It has already been eight years since my father died.
My father’s life and my life, which is now forever divided into two: with him, and without him. As my father’s friend Leonid Mahnach, Moscow film-maker, said, “All of us are made of one another. When those close to us die, we also die a bit ourselves.”
Two photographs: A black and white one taken in Moscow in 1971 shows my father and ten-year-old me standing on either side of a very old tree. Alongside the black and white photo is a newer one, in color: 40 years later I am in Moscow standing near the same tree, this time alone.
My father came to Israel when he was 48; the most active, productive, and fullest part of his life had been lived in Moscow. Now I am 48, and my life has not yet even begun. This film is a search for myself. Maybe it will paste together my life the same way I pasted together these frames.