Traditional Jewish Jokes and Anecdotes, No. 14

Prices on the Square

First the setting.  Place: Saint Peter’s Square in front of the Vatican.  The date: perhaps eighty or ninety years ago.  What is going on: Two men are selling holy rosary beads, crucifixes and other relics and souvenirs. Who are they: One seems about fifty years old, short, dark, with a scraggly beard; the other a variation on the first, but he is dressed well and his beard is trimmed.  They are not standing close but separated by many yards at each side of the square but strategically placed so as to be passed by all the pilgrims, tourists and officials who pass in and out of the Holy See.  They are not unusual, as on almost any day there will be vendors trying to make a living in the Catholic trade.

Now the focus sharpens up.  The anecdote proper begins.  Against a background of deep scarlet of the setting son, one rather handsome looking young priest walks by, looks down at the first man’s wares on offer in a basket at his feet.  He picks up a cross, turns it over in his hands, and asks: How much?  The seller tells him: Two thousand lira.  The priest tosses the crucifix in the basket and walks on.  You Jews, he says, should have more respect when you are selling holy objects.  Shmuck, the man says under his breath.  Then the stops by the second vendor who has a similar basket in front of him.  Again the priest looks, picks one up, considers, and then asks: How much? The second man says: Fifteen hundred lira.  The priest draws out a purse from his pocket, extracts a few coins, and hands it to the man, saying: Expensive but not outrageous. You should see what that dirty Jew over there tried to charge me.  The man shrugs his shoulders.

A little later, as the sky scatters into a chromatic scale of bright streaks, a rich-looking tourist in an expensive suit comes along.  He stops at the first vendor’s basket, examines a string of rosary beads, and asks how much they sell for.  The scraggy man answers: Five thousand lira, and that’s my final price.  The tourist shakes his head: Much too expensive for such a thing.  Shmuck, the man says under his breath.  Then the tourist meanders along towards the entrance to the Vatican, then stops at the second man’s  basket, sees a similar set of rosary beads.  How much are you selling these for? he asks.  The man answers, For you, sir, only Three thousand five hundred lira.  A real bargain.  The tourist hesitates, then draws out his wallet, counts several large lira notes, and hand them to the seller. No bargain, he says, but much cheaper than the guy over there, and he points to the first vendor.  I bet he’s a Jew.  The vendor shrugs his shoulders.

The evening sky begins to glow in antique yellows and browns around the square.  Now a pilgrim saunters up to the first seller of religious objects.  I want something to bring to my dear old mother to show her what a wonderful experience I have had, he says.  What do you have that a poor man like me can afford.  The man rummages through his basket.  Here, look at this, a genuine St Christopher medal.  Only eight hundred lira for you, and for me it’s a sacrifice.  The pilgrim, looking sceptical, smiles and says: More than I can afford.  Do you have anything—?  The vendor waves him away.  Don’t waste my time.  The pilgrim looks around, sees the second fellow with a basket, and goes up to him.  Please, he says, I would like something as a souvenir, but I can’t afford very much.  The second vendor looks him up and down.  For you, sir, I will make a special price.  He picks out a St Christopher medal, polishes it on his sleeve, and days, Usually seven-hundred and fifty lira but I will let you have it for five hundred.  The pilgrim sighs but counts his coins and hands over the required amount.

Meanwhile, the first priest is coming out of the Vatican, observes the customers going away from the Jewish vendor without purchasing anything.  Shaking his head, he tells the man, That’s no way to do business.  You Jews are always overcharging everyone who comes up to you.  This is a very sacred place and you show no respect for the visitors who come by.  That other fellow—and he points to the second vendor—he also overcharges: whatever he sells is at least two or three hundred lira more than you can buy at any of the stalls around the corner, but he at least doesn’t turn people away with outrageous prices.  After dealing with you, they are willing to pay the prices the other vendor asks.  What kind of a businessman are you?  Business is business, says the man, and shoos the priest away.

About an hour later, with the dark shadows of evening starting to fall into place as a pitch-black background and the number of pilgrims, priests and tourists dwindling away to nothing, the first vendor picks up his basket, covers it with a cloth, and starts walking towards the second man.  Seeing him come, the second seller also picks up his basket, covers it with a cloth, and greets the scraggy seller.  Nu, he says, not a bad day’s work, is it, Jake?  The other slaps him on the shoulder.  Not too bad, Abe.  Let’s go home and have dinner.