In a remote Hasidic village, so the story goes, some Jews were huddled together in a shabby inn one Sabbath evening beside a log fire. They were local people, all of them, with the exception of one person whom nobody could identify. He was obviously poor, a ragged man who squatted silently on all fours in a shadowy corner at the back of the room.
A number of topics were discussed, and then it was suggested that everybody should say what he would ask for if only one wish were granted him. One man wanted money; another would have a faithful son-in-law; a third imagined a brand-new carpenter’s bench, with shining tools. Everybody spoke in turn, and when they had finished, only the beggar had said nothing.
They prodded him, of course, and—with reluctance—he said, “I wish I were the powerful king of a large, important country. Then, one night while I slept in my palace, an enemy would invade my kingdom, and by dawn his horsemen would penetrate my castle, and they would meet with no resistance from my guards. Awakened from a deep sleep, I would have no time to dress; I would have to escape in my nightshirt. Fleeing over hill and dale, through forests day and night, I would arrive at last right here in this despicable inn, and I would be found squatting here in this corner, right now. This is my wish.”
The others looked around the room, deeply confused. “And what good would that do you?” asked one man.
After a pause, the beggar said: “At least I’d have a nightshirt.”