A Spy in Exile

LONDON, DECEMBER 1947

Yosef Raphael left his studio. He was wearing a thick sweater, and over it a long woolen coat, which he quickly buttoned up to ward off the biting and unexpected cold. His studio was equipped with a good coal heater, and he hadn’t felt the chill that was lurking outdoors. His hair sparkled with marble dust, and he ran his hand over his head in a well-practiced motion, brushing it out. A shower of shimmering stone particles rained down around him, and for a brief moment he appeared to have a halo of light as he made his way along the sidewalk. He was a very handsome man, and knew it, too, comfortably accepting the perks and privileges that came his way as a result. It hadn’t always been the case. He wasn’t particularly aware of his good looks when he was younger, and he was certainly oblivious to the effect they had on other people, women and men alike.

As a young man at Slade, the renowned school of fine art, he couldn’t understand the fuss he created, and besides, he wanted others to take an interest in him because of his sculptures, his ideas, and not his looks. Over the years, however, he became accustomed to the effect he created, which stemmed presumably from a combination of everything—his outlandish and immensely powerful works of art, his abundant charisma, his intellectual depth, and his resolute face, its features the epitome of masculine beauty. His studio had once served as a small foundry and he loved its concrete floor, the steel beams that supported the ceiling, the open expanse, and the light that shone through the high windows. The surrounding area had grown since into a bustling neighborhood, complete with a mixture of small businesses and apartment buildings—a colorful and disadvantaged neighborhood in the heart of a gray city that was still licking its wounds from a war that had left it scarred and in ruins. A train passed over the street on a bridge leading to the west. Steam rose from vents in the sidewalk, evidence of the vast and winding world of the underground rail network, of the deep and narrow tunnels, of the escalators descending into dim-lit caverns, the masses of people bunched together, moving like a single entity along the narrow platforms, waiting for the gust of air and then the lights that heralded an approaching train. There’s an entire world living down there, Raphael thought, an almost ghostly world. The cold was turning his breath into vapor. It was two in the afternoon, but the light was pale. It would be evening soon, Christmas was approaching, but it wouldn’t be one of joy and festivities this year; victory, too, exacts a heavy price, he thought, not just defeat.

Elhanan was already waiting for him at the pub adjacent to Camden Town Station, a large glass of Guinness on the table in front of him.

“I can’t seem to stomach that stuff,” Raphael said as he approached the table.

“It’s instead of food, and allows me to skip lunch.”

“Oh, well, the things we must do for the state in the making.”

“How’s the sculpturing coming along? Making progress?” Elhanan asked in an effort to show interest.

“I’m doing something different now,” Raphael said, hanging his coat over the back of the chair next to him. “I’m working with white marble, and through it I’m trying to capture the traditions of Greek sculpture, classical sculpture. You see, I am indeed going back to the roots, albeit not the roots as you imagine them. It’ll work well for the figure of Absalom as I picture him. The image of the rebel. Spectacular beauty, a youthful and muscular physique. No, the fundamentals of the Canaanites won’t work this time. It’s most definitely not going to be a Canaanite sculpture. My Absalom will be something different. Beautiful and menacing.”

Elhanan’s thoughts began to wander. “I suppose the state’s going to need artists, too,” he said, consoling himself, “not only fighters, construction engineers, and farmers. I’d like to come to your studio one day, to see what you’re doing.”

“Whenever you like.” Raphael reached under his sweater to retrieve a large brown envelope. “Here, she gave this to me yesterday. She said she’s doing what she’s doing primarily to exact revenge on her neglectful husband. And less so for us. She doesn’t particularly like Jews, she made a point of saying.”

“Doesn’t like Jews, yet spends the night with you when her husband is away at their country estate. Does she not know you’re a Jew?”

“Of course she knows. Only she says I don’t look like one. And besides, it’s further retribution against her husband, he’s a big anti-Semite.”

She screws her husband by having a Jew screw her, Elhanan thought, reflecting on the warped nature of the human psyche but keeping the workings of his mind to himself. He had no intention of sharing his notions with Raphael. He’s probably too delicate for such vulgarity. He’s an artist, after all. But thanks to him, they have access to the British Foreign Office’s most confidential documents, and that’s the main thing. It’s vital that they know what those bastards are planning, when and how they plan to withdraw from the Land of Israel, which forces will pull out and when, what they intend to leave behind for the Arabs, what they plan to do with their substantial weapons depots. Bringing Raphael back to London was a smart move, Elhanan thought. He has the perfect cover, he’s well connected, and he thinks right.

“Elhanan” was second in command to “Yanai,” who had set up and headed the European division of SHAI, the Haganah’s intelligence and counterespionage service. Ben-Gurion himself had given the order: We need to establish an intelligence infrastructure throughout the world that in due course will become part of the intelligence service of the State of Israel, after the state is established. “You must gather information,” the old man said in his booming voice during the secret meeting at SHAI headquarters. “You have to acquire arms and get them to Israel, you need to construct a network of discreet connections for the sake of the Zionist cause!” Ben-Gurion slammed his hand down on the table. “War has many faces,” he continued, his large head tilted forward, “and you will dig your trenches in the Arab states, in the soil of Europe, and in India and China, too, if necessary!” India and China, yeah, right, thought Elhanan, who was sitting behind Isser Harel, ready to carry out any order his commander might choose to whisper in his ear. India and China. There Ben-Gurion goes again, getting all carried away. “I’ll be expecting your first reports within three months,” he said, before collecting his papers and exiting the room in haste, his aide, a young Shimon Peres, following quickly in his wake.

Ben-Gurion didn’t simply bark out orders, he had every intention of seeing them carried out, too. And indeed, within less than a month, he, Yanai, and three additional SHAI agents boarded a boat from Haifa to Brindisi, from where they went on to Paris by train. He knew that a small group from the intelligence service’s Arab division was making its way at the same time to Beirut, via Europe, but he wasn’t up to speed with all the details. Compartmentalization was a principle they adhered to very strictly. And now he was here with Raphael, just one soldier in an increasingly broad network throughout Europe.

Night had fallen by the time Raphael returned to his studio. A strong odor of smoke blended with the icy dampness that encapsulated his meager possessions, like an invisible cloak. After making sure that the bolt on the iron door was firmly in place, he walked over to a large block of wood standing in the corner of the room. He picked up a long, thin nail and inserted it into a small hole in the wood. The block split into two, revealing a hidden cache. Raphael reached into the inside pocket of his coat to retrieve the thick package wrapped in paper that Elhanan had given him. It contained fifteen hundred pounds sterling, a huge sum. His job was to deliver the package at the beginning of the following week to an Irish contact in Liverpool, as part of a deal to purchase submachine guns and ammunition that Elhanan had orchestrated from afar. He was looking forward to the trip. He was hoping to meet in nearby Leeds with Henry Moore, who was already at the height of his powers and fame as a sculptor, and had even staged a large retrospective exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York the year before. Knowing he’d have to make a trip to northern England in the days to come, Raphael had already sent a letter to Moore in which he mentioned a talk given by the renowned artist that he had attended as a student at Slade. The lecture had left Raphael profoundly shaken, and he still remembered it well, some fifteen years later. The manner in which Moore had described his perception of space, the way in which he had spoken about getting a true sense of the material his hands were shaping, had touched his heart.

Raphael walked over to the shrouded object in the middle of the studio. He removed its protective cloth covering and looked at the figure of the young man that had started to emerge from the stone. The figure was his height, five foot ten, and was slowly taking shape from within a spectacular block of white marble. Yosef Raphael was as familiar with the piece of stone as he was with his own body, and the near-complete sculpture was more precious to him than anything he had ever done before. He knew that elsewhere he would never have had the substantial amount of time he needed to shape the sculpture he had dreamed of. Certainly not in the Land of Israel, where his current work might have been condemned as anachronistic. Out of context in terms of place and time. But he was like a man in love. The stone, his marble, boasted semitranslucent particles that shimmered in the light. It was perfect. The torso he had already sculpted was long, thin, and muscular. The unmistakable body of a young man, but with something delicate and heartwarming about his posture. His face, too, was a thing of divine beauty, almost feminine, apart from the large and straight nose, which added a sense of determination and decisiveness to his features. Long curls adorned his face and fell to his shoulders, their softness clearly evident in the white marble. His feet were bare, the muscles in his right calf flexed and prominent. A combination of impending movement and the self-confidence of a body at ease. Was the young man’s ultimate fate evident in the sculpture? His terrible end? Yosef Raphael wasn’t sure. He looked at the serene beauty of the sculpted young man. He knew that everything was already there, in the marble. Absalom, Absalom.