A Spy in Exile

BERLIN, MARCH 2015

She was surprised to see that Michael had written to her. He didn’t do so very often at all. Almost never. But that was definitely his email address that appeared in her inbox with a message bearing the title: “A letter to Ya’ara.” He wrote:

I was driving yesterday along the road up to Jerusalem. The sky was covered with clouds, but golden rays of sunshine were piercing through them, like spotlights in a giant theater. Tu BiShvat is just around the corner and the mountains were indeed filled with almond trees. Beautiful almond trees in full bloom. And every year I’m amazed anew by just how beautiful and perfect those blossoms are. I swear to you, Ya’ara, it’s the most beautiful landscape I know. The terraces all around were green, a kind of light green, almost phosphorescent. And furrowed fields of wild mustard plants. And standing in this sea of colors were large gray boulders, which were here before us and will still be here long after we have gone, wet from droplets of rain or dew, the films of water glistening far into the distance, like patches of ice. The road was open and the air turned misty all of a sudden, but I could still see the view, because a soft light was dripping through. And growing, too, along the side of the road were bushes in bloom, with dark yellow flowers, a deep and beautiful yellow, like honey. Like your hair. I don’t know what they’re called, maybe I’ll check it out, or maybe I’ll leave them nameless. And those almond blossoms again, pink and red, more and more of them, growing on the very edge of an abyss. And pink cyclamens among the rocks. If I were a romantic man, I’d write: Bouquets of cyclamens, and every single one for you, Ya’ara. Instead, I’ll say that I’m thinking of you over there in that cold, bleak winter, and think you should come home.