The Maggid, Rav Meir Tzimroth, often speaks about the great virtue of answering amen, and he has recounted the story of how he answered one special, unforgettable amen many years ago, and which he still remembers very well to this day. He related:
Many years ago, while I lived in Yerushalayim, I was told one day about the passing of my grandmother, a"h. The levayah took place in Bnei Brak, and on the way back, as was the custom in those days, I headed for the shared taxi stand in the center of Bnei Brak, across from the Itzkowitz shul. I planned to ride a shared taxi van back to Yerushalayim.
The minute I got to the stand, the van filled up and set out for Yerushalayim. I was the first on line for the next taxi. As such, I was able to choose whichever seat I wanted and the most desirable seat was the one up front, near the driver. In the back, it was always crowded and hot, and the front seat was spacious and pleasant. The taxi filled up slowly, and the driver, who was in a hurry, decided to pull out even though there was one empty place.
The price of the ride, in the value of those days, was three and a half shekels. When the taxi reached the traffic light at the Coca Cola intersection, before turning out of the city, a young bochur suddenly stuck his head into the vehicle and asked: "Does anyone want to buy an ice pop?" I looked at the passengers behind me. It seemed that on such a hot day, no one would have objected to the cool treat...But we all preferred to refrain from eating in public.
The only one who unhesitatingly purchased the ice pop was the driver. He paid half a shekel for his ice pop, took off the wrapper and was about to take a huge bite. But before he could do that I stopped him, "Please my friend," I addressed him. "I think this is the first time in my life I’m meeting you, and chances are that I’ll never see you again. So this is a one-time request, I won’t ask anything else of you..."
"What do you want?" the driver growled at me, in a rather unfriendly manner. "If I can do it, I will."
"Please make a brachah!" I requested. "I will not do that!" the driver replied, and quickly took a big bite out of his ice pop.
"Why not?" I insisted. "Why are you so adamantly refusing my simple request?"
"Listen, my friend, you might be new here, but this line, this Bnei Brak-Yerushalayim route, is a problematic one as far as I’m concerned. Every hour, a different rabbi sits next to me, and takes me on as his personal project. One asks me to make a brachah, the other one wants me to put on tefillin and a third is persuading me to keep Shabbos...Tomorrow someone will come and suggest that I join a yeshivah for baalei teshuvah...Leave me alone, just let me live!"
The ice pop in his hand began to drip, but I still did not give in. I took a half shekel coin out of my pocket, and gave it to the driver and said to him. "I’m ready to pay you for the ice pop... just make the brachah!"
At this point, the driver lost his cool. He swerved to the shoulder of the road, screeched to a halt and began to scream: "Mister! I never got involved in your life, don’t you get involved in mine!"
"Chalilah, I’m not getting involved in your life," I answered calmly. "I’m just worrying about myself! If you make a brachah, I can answer amen afterwards, and our sages tell us that ‘the one who answers amen is greater than the mevarech.’"
The driver grew even angrier. He threw the coin I had given him back at me and his voice rose even higher: "What do you think, you can buy me with half a shekel???"
"How much would you like me to pay you make a brachah?" I asked. I think that the guileless tone that I was speaking in had an effect. He thought for a minute, and then said, as he looked at the empty seat in the taxi: "If you give me three and a half shekel, the price that a passenger would have paid for that empty seat, I’ll make the brachah."
His somewhat audacious request threw me off a bit. It was a sum of money that, at that time, I would feel the loss of. I also knew that I could merit thousands of amens in an hour, for free, at Itzkowitz or Zichron Moshe...
While I was deliberating the driver continued munching on his ice pop. Fortunately for me, the passengers in the back were enthralled by this mini-drama and they decided to help me. Each one agreed to contribute, and within a few seconds I had the three and a half shekels. The driver smiled with satisfaction, covered his head with something and made the brachah very fluently: "Baruch...shehakol...bidvaro."
It’s hard to describe with words what happened after that. The taxi literally shook... We all answered amen, loudly and with kavanah, like we’d never answered before, not even during Ne’ilah on Yom Kippur.
"Amen!!!"
I looked in the driver’s eyes. The defiant spark wasn’t there anymore, and in its place, I was even able to see a small tear...He started the car again, and before he shifted into drive, he said, with his eyes lowered:
"You religious people...I don’t know where you mustered up the courage – to pay three and a half shekel for one amen...I’ll never understand it. But if I made the brachah already, I won’t sell it for money.
"Take your money back, and now please, don’t say another word to me until the end of the ride. In the end, you’ll make me a baal teshuvah...."
We accepted. The taxi remained silent at least until I got off at the entrance to Yerushalayim, where I thanked the driver and continued on my way. I thought the story ended there, but it did not.
A few years later, I was invited to speak at a yeshivah for people who were growing closer to observance. As I spoke about the value of mitzvos, I related this story. Suddenly, one of the bochurim stood up and asked to speak.
"I’ve heard this story more than once," he said. "I’m the son of that taxi driver."
I was very moved to hear this, and the boy continued, "The Rav should know that since I started this process, every time I come and visit my father, he insists that I make a brachah in front of him so that he can answer amen, with kavanah, out loud – like only he knows how to do..."
Doresh Tov, Chanukah p. 527
