English during her years in Canada. She was always studying something. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m trying to find out about one particular painting. My source says that a Raphael painting, a portrait of a young man, used to be there.”
“Ah, one of the big three. Everyone knew there were three important paintings at the Czartoryski. The most famous one is Lady with an Ermine, by Leonardo da Vinci. They came from everywhere to see that. And a so-so Rembrandt landscape. Those two were recovered after the war. Not the Raphael.”
“What happened to it?”
“Oh, that is the big question. First you have to know that the Germans were fond of art. They saw it as their rightful booty in war. Wherever they went they stole the best pieces. So when they invaded Poland, Hans Frank — he was the Nazi governor of Poland — confiscated those three famous paintings and hung them in his apartment in the castle. You know about the castle in Krakow? Wawel?” She pronounced it Vavel.
“Uh... no.”
“Doesn’t matter. When the Nazis realized they had lost the war, they ran with whatever they could carry that was valuable. I heard Frank grabbed those three paintings when he fled to Bavaria at the end of the war. When the Americans caught him he had the da Vinci and the Rembrandt with him. But not the Raphael.”
“And it was never found?”
“You have to keep in mind the chaos at the end of the war. Everybody was on the move. The people who were lucky enough to survive roamed around in shock. Suddenly their Nazi captors had fled. As for the Germans, if they knew where to look and they kept their heads, they could pick up stolen pieces their comrades had left behind. There were many, many stolen pieces.” A slight pause. “What’s your interest in this, dear?”
“It’s a long, involved story. Maybe I’ll be able to unravel it by the time you come over on Passover.”
Rebecca slowly climbed the stairs from the basement. She was not only exhausted, but bewildered. Could Vogel actually have in his possession the genuine Raphael? And if so, what about the other pieces in Feldberg’s catalogue? She couldn’t think anymore.
Leaving only a night-light on in the kitchen, she crept into the den where Nesha still slept on the sectional sofa. He had barely moved, his breathing rhythmic. She lay down on the adjoining L of the sofa. David’s watercolour of her reclining by the river hung mutely above her like a remnant of another life. A street lamp sent a blue shaft of light through the window onto the floor. The triangle of light floated toward the ceiling and grew into a blinding horizon that loomed before her. The sun glanced off the river into her eyes. She squinted as she jogged along the shore. When she got closer, the line of the horizon wiggled and took on a familiar shape. It settled into the outline of David painting at an easel. David. She could feel the fuzzy flannel of his shirt, the orange hair between her fingers though he was fifty feet distant, his back turned to her. She also knew, without seeing the canvas, that he was painting a self-portrait. Which struck her as odd, since he’d never expressed any interest in doing one. She quickened her pace, prodded by the urgency of reaching him before he disappeared. She called out to him but he was intent on his work and didn’t turn. He must be alive, she thought, or he wouldn’t be so casual about seeing her again. The whole thing in the hospital was a nightmare and he’s alive. Her chest expanded with such relief — when she reached him she flung her arms around him, weeping in her throat. He lost no time directing her to the painting on the easel. She tore herself away to stare into the dark melancholy eyes of Nesha reproduced on the canvas, the deft brush strokes rendering his sculpted mouth open in an expression of surprise.
“Rebecca...”
Her eyes shot open. Nesha crouched before her, one knee resting on the floor. The light from the kitchen slanted off his face. “You were calling out,” he said shyly.
“I’m sorry.” She sat up, embarrassed, tears still in her throat. “I was dreaming about my husband.”
He was still crouching. “Then I’m sorry,” he said.
Now that she was sitting, he had to look up at her. He observed her openly without speaking. To her surprise she wasn’t self-conscious; rather, she felt comfortable with him.
“You’re not as strong as you make out,” he said.
“Are you?”
He reflected for a minute, then stood up. “I am when I swim.”
This was something new, she thought.
“When I feel really bad, I find the nearest pool and swim and swim till I can’t breathe anymore. I feel strong in the water; it keeps me afloat.” His hands were curled into loose fists. “But in the end it doesn’t matter. When your heart is dead, you can be strong. Mine’s just a lump in my chest. You can do almost anything if you don’t have to feel.”
She stood up beside him. There was no expression in his eyes as she brought the fingers of one hand together and pressed them flat against his chest. She tilted her head, played at listening to the ailing heart but the warmth of his body beneath her hand distracted her, the gentle breathing.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” she said at last, feeling his eyes upon her. “But as a doctor, I can say with confidence that your heart is alive and well — and lodged firmly in your chest.”
He seemed to be looking at her from beyond some gulf of distance or time. His gaze made her feel awkward and she began to pull her arm away. He caught her gently and clasped her hand to his chest with his own. She stopped breathing. His hand warmed hers against the delicate movement of his breast.
“It’s been a long time since I let someone get this close,” he whispered.
That seemed remarkable to her since her arm was almost fully extended. She stepped forward, insouciant. “How close?”
The line of his mouth relaxed, his eyes softened with bemused surprise as he watched her face, ten inches away. “Doctor —” he began.
“Rebecca.”
“I don’t think you understand. You can’t save me.”
“I don’t give up as long as there’s hope,” she said.
His full lips parted, she was close enough to see the sculpted line of his upper lip. “So where can you possibly see hope?” He asked this while still clasping his hand over hers, tight against his chest.
She squeezed his fingers and said, “Here.” She lifted her face to his, whispering. “And here.” Then she pressed her lips lightly against his wide sculpted mouth.
She pulled away, staggered by the silken warmth. He hadn’t let go of her hand though his eyes were closed, his brow creased in some distress. The last thing she wanted was to cause him more pain. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He opened his eyes and stared at her face a full minute, as if finding something there he had missed before. Then slowly, purposefully, he slid her hand from his chest up around his neck and drew her close. His soft mouth enfolded hers, burned with heat. She was melting into it, disappearing from the world gladly, dissolving into a lump of flesh and everything was gone except the arms pressing her waist strongly to his.
For two years she had forgotten how to feel desire.
