Last month, I was in Paris for a few days visiting my daughter, Hava. While there, late at night, I wandered into a kosher pizza store in a hole in the wall in the Marais, the older Jewish neighborhood of Paris. There were a few small tables, some old salt and pepper shakers, a picture of the past Lubavitcher rebbe and the comforting smell of cooking pizza. No one spoke English, only French and Hebrew. The owner/pizza baker behind the counter was an elderly man with a long curly beard, big black kippa and white flour dusting him from head to toe. The pizza shop was empty save for one Sefardic-looking local man eating several personal pizzas for dinner.
I ate my pizza slice and went to pay, but the baker told me in Hebrew that he did not take credit cards. I had no cash and told him I would find an ATM. After scouring my phone for a couple minutes to locate one, he told me that the other man in the restaurant would pay for me. I was surprised and replied that I could get money. But waving me off, he exclaimed in Hebrew, “Tzedakah is not only for the needy, it is for the wealthy also.” The Talmudic profundity of the line and kindness which so easily rolled off of them—there, in the middle of the night, in the hole in the wall of too-thin pizza crust—charged the floured air around us with poignancy and holiness. I thanked them and exclaimed in Hebrew, “I guess there are Mitzvot all around us here in the middle of the night in Paris.” Then I told them that I would, “pay it forward,” and give some tzedakah myself soon.
Last week I was in Israel. Walking through the Jaffa Gate into Mamilla from the Old City, a Jewish man in his early 30s asked me for money. We talked in Hebrew. He said that he had several children and was in financial need. He showed me his Israel ID card, his teudat zehut. I told him I did not have cash and I thought that would be the end of it, but he was persuasive and alerted me to several ATM’s nearby. There was something about him which made me think he did indeed need the money—after all, no one spends their time begging if they don’t need to.
I acquiesced and we walked together toward the ATM. On the way, I asked if he worked, to which he replied that these days it was hard to find work. I responded that I was under the impression that with so many away at war there was a lot of work to be done. He said something about a job he had, which sounded like piecemeal manual labor, but that it was not available until closer to Passover.
Standing at the ATM, I debated in my mind about how much to give him and decided on an amount slightly higher than I normally would. After all, I was an American visiting a country at a time of difficulty whose citizens are in pain. This was a time for generosity, for helping each other. I gave him the cash and he was very happy. He asked me if my children were married and I told him they were not, after which he responded with what seemed like a heartfelt blessing for them to find their bashert. I then blessed him with strength and success. He blessed me again and I blessed him and then we together we blessed the Jewish people and its future. Then he hugged me and I exclaimed in Hebrew, “200 shekels for such blessings is a bargain!”
These moments of connection between Jews leave me with a deep sense of the familial nature of our people. These are the holy moments, when we recognize the image of God in each other and the deep sense of connection between us as Jews and as brethren.
Was he for real? Did he have children? Was he needy? Did he need to buy drugs? Food? Nothing? It really did not matter. What mattered was the spiritual gift that such a moment brings, whether at midnight in Paris or in the sunlight outside the Jaffa Gate. We are indeed one people with one heart.
May Hashem bless the moments of sanctity and charity between us and bring peace, speedily in our days.