The Pastry That Protected My Home

On Sunday, Rosh Chodesh Iyar (the first day of the Jewish month of Iyar), I traveled from my home in Bnei Brak to the Western Wall in Jerusalem. On the way, I stopped at a little food store and ordered myself a cup of coffee and a pastry. While I waited, an elderly man came up beside me. He had an American accent and was pushing a small shopping cart. I noticed he was mumbling—partly to himself and partly toward me. I leaned in to try and catch what he was saying.

“Could you buy a drink for me too?”

Right away, I realized he was a beggar. I noticed a small sign on his cart, probably asking people for help.

It took a while for the hot drink I ordered to be ready. And then—on instinct, I handed it to him.“Here, please take this drink. It’s for you.”

He thanked me and stepped aside. But just a moment later, he came back. More mumbling. Again I leaned in, and this time I heard, “Could you buy me a pastry too?”

I started feeling uncomfortable. I had already given him the drink I had bought for myself. Now he wanted more. Wasn’t this getting a bit too much? That old expression ran through my mind: “Give someone a finger, and they’ll take the whole hand.”

Still, I smiled and said to him, “Look, we’re partners. I ordered a drink and a pastry. You get the drink, I’ll take the pastry. Sound fair?”

But he didn’t let go. “I want to eat too,” he said simply.

At this point, I realized the store clerks had picked up on our conversation. A moment later, they started joking at my expense. I heard one whisper to another: “What a sucker. He gave him a drink, now he’ll give him the pastry too. Soon he’ll buy him the whole store…”

It didn’t exactly encourage me. I started to wonder how many others he had already approached that day, touching their hearts with the same story.

Still… something deep inside wouldn’t let me walk away. This just wasn’t how I was raised. The pastry was brought to my table. The man was still standing there. I looked up and said, “Here, take this too. It’s for you.”

He seemed surprised. “Maybe we can split it? You said we’re partners, right?”

“No, no. It’s fine. You eat it.”

And I sat there thinking to myself, “Well, I’ll be walking out of here with nothing.” I’m not wealthy, and buying another drink and pastry wasn’t really in my budget. But eventually, I gave in to my hunger, and I ordered a second round for myself.

While I waited, the man, now in better spirits, started telling me his life story. Ten minutes of talking. I didn’t understand most of it, but I nodded along. The point was clear: this was a man who had fallen on hard times.

“The whole house filled with smoke, and the microwave was on fire…”

That was it. I left the store and continued on my way to the Western Wall.

I hadn’t taken five steps when my phone rang. It was my wife.

“Did you get to the Kotel yet?” she asked, using the Hebrew name for the Western Wall.

“Not yet,” I said. “I was a little delayed.”

“Then stop and make a big ‘l’chaim’ on the way,” she said playfully.

“Why? What’s the occasion?” I asked, confused.

She explained: “Chaim wanted to eat dinner. I took out a roll from the freezer and told him to heat it up in the microwave for two minutes, like we always do.

“But by mistake, he pressed twenty minutes instead of two. Right after starting it, he went upstairs to grab something. He got distracted by a game and completely forgot about the bread.

“After about fifteen minutes, we smelled something burning. At first, we thought it was from the neighbors. We didn’t have anything on the stove. But the smell got stronger. We rushed downstairs. Chaim went first.

“The whole house was full of smoke. That’s when he remembered—the microwave!

“With amazing courage, without asking me, he ran into the smoky kitchen, pulled the plug, and ran back out.

“If he hadn’t acted when he did… if we hadn’t smelled the smoke and come down… I don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened.”

I stood still in the middle of the street, shaking. It had just happened. She was calling me a minute after it was all over. The fire had started just when I was “negotiating” with the man in the food store.

What goes around comes around. A piece of bread given— a life protected. The roll I gave a poor man in Jerusalem saved my son in Bnei Brak—at that exact same time.

It’s Thursday night now, five days later. The smell of smoke still clings to the walls and furniture. It doesn’t go away. Every time I walk into the house, I feel a chill. It reminds me of the story. And it makes me think.

I once heard from the great Rabbi Chaim Kreiswirth, about a wealthy man he approached for a donation. The man not only refused, but mocked the mitzvah (commandment) of giving tzedakah—charity.

Shortly after, the man tragically died in an accident.

Rabbi Kreiswirth said something unforgettable: “Perhaps this man was already carrying a heavy fate. My asking for tzedakah wasn’t the cause—it was a test from heaven. If he had chosen compassion, maybe they would have had compassion on him and erased the punishment. But because he didn’t, the verdict remained in place.”

"I can’t help but think it might have been the same for me. Maybe something harsh was on its way to our home—but Hashem, in His kindness, gave me a moment to tip the scales. A small test of compassion. Thank God, I listened to that inner voice—and maybe that’s what turned everything around."