I

t was a cold winter day, and I had gone to Brooklyn for a shivah call.

Traffic was heavy as I started my drive home, and my stomach was reminding me that I hadn’t eaten lunch and was insisting that I make a stop for food.

As I was already on the outskirts of Brooklyn, away from the “main drag,” I wondered if I would have to loop around back into the heart of the shtetl to assuage my hunger pangs.

Unexpectedly, I spotted a small pizza shop on the fringes of the neighborhood.

There was exactly one table with two chairs.

The owner started speaking to me in Hebrew.

Before I even ordered, he had asked me where I live, what I do for a living, and how is it possible to support a family on a rabbi’s salary.

I took the slice from him and sat on the stronger looking of the two rickety chairs; he took the other seat and continued our conversation.

I had been looking forward to a long-anticipated, private “downtime” lunch. Nevertheless, I learned years ago that the One Who handles my appointment book knows what He’s doing, so I just smiled warmly when the pizza proprietor took his seat.

He told me he was from Ramat Gan and came here 17 years ago seeking his fortune. He stated proudly and unabashedly, “I have learned the lesson that all comes from Him. And as hard as we try, He and He alone provides for us.”

The bitachon he had in Hashem was as powerful and as intense as that of a great tzaddik. He was dripping with emunah peshutah — simple yet sincere faith. I remained mostly silent, with the exception of the occasional nod or raising my eyebrows in disbelief as he continued to enchant me with his stories of emunah.

Suddenly he said, “I want to tell you one story that I cannot tell everyone. But you seem like a nice person. I can trust you, no?”

I politely nodded my head, affirming my “nice person” status, and allowed him to continue his monologue.

“You know there are many Muslims who live very close to here? Many of these Muslims come to eat by me — they say my falafel is halal. Last week one of the local Muslims who frequent my store arrives and I can see that he is distraught. I ask him, ‘What’s the matter?’

“He tells me he was just laid off from his job and is short money for the rent and his landlord is threatening to evict him.

“I ask him how much he needs and he says $300. On the spot, I give him the money. I know that it all comes from Hashem and I will not lose out by helping him.

“Last night as I was closing for the day, three Muslims come in and one of them pulls out a knife and says, ‘Give us all your money, or we will kill you!’ Suddenly, the door opens and in walks the Muslim I lent the $300. He screams at them in Arabic, ‘Itla’u min hon [Get out of here]!’ Abruptly, the three of them turned and scooted out of my store.

“I looked at the young Muslim and said, ‘What made you come now?’

“ ‘Last week, you lent me $300. I came to repay your loan.’

“You see what I mean?” the pizza man said to me. “I told you. He is in charge!”

As I stood up, I said, “Yes, I do see what you mean.”

I slowly walked out of the pizza shop and into the busy hubbub of Brooklyn.

Surprisingly, a passerby called out, “Hey, how’s the pizza here?”

“Very special, like no other pizza shop in Brooklyn.”

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 717)