed at the Gold's, near the desk in Shmulik's room. In general it was empty. But it always pretended to contain the very best, somewhere in its dingy depths.

Sometimes, before he fell asleep, the zippers would hold an impish race. But by morning, he would always find them where he had left them the night before. He thought about them many times. But the valise was very tight-lipped, and it was impossible to prod it to reveal those secrets.

"It came with you," Ima Lenfeld told him in her soft voice, when he asked. "All of your belongings were packed inside it. We opened it together, very carefully, and put everything away, and then put the valise on the upper shelf so that it wouldn't bother us."

"Did you give it to me, Kinneret?" he once asked her from the depths of the old upholstery of the back seat of the blue car.

"What?"

He was totally surprised. "The valise, of course. What else?"

"No."

"Then who gave to me?" he didn't relent.

"I think that it was always yours."

"In the first house too, Kinneret?"

"I don't think so. But then, maybe yes."

Kinneret never answered a simple "yes" or "no." In the special school in which she had studied, they had apparently taught her to always say: "I presume that . . . " "Or it seems to me . . . "

One winter afternoon, she entered Lenfeld's puddle-filled yard, took a good look at the fascinating boat game he was playing with the neighbor's kids, and said casually: "Yonasan, it seems to me that you won't be able to stay here any more. Perhaps it would be a good idea for us to go inside. We'll take what you need, say good-bye to everyone and find another wonderful house. I know some very nice parents who would be very happy to meet you."

For a moment all of the puddles in the yard darted before his eyes like millions of sparks from a blinding light. The Lenfeld's house had been his home since he had been five. Abba and Ima Lenfeld were his parents and, except for the valise, nothing set him apart from the other children.

"Are you sure?" he asked with seriousness. "I -- I don't think they'll let me go."

But inside, the valise was already on the bed, its mouth ajar. Ima Lenfeld was busy packing all of his belongings, in exemplary order.

"He's a wonderful child," she said quietly as she stood beside the door. "I thought that we would always raise him along with everyone else. But under the present circumstances . . . " she laughed. "It's impossible to ask my sisters, who have so many children of their own."

Because I realize the chinuch and educational achievements of our children are of primary concern to our readers, I feel it essential to underscore several pressing topics some of which even carry a "kosher" label -- and precisely because of this the required alertness pertaining their dangers is lacking.

Grave reservations about this subject are slowly spreading among parents and educators. I believe the level of criticism must be heightened and its scope accelerated. We should be much more resolute to do something about this problem.

The enemy is nearby, ready to pounce on us.

We are urged to experience one of the most characteristic temptations of modern times. Sizable newspaper advertisements and huge posters displayed in public areas convey the message: Because they are concerned about finding a good way of filling up our children's time and also preventing their growing up deprived in comparison with secular children, shrewd promoters are organizing entertainment evenings and impressive song, music, and dance shows. Although adults are invited too, the main stress is on teenage and even younger audiences. Those behind the programs promise solemnly that they do not violate any halocho in Shulchan Oruch.

Rabbonim and educators do not have to attend these shows to know what they are. Having seen the effects on our children, they are prompted to voice their objections. They warn the public not to be beguiled into participating.

But how clever our "benefactors" are! They have even found a way to bypass the rabbonim, a way to listen to the rabbonim but . . .

There is now no need to be physically present at the show to experience it. One can slide a CD-ROM disk into the convenient computer drive and see the show at home, in the family circle, parents and children together.

And what they see on the screen is devastating! One does not need to be a professional psychologist to understand how harmful what they see and hear is. Although the singers wear yarmulkes, they still engage in unrefined movements and wild behavior.