A Spy in Exile

ISRAEL MUSEUM, JERUSALEM, APRIL 2015

Several dozen people were gathered in the foyer of the Israeli Art wing. It was seven fifty in the evening. The museum had already closed its doors to the public. Most of the place was in darkness, with the lights on in that particular wing only. To the select group of visitors, the works of art appeared to be glowing in a light emanating from within themselves. From afar, the broad strokes of turquoise in the huge Zaritsky painting seemed to be moving. On display at the entrance to the hall was Yitzhak Danziger’s sculpture, Nimrod, his hand behind his back, gripping the hunting slingshot, and sitting on his shoulder—as if it were a natural continuation of his strong, slender body—a falcon. Despite its modest dimensions, all who laid eyes on the piece could clearly see why it in particular had become the shining example of Israeli sculpture, had turned from sculpture into icon. Standing opposite Nimrod was a tall object covered with a length of white cloth, with two museum guards in position on either side, and the group of visitors milling around it. In attendance, too, were three television crews and several journalists, along with representatives of the museum’s board of trustees who had been invited by the institution’s director, who had refused to tell them anything, and who were willing nevertheless to brave a surprisingly rainy and stormy Jerusalem evening. A small table nearby displayed an array of tall wine glasses, already filled. Accompanied by three of his people, the museum director, who had a fondness for dramatic occasions, hurried to join the group of men and women standing between Nimrod and the cloth-covered object.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in English to his audience, “thank you for responding so kindly to our urgent invitation, which wasn’t, I admit, without an air of mystery. I appreciate the courage you have mustered to leave your homes on this rain-drenched Jerusalem evening. But I don’t want to take up too much of your time with words. Allow me to present to you the new delightful treasure that joined the museum collection just today.”

He motioned with his hand toward the covered object. The two guards removed the length of cloth, and right there and then, before the astonished eyes of the guests, the sculpture Absalom was revealed. The white marble piece stood on a block of light Jerusalem stone, meticulously carved, towering in all its height and rare beauty above the small crowd of people.

“Distinguished guests,” the director continued, clearly enjoying the effect the piece was having on those seeing it for the first time, “this sculpture is the work of renowned artist Yosef Raphael. He never spoke about it during his lifetime, and we, with the exception of one enigmatic remark, were unaware of its existence, although there were those who had searched for it. Raphael did in fact mention it in a single sentence in the diary he kept during his years in England, but because it received just that one mention, and due to the fact that no records were found of any preparatory notes or other documentation relating to the piece, scholars of Raphael’s work assumed that if the sculpture was indeed made, it was lost somewhere in England after World War II, more than sixty years ago. And lo and behold, it turns out that this spectacular work, of which one can already clearly say that it represents one of the high points of Israeli sculpture, does indeed exist, and in perfect shape, too. What we have here is the missing link in Israeli sculpture, offering a thought-provoking interpretation—a wonderful interpretation, if I may—of one of the tragic heroes of the Bible.”

The television cameras focused on Absalom. So full of life was his marble body that one could almost hear the blood pumping through his veins, flowing furiously through the cold stone, while his face expressed arrogance and impatient defiance, along with the acknowledgment of his inevitable fate.

“The statue of Absalom was a gift from Yosef Raphael to Sir Alfred and Lady Sarah Strong, his close friends who gave him the use of a studio on their country estate in the area of Oxford. Sir Alfred passed away many years ago, and Lady Sarah Strong, already in her nineties, approached us a few weeks ago and requested to donate the sculpture to the Israel Museum, so that the people of Israel and visitors to the museum will be able to enjoy it from now on and forever.”

The museum director sipped from a glass of water handed to him by his assistant.

“Lady Sarah Strong insisted on completing the process of moving the sculpture to Jerusalem as quickly as possible. Although she wasn’t able to come here herself, she wanted to know that Absalom had found his new home during her lifetime. We wish her, from here in Jerusalem, many more good years to come, and we thank her for her generosity from the bottom of our hearts.”

The director reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve two pieces of paper.

“I want to read to you from a letter sent by Lady Sarah Strong and delivered to our chief curator of Israeli art. This is what she wrote: ‘I was visited at my home a few days ago by a young Israeli filmmaker who was conducting research about the sculptor Yosef Raphael, a close friend of my dear husband and myself many decades ago. Her presence in my home reminded me of a wild and beautiful storm, and she left a bold impression on me. It’s rare for a young woman to be able to touch the soul of an old woman like me in such a manner. Her connection to Israel awakened a long-dormant chord inside me, causing me to regret all the years during which I viewed Israel only from afar. I’m too old to travel now. I’m happy where I am. But I wish to return the thing most precious to my heart to the place in which it truly belongs. I have spent many years enjoying life alongside great works of art. And now I’d like to share that privilege with others.’ Distinguished guests, you won’t have to listen to me for much longer. I’m sure you’re all wondering about the young Israeli filmmaker who reminded the honorable lady of a beautiful storm, but I’m afraid we were unable to locate her. Maybe it’s a mystery for you to solve,” the director said, gesturing toward the journalists, who shrugged their shoulders. “Apparently there are still some things in this world of ours that are destined to remain hidden from our eyes. Let me thank you again for your spontaneous participation in this small but significant celebration, and I invite you all to raise a toast to the esteemed artist, Yosef Raphael, may his memory be blessed, to Lady Sarah Strong, who has enriched us with her generosity, and may she be blessed with many more good years to come, and to the mysterious filmmaker, the beautiful storm who unknowingly caused this masterpiece to end up here.”

• • •

Ya’ara and Michael were standing a little to the side, outside the crowded circle of people who had erupted in applause, which then turned into lively conversation. Ya’ara gazed at Nimrod, and at the look of disdain he was aiming at the impulsive and beautiful prince who was now standing in front of him.

“I hope things turn out well,” she said quietly to Michael. “I can’t see them getting along with each other.”

“That’s what it’s all about. Two sons of royalty, and now there’s this magnetic field of beauty and competition and stormy emotions between them.”

“Are you talking about Danziger and Raphael or about Nimrod and Absalom?”

“I’m talking about us.”

“Stop it, Michael. You say foolish things and manage to embarrass me.”

“There isn’t a person in this world who could embarrass you.”

“I embarrass myself all the time.”

“I don’t believe you. You found the document, right?”

Ya’ara didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I found it.”

“And what did you do with it?”

“Exactly what needed to be done. I returned it to its rightful owners. We don’t need things like that.”

“Do you know what it contained?”

“Yes.”

“And you took it upon yourself to decide that the Mossad, the State of Israel, has no need for it?”

“Yes, it isn’t ours and never was ours.”

Michael sighed, Ya’ara’s sense of justice had a tendency to rear its head at the strangest times. In fact, he thought, Ya’ara was no less arrogant than the two statues standing before them, and he could clearly picture any artist who tried to cast her image in bronze or sculpt her in marble. Any such statue would fail. She was beyond the reach of artists. In any event, she must have realized that he was trying to get the Mossad to pardon her, and she had nothing but deep-seated scorn for that forgiveness, for the thought that she needed to be forgiven for something. Sometimes I wish I could be a little like her, he thought, and sometimes I thank God that I’m so not. He knew there was no point in pressing the issue. He knew, too, that he would always think about her and him. About her. Ya’ara.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Before anyone realizes that the storm is right here.”

They reached the exit door, the echo of their footsteps seemingly in pursuit.

“Ready?”

Instead of answering, Ya’ara zipped up her coat and hooked her arm around Michael’s, smiling at him, as unattainable as ever.