It was the whistling sound of the wind, blowing through the cracks in the wall, that woke him.
Interesting – he hadn’t noticed that crack before. But then again, the whole house was practically falling apart. The slamming screen door on the porch was a constant nuisance, and he had long ceased paying attention to that. Nor did he bother with the peeling paint on the corridor walls and the ceilings, the leaking pipes that stained the once-shiny lacquered floor, and the reeking mold and mildew that permeated every corner of every room in the house.
Here and there, he noticed, the seeping water had loosened the mortar; in the dining-room wall, a few bricks were already exposed. Fissures appeared out of nowhere, chunks of mortar fell on his bed. Every nail in the walls seemed to have been exposed, the moisture causing thin streaks of rust to slowly inch their way downward. Last night, he smelled the odor of smoke. He wondered whether something had short-circuited inside the flimsy, paper-thin walls.
He’d inherited this house from his father. It seemed only yesterday that his grandfather built it. Some called it a ‘house of cards’ and told his grandfather that the construction was not sturdy, the mortar had no substance, the bricks were porous. He was forewarned that the architects were ignorant of what it took to build a proper house, and that the material they used was second rate.
The blueprints, his grandfather was told, were radically different from the original. And he was reminded that the owner of the land had long objected to the folly of altering the agreed-upon terms of construction. In fact, his grandfather was warned of dire consequences should the builders proceed in their attempt to deceive the landlord.
But his grandfather refused to pay heed. Praising the ‘new methodology’ of the construction, he proceeded in defiance of his original contract.
‘Follow these lines of demarcation and your house will stay firm and erected on solid ground,’ pleaded the owner’s agent. ‘Strictly conform to the landlord’s precise plans and instructions, and your structure will withstand the assault of nature and time. The braying neighbors, angry at your so-called infringement, will fail in their attempts to dislodge you. Your home shall be an impregnable fortress. The landlord shall guard the gates of your home. Just don’t tamper with the original plans.’
BANG! The screen door slammed against the tilting frame. The young man set upright. BANG! A cluster of black clouds floated ever closer and the winds seem to be gathering strength and power. A cold, bone-chilling rain began to lash across the yard. He was startled by a loud thunderclap that crashed across the heavens; flashes of lightning lit the darkening skies. The young man shivered.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘A messenger,’ came the reply.
The young man rose quickly to open the door. A dignified old man, wrapped in a talit, smiled sadly and motioned to him to follow. He didn’t know why, but he obeyed. Was it curiosity? Or fear?
The huge funeral parlor was crowded, every seat taken as thousands stood against the walls and in the aisles. The galleries were overflowing and loudspeakers had been installed in the passageways and corridors so those who could not see would be able to hear the eulogies. Never had the young man seen such a multitude of mourners.
Outside, every inch of space – the alleyways, the walkways, the sprawling lawn – was occupied. Throngs of people continued to swarm toward the huge building; orderly, quietly, and purposefully they moved forward. Mobile communication stations were placed in every strategic corner so that the words spoken inside the hall would be transmitted to the enormous crowds on the outside. They stood, they watched.
The funeral procession stretched as far as the eye could see; black shawls, scarves, knit and black yarmulkes, hatless, long-haired, religious and not. Sephardi mingled with Ashkenazi, chassidic with Rav Kook’s disciples, men, women and children. Black-garbed, traditional, modern. Thousands had followed the black-shrouded casket to this auditorium.
The young man stood with his mouth agape, eyes wide with awe. Where was the old man who brought him here? There! There he was. And he was about to speak to the mourners. The young man listened carefully.
‘Brothers and Sisters,’ the old man began, raising his hand for silence. An immediate hush fell across the vast assemblage.
‘Secular Zionism is dead,’ the speaker’s voice thundered. ‘And the house that was built on false pretenses, cheap material, twisted plans and misaligned blueprints is on the brink of collapse. A house of sand built on weak stilts cannot stand very long. A wall built without foundations is nothing more than a pile of bricks; strong winds will cause the wall to collapse like a house of cards.’
The voice bellowed throughout the hall; the silence among the listeners was total, the anxiety thick and palatable. The speaker continued.
“The illegitimate child of secularism that raised the hand of rebellion against G-d is about to be put to rest, slowly murdered at the hands of its own creators.
“The coffin of secular Zionism is a coffin built of laws to desecrate the Sabbath and to allow the free importation of swine.
“A coffin built upon the wholesale murder of the unborn, trampling of the faithful, contaminating of kashrut.
“A coffin built with irresponsible speeches by the Oslo Criminals; evil treaties negotiated with the enemy; pilots questioning the legitimacy of self-defense and refusing to set out on missions to prevent, to protect, to deter.
“A coffin built by Knesset members rushing to physically protect the arch-murderer Arafat from Israeli reprisals and by speeches of self-righteous Jew-by-error traitors: ‘We are occupiers! Theirs is a legitimate gripe! We, the Jews, are the killers and this land is their land. Give back, return, evacuate.”
“A coffin built on defiance of G-d, embrace of falsehood, betrayal of Jewish morals and truth.
“No, my friends, a house built over a hollow abyss cannot survive for long.”
There was a stirring; here and there a wailing voice tore through the silence. People grew nervous, uncomfortable. There was much whispering. A child, restless, began to cry, his mother’s comforting hand stroking his hair.
The young man couldn’t listen any longer. He struggled and pushed and cajoled his way out. He began to run. ‘Faster,’ he urged himself. Panting, sweating, exhausted, he ran and ran.
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and stared. He had reached his disintegrating but still standing house. There, on the porch, wrapped in his talit, stood the old man. How was that possible? The young man walked over and slowly made his way up the rickety stairs. The old man took his hand and softly whispered:
“And If You Shall Not Pay Heed To These Words…This House Shall Be Destroyed.” (Jeremiah 22:6)
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