STORY: ROOM SERVICE FEE

 Two Jewish merchants in olden day Europe were travelling home from fair. It was late on

Friday, but the roads were icy and muddy. To their dismay, they realized they were going to have

to stop for Shabbos somewhere along the way. With no other choice, they stopped at a nearby

town, and knocked on the first door they spotted with a mezuzah on it, mortified at showing up

uninvited to someone’s house. But Shabbos is Shabbos, and you must do what you must do.

When an old man came to the door, the merchants excused themselves for showing up so late

and uninvited. The host told them they were welcome to stay with him—but only for the price of

five-hundred rubles. The men looked at each other in disbelief—“That’s more expensive than the

Four Seasons!”—but with no other choice they forked over the money and got ready for the holy

day.

Returning home from shul that night, they found a beautiful table laden with delicacies.

Having paid so much money for the privilege, they figured they might as well get comfortable

and enjoy themselves. And what a feast it was. They shared words of Torah with their host, sang

niggunim, and ate and drank more heartily than they had in a long time. This repeated itself the

following morning and afternoon.

As they said goodbye after Shabbos, the host handed them back a purse with all the

money they paid. “This is yours,” he said simply. The men were baffled. “What do you mean?”

they asked “Wasn’t that the fee for our lodging here?”

The man explained: “When you arrived at my door yesterday, I could tell you were

uncomfortable. You didn’t want to bother me, and you didn’t want to spend Shabbos in a

stranger’s home. But I wanted to you to enjoy your stay and feel like you belong here—and the

only way I could think of was to have you pay for it! If you paid for it, you would no longer feel

like I was doing you a favor. As you can see, it worked—I saw how much you enjoyed

yourselves! Now that you’ve enjoyed Shabbos, you can take the money back—and I’ll take the

mitzvah.”

Two hours before Shabbos

 Two hours before Shabbos on a long summer Friday afternoon, Moshe, like thousands of

other Brooklyn Jews, is racing up to the Catskills to join his family for Shabbos. Up

ahead he spots a car stalled on the side of the road with a flat tire, and a yarmulke-clad

driver standing next to it trying to figure out what to do. “Oy,” Moshe thinks to himself,

“if I don’t help him out, he’s going to be stuck for Shabbos.” With that, Moshe brings his

car to a screeching halt and helps the poor man put on his spare.

As the two men part ways, Moshe sticks out his hand and says warmly, “have a

good Shabbos!” The other driver just stares at him blankly. Moshe tries again in

Hebrew—“Shabbat Shalom!”—and Yiddish—"Git Shabbos!”—but to no avail; the man

has no idea what Moshe’s saying. Exasperated, Moshe says, “Are you Jewish?!” The

driver answers in the negative.

“So why in the world are you wearing that yarmulke on your head,” Moshe

demands.

“Oh,” the man explains, “my mother taught me that. She was a devout Catholic,

but she once told me that if I ever get in trouble I should put on one of these little black

caps, and some Jew will come help me!”