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!”