BY MICHAEL G. HASEL

ERR HASEL, PLEASE COME HERE. I have something for you to do."

For two weeks I had been adjusting to my new job as chasseur at the Hotel Bellevue Palace in Bern, the capital city of Switzerland. While studying at Bogenhofen Seminary, I had learned that one could earn more money for college in one summer in this small but wealthy European country than in two summers at home working construction. Besides, the allure of remaining in Europe for a few more months appealed to me. I had applied at the two most luxurious hotels in the capital and was hired at the Bellevue Palace, located right next to Parliament on the bluff overlooking the Aare River.

It was a stately building of traditional architecture and guests who ranged from business people to heads of state with appointments at Parliament. My job as chasseur (which comes from the French verb meaning "to chase") made me the assistant to the concierge. Whatever needed to be done, whether getting pants tailored for an Arabian prince or purchasing medicine for the president of Nestle Corporation, it was my job to run the errand. I also ushered guests to the reception desk and then to their rooms.

My favorite part of the job was parking the cars. In Europe, where a Mercedes is as common as a Chevrolet or Ford, the cars that frequented our hotel were Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and the occasional Aston Martin. It was a collegian's dream.

Don't Tell Anyone
Now the voice of the concierge beckoned. "I have a special favor to ask." He spoke in hushed tones that hinted at something clandestine and mysterious. Leaning closer, he said, "When you deliver the newspapers this morning, make sure that every guest receives one; then please go down into the basement kitchen and leave one for the chef. He always prepares a special meal when we work nights, and I have an arrangement with him." He winked at me and nodded at the stack of papers.

I walked over to the bundle, picked it up, and headed for the brass elevator. But inside, my mind was reeling. I had just been told to do something against hotel policy. Two weeks earlier at an employee orientation, the hotel director clearly stated that no employee could receive or take items that were designated for guests. As an example he cited the daily newspaper.

As I rode the elevator to the third floor my thoughts went something like this: This would have to happen to me. If only it were one of the other three men employed as concierge, I would feel comfortable to tell him what I thought, but not Tony. He is the most difficult one to work with. He treats all his underlings like shoes--literally. He's been belligerent and demeaning, and if I cross him, he won't forget it for the rest of the summer. But then, what's the big deal? It's just a 50-cent newspaper. And the chef does treat us well. He even has gone out of his way to assure that I have vegetarian meals. What difference would one newspaper a day make?

I was now placing the newspapers in front of the doors of each room, working my way down from the top floor to the bottom. The closer I approached the basement, the more feverishly my mind worked. If I do this, I won't be true to my conscience. It was explicitly told us that these newspapers were not for employees of the hotel. To break this rule, although minor in the eyes of some, would be dishonest. But what will Tony think? Well, I cannot help what his reaction will be; after all, I'm responsible for my actions, not his. And with that thought, I decided not to deliver the newspaper to the kitchen chef.

When I arrived back at the lobby, I placed the remaining newspapers on the reception desk, neatly fanning them out as we had been instructed to do. I glanced over to the concierge desk and noticed that Tony was speaking to a guest. Relieved, I headed for my post at the door, when one of the bellhops came over and told me that the concierge wanted to see me.

Here it is, I thought. Now I'm going to face the fire.

Confrontation
I stood quietly and waited until Tony was finished with the guest. Then he turned to me. "So, Herr Hasel, did you do as I asked?"

"I delivered all the newspapers to the rooms, sir."

"Wonderful, and what about the kitchen? Did you deliver one there?" he asked.

"No, sir, I did not."

"Well, go ahead and do it now; we are not yet too busy."

"I cannot do that, sir."

With a stern expression he demanded, "And why is that?"

"Sir, I was specifically told by the director that hotel employees are not to receive anything intended or purchased for guests. He used the newspaper as a specific example."

Tony's face became red. With a quiet, measured voice he said, "How dare you question my authority? You report to me, not to the director. Who do you think you are?"

"I am sorry, sir. I will not deliver the newspaper. You may ask someone else."

With that, he became even more angry. "Get out of here! Go polish the brass elevator and empty the ashtrays in the lobby!"

I walked away knowing that I had just been given a job never assigned to a chasseur, or even a bellhop. It was punishment. With a sinking feeling I dreaded the next two months. I even checked the schedule to see whether Tony was on duty the next morning or not. Relieved, I found he was not. But when I arrived the next morning, changed into my tuxedo, and headed out to the lobby, my heart sank as I saw Tony behind the desk. When he saw me, he called me over.

Another Request
"Herr Hasel, I have something for you to do." Dreading the next few seconds, I walked over to the desk. "I have a special job that you are not to speak of with anyone else," he began in hushed tones, leaning close to me so that no one could overhear.

Not the newspaper again, I thought; or would it be something else against hotel policy?

"Herr Hasel," he continued, "at the end of every week we have a special delivery to make. I am going to make you personally responsible for this delivery during your stay with us. I will schedule you to work on those days when this delivery is required, and you are to report directly to me concerning it. Is that understood?"

"First, sir," I replied, "I would like to know what this delivery is."

"I knew you would." He handed me a thick plastic pouch emblazoned with the words "Credit Suisse." "This is the weekly bank deposit of the hotel. You are to walk directly to the Credit Suisse branch on the square in front of the Parliament Building. You are to speak with only a certain teller, and you are to give them this account number. Do not speak with anyone else on the way there or on the way back. Then you are to bring back the receipt and give it to me. I trust that you will do this?"

I looked down at the heavy pouch. What he was asking me to do began to sink in. Just that week an Arab sheikh and his extended family had checked out of the hotel. For two weeks they had been occupying the two largest suites in the hotel. His bill had totaled more than $27,000. He had been only one of a hundred guests every night.

"Yes, sir." I looked up at Tony. "I will not let you down."

His stern face broke out in a huge smile. I smiled back. At that moment he and I knew something no one else did, and it concerned an undelivered 50-cent newspaper the day before. As I left the hotel with a light heart, the pouch nestled tightly against my chest under my tuxedo jacket, I was reminded of Jesus' words: "Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much" (Luke 16:10, NIV).

That summer Tony assigned me other special tasks. The months slipped quickly by. When the last day of work arrived and my summer experience was over, Tony approached me with his familiar stern look. "Herr Hasel," he said haltingly, "I have always wanted to visit the United States. I have never been there, and . . . well, I was wondering if I might visit you in your home if I ever make the trip."

A concierge visiting a chasseur? In the hierarchy of the Swiss hotel establishment it was unheard of. As I wrote down my home address I couldn't help but think maybe God had placed me at this hotel just for Tony. I never saw Tony again, but I've never forgotten the broad smile that appeared on his face when I handed him my address.

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Michael G. Hasel, Ph.D., is director of the Institute of Archaeology and a professor in the School of Religion at Southern Adventist University in Collegedale, Tennessee.