• • •
Sarah Strong answered the phone in the voice of a young woman, albeit a stern one. She was courteous and pleasant, and became genuinely curious when Ya’ara mentioned the name of Yosef Raphael.
“Oh, that extraordinary man,” she said. “He was truly a wonderful sculptor. Very unique. I understand he died many years ago. Did you say you wanted to make a film about him? If so, I have something interesting to show you.” Ya’ara said she was in the initial stage of collecting material. As usual, she managed to lull her conversation partner into a relaxed sense of security, and Sarah Strong didn’t come across as suspicious in any way at all. It might have been her loneliness talking when she invited Ya’ara to visit without delay, or maybe her memories. Ya’ara said she’d be coming with a good friend. They had already been to Leeds, she explained, to the birthplace of Henry Moore, who had befriended Raphael. If it suited her to have them, they’d be happy to come to the Torridon Hills to visit her, in her small village, on the shores of the frozen lake.
“Just dress well, my dear,” Sarah Strong said. “It’s as cold here as in Birnam Wood in midwinter. I only hope the trees don’t come marching against you.”
67
SCOTLAND, TORRIDON HILLS, FEBRUARY 2015
Ya’ara was stunned by the beauty of the old woman, Sarah Strong. She was thin and stood erect, her brown eyes clear and deep, her gray hair thick and sleek. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress, in a shade of Prussian blue, and even Ya’ara, who had no particular interest in the subject, could recognize the quality of the fabric and stitching. Pinned close to the edge of the dress’s modest bustline was a magnificent brooch inlaid with a large blue stone, a sapphire probably, shining bright in the middle of an entanglement of white gold filaments studded with tiny diamonds.
“Thank you, Annie,” Sarah said to the woman who had greeted them at the front door before leading them to a sitting room overlooking the lake and the high mountains beyond, their peaks hidden by low clouds.
“I’m no longer a young woman,” she explained. “Annie’s from around here, and she’s been living with me in recent years.” Annie must be about seventy, Ya’ara guessed, her imagination already weaving a story about how Annie had moved in to take care of Sarah, after she, Annie, had lost her husband. Her three adult children had long since moved to one of Scotland’s main cities, Glasgow or Edinburgh, and her position with Lady Sarah Strong provided her with a small income, something to do, and, primarily, an escape from the loneliness that had made each year increasingly difficult, particularly during the bleak winter days that appeared to go on forever.
“I’m Ya’ara Stein,” she said, introducing herself and reaching out to offer Sarah her hand, which was met with a surprisingly firm and stable handshake. “Thank you for your invitation. This is Michael Turgeman, a good friend of mine.” Michael bowed his head, maintaining his distance and silence.
“Sit, sit, please. How was the journey?”
“Truly breathtaking,” Ya’ara said. “I was so struck by the beauty of the mountains. Due to the narrow roads, we drove very slowly, and I just wanted the drive to go on forever.” Sarah smiled at her and Ya’ara continued with a degree of enthusiasm that left even Michael surprised. “The world outside is almost white and black, like in a Japanese ink sketch, but here, you, and your house, everything is bountiful and saturated with colors.”
Ya’ara felt as though she had stepped into a wonderland kingdom and was standing before the palace guard. She couldn’t help but admire everything she saw, the Prussian blue of Sarah Strong’s dress, the thick rugs in deep shades of brown and red, the fire ablaze in the fireplace, the green fabric wallpaper that covered the room’s walls, a bouquet of roses in the large vase in the corner of the room, handcrafted silk roses, she assumed, the glimmer of the glass and silverware that Annie brought in on a tray, the smell of strong tea brewing in the pot. She felt as if she had come home, even though the place she was in was a very far cry from the house in which she was raised.
“If you allow me the same candor,” Lady Sarah said, her eyes sparkling mischievously, “you’ve come bearing a whirlwind of youth, which we probably need around here a great deal. You’ve come a long way. I hope you won’t think you’ve driven all this way for nothing. We’ll have some tea first. And then I want you to see something.”
Ya’ara poured tea for the three of them from the silver pot, adding sugar to Sarah’s cup, and some milk, too. “I understand from the research I’ve done that there was a connection between you, the two of you, and Yosef Raphael, that you and your husband supported him while he worked here, in England, I mean.”
“Yosef was an artist of great talent. He was also a very charismatic and handsome man. But I think my husband was drawn to his good looks more so than me. Henry, Henry Moore, was the one who suggested that we meet the young artist from Palestine. And because Alfred had been a collector of Henry Moore’s work from the very beginning, he gladly agreed to do so. Yosef was a guest at our home in Oxfordshire, and Alfred didn’t leave him alone for a second, as if he were his younger brother. He offered him the use of the estate’s hunting cabin, suggested that he turn it into a studio and work there whenever he wanted to get out of London and enjoy the quiet of the countryside. You’re aware I’m sure that Yosef worked slowly; the hours he spent thinking most definitely exceeded the hours he spent holding a chisel and sculpting. That’s why he has so few pieces, from those years at least. But he had a unique fingerprint, which is something that all artists seek. His sculptures were original, defiant, very different to the kind of things other artists were doing around the same time. He had a free spirit. Being so far from his homeland may just have been the very thing that allowed him to create sculptures that in my eyes were an inseparable part of his country, of the way in which I pictured the Land of Israel. I always thought they embodied some kind of deep, primeval link to ancient times.”
“When did you see him for the last time?”
“In the mid-1950s, I no longer recall if it was ’54 or ’55. Yosef had decided to return to Israel. He spent some time with us at our estate two or three weeks before he left. He sorted out and packed up the contents of his studio in the hunting cabin, put all his sketches and notes in a large bag, and mostly just wandered around the estate’s extensive grounds with Alfred for hours on end. I remember sitting together with him in the evening on the home’s large balcony. The weather was warm, and when the sun went down, long purple shadows stretched over us. We didn’t talk much, but there was a warm and familiar sense of kinship between us. Yosef looked particularly handsome to me that evening, and his features, which were always bold and resolute, appeared more so than ever. I remember thinking to myself that he was no longer with us. In spirit, he was already across the sea, in his new country. His old new country.”
“You’re Jewish. Have you ever been to Israel?”
“No, I’ve never been to your country. But I don’t travel much anyway. Certainly not now, but even when I was younger, I rarely traveled to other countries. Alfred and I were so different. He traveled around the world. He’d turn up anywhere and everywhere he could find an archaeological dig. Especially in the ancient Near East. That was his passion. That’s what took him to Israel, too. At least twice, three times perhaps. I’m not sure. He participated in the digs carried out by General Sukenik—General Yadin was his name, actually. He used to return from his visits filled with wonderment.”
“Did he meet up with Yosef in Israel?”
“No. I don’t think so. He disappeared from our lives somehow, but not entirely, as you’ll see. The day after our last evening together, he asked us to join him in his studio. In the middle of the studio was a sculpture covered with cloth. When he removed the cover, it appeared as if the sun was shining from within the exposed statue. It was a white marble sculpture, very unlike his other pieces. I wasn’t even aware that he’d ever worked in marble. It was the figure of a warrior prince, with a c
hiseled face and long, beautiful curls. ‘This is Absalom,’ he said. ‘I want him to be yours, Alfred’s and yours, Sarah.’ I remember my surprise and how moved I was by the sculpture, which despite its classical lines conveyed something remarkably contemporary, too. And not some kind of ornate and embellished neoclassicism that I absolutely can’t stand. His work on it started at his studio in London, and he had it brought to the studio on the estate so that he could complete the piece. On the rare occasions we visited him there, he used to cover it with a cloth, so we didn’t even know of its existence until then. He must have wanted us to see Absalom only once it was complete. And it really is one of the most beautiful sculptures I’ve ever seen. Come, come,” she said to Ya’ara and Michael, “I want you to see for yourselves.”
Sarah led them toward a small patio, protected by a glass ceiling, a climbing plant thickly entangled around its walls. The climber was bare of leaves in the winter, with only its branches and sprigs pressed close to the walls like an ever-expanding network of arteries and capillaries. Standing in the center of the patio was a gleaming-white marble statue, a daring and arrogant warrior figure, brave and reckless, his lean body muscular and graceful, his eyes gazing straight ahead with self-confidence, his lips parted with the hint of a dismissive smile, entirely aware of his enslaving beauty, the youthful energy emanating from his person, his long, curly hair caressing his shoulders and back, his muscles in a relaxed state of readiness, his body tilted slightly in motion, completely indifferent to the destruction that awaited him, unaware of the tragic outcome that lay just ahead. Sarah was right, there was something entirely contemporary about the piece, despite the fact that it also embodied gestures to the classical Greek form of sculpture. It stood almost two meters tall, conveying both a captivating sense of lightness and the knowledge of the heavy crash to come.
“It’s spectacular,” Ya’ara said in a whisper. “Gloriously beautiful,” she continued in Hebrew to Michael. “Truly so.” Sarah observed the amazed faces of her guests with a sense of satisfaction and pride. Few people had seen Absalom, but those who had had been exposed to an experience, a spiritual experience you could call it, that stemmed from his breathtaking beauty and the certain tragedy accompanying the splendor of his youth.
“I see him as a relative, distant, but a relative nevertheless, of Michelangelo’s David,” Sarah said. “Absalom, after all, was David’s son. Picture the figure of David at the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence. And as an adult now, no longer the youth who defeated Goliath, but a king, a man at the height of his power. And now he’s grown older. Become corrupt and weary. And his young son is rebelling against him. More than four hundred years and one thousand miles apart, here stands a creation that I view as a true product of David’s loins. And yet, it is totally original.” Her eyes gazed at the sculpture with a mixture of profound familiarity and rediscovery.
In that very instant, the years appeared to drop off Sarah. As if Yosef Raphael was lifting the cloth draped over Absalom right before her eyes. As if her husband were standing beside her, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder, the internal light of the marble sculpture casting a dazzling glow over all of them. “I know, it’s a crime that I’m the only one who gets to look at it. It’s an old woman’s privilege. After I die, I’ll leave it to be enjoyed by the public at large.”
Ya’ara looked at her. “I’d love to talk to you some more about Raphael,” she said to Sarah, “and if you allow me, I’d like to make notes, too.”
“We can speak now before dinner, and afterward, too,” Sarah said. “You’ll sleep in the guest room, and we can talk tomorrow as well. And of course you’re welcome to stay too, Michael.”
The exchange of looks between himself and Ya’ara was enough to tell him that she wanted to stay there with Sarah alone, to tackle the question of the missing document in an atmosphere of mutual trust. Something like that can’t be done in a trio. When delving into an area of secrets and crimes, it’s best to do so one on one. It’s not a whorehouse. It’s true intimacy. “Thank you for your generosity,” he said to Sarah. “But I’ve booked a room at a hotel on the other side of the lake. I’ll be happy to rest a little after the long drive. I can come back tomorrow to get Ya’ara.”
• • •
“I’m aware that we’ve yet to get to know each other, but you look a little sad, my dear,” Sarah said to her as they settled down in front of the fireplace after dinner. Annie added more logs to the burning fire and said she was going to her room, to sleep.
“Just thoughtful mostly,” Ya’ara replied. “I’m not sure where my life is going, if anywhere at all.”
“You make films. Do you not see a future for yourself in the field, in cinema?”
“I don’t know. I make films about life and get the sense that I’m not living life myself. And I’m always on the move. I spend most of my time in Germany, but it’s not my home. I don’t know where home is. How can a person not know where his home is?”
Sarah placed her slender hand, its skin like parchment, on Ya’ara’s hand and caressed it gently. “I’ve always believed that home is the place you always want to go back to. Is there a place like that for you, a place you want to return to?”
“I want to go back to the house in which I grew up. But it’s gone now. My mother died a long time ago. Along with the apartment I’m renting in Berlin, I also rent a room in an apartment in Tel Aviv. But if you were to pack up all of my belongings—and everything I have fits into two suitcases and a backpack—and move them to a different apartment, I wouldn’t even notice.”
“And what about this young man, Michael? He seems like a very decent fellow and is clearly in love with you.”
“I wouldn’t call Michael a young man.” Ya’ara laughed. “He’s fifty already.”
“To me, he’s a young man, and you’re just a little girl. Never mind. But are you a couple?”
“He wants to look after me. He’s always taking care of me. Trying to save me from myself. But no, there isn’t anything between us. And I’m not so sure he’s in love with me. He just gets confused sometimes and thinks he is.”
“You’re a heartbreaker and you aren’t even aware of it. Surely you must know that there are men out there who’d be willing to kill for you.”
“I’m not heartless. And yes, sometimes I think there’s someone in Germany whom I’d like to be with. But it seems so impossible. I may just be fooling myself. Perhaps I’m meant to be alone. I know how to do it. To live like that.”
“I’ve been alone since Alfred died. And that was thirty-nine years ago.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No. We had a little girl, but she died when she was still a baby. Joanna. And then I went through two miscarriages, and gave up afterward. I couldn’t face more heartbreak. But life was good, too. Alfred was an extraordinary partner. Life with him was interesting and enriching. He gave me a sense of security that stemmed from the knowledge that I was loved. And for almost forty years now, I’ve been walking around with that void he left in my life. Sometimes I get the sense that I even manage to make friends with that hole he left behind. I left the estate near Oxford. It got too big, and I felt I was wandering around there like a ghost. I wanted somewhere small and beautiful and remote. And I found that here. Don’t you think?”
Ya’ara looked around. “Yes, I think you’ve come to a perfect spot. I hope there’s a place like this waiting for me, too.”
“I’m sure you’ll find it in the end. But the road there may be a long one, and somehow I don’t believe you choose particularly easy roads for yourself.” They talked some more, drinking cup after cup of strong black tea. “It’s known as builder’s tea,” Lady Sarah said to her with a smile. “We’re like two construction workers,” she added.
“I don’t need much sleep at my age, my lovely girl,” Sarah said as the flames in the fireplace died down, “but you’re still young and need yours.” She accompanied Ya’ara to the small gu
est room. A large, soft towel was lying on the bed, courtesy of Annie before she retired for the night, and Sarah placed a round bar of lavender-scented soap, wrapped in tissue paper, on top of it. “They’re made here in the village,” she said. “Here you go, you can add another touch to the marvelous bouquet of scents that envelops you. You have no idea how wonderful you are. Come closer for a moment, darling.” Ya’ara clasped Sarah’s two hands in hers, and Sarah kissed her on the forehead. “There, there, no need for that,” Sarah said to her softly, wiping silent tears from Ya’ara’s cheeks. “Good night. Cover up well.”
• • •
“Were you in love with him?” Ya’ara asked when they sat down together for breakfast, faint rays of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, breaking against the beautiful copper utensils hanging over the sink.
“With Yosef? Not at all. Yes, he was foreign and mysterious. But there was an air of arrogance about him that put me off, and I only wanted Alfred anyway. And after my Joanna died there was no room in my heart for anyone else.”
“I want to tell you something,” Ya’ara said, and moved her head a little closer to Sarah’s. “This may come as a surprise to you, but my research into Raphael also took me to the archives of the Haganah, one of the Jewish underground movements in Palestine during the British Mandate period. In fact, it was the largest and most important underground movement in operation back then among the Jewish community.” Sarah nodded her head like someone who knew. “I ended up at the archives thanks to a lead I received from an elderly man who didn’t want to go into any details but referred me to the documents. He must have assumed that if they allowed me to see them, then the particulars they contain were no longer classified.” Sarah remained silent.
Ya’ara continued. “I didn’t know what I was looking for in the Haganah archives. Raphael, after all, was abroad during the decisive years of the struggle. But according to a long-serving archivist I spoke with there, a man who had spent his entire life reading and rummaging through old documents, ‘The man wasn’t merely a great artist, he also played his part in the struggle.’ ” Sarah raised her eyebrows in an expression of surprise, but Ya’ara spotted the spark of amusement in her eyes.
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