Searching for Wallenberg

by Alan Lelchuk

  Fresh country air beckoned suddenly, and he went outside in the cool evening, to walk up his forest trail. He might expand the piece and send it to a history journal, or try it over at the Wall Street Journal, which had queried him to write something about RW. Walking, he smelled the woodsy air and felt the pleasure of country life, so vividly aromatic after the odors of the Cold War.

  He sat on the college green, on a wooden park bench, reading through the papers. The blue sky and warm sun induced the kids to play a variety of games, the boys removing their shirts and the girls wearing tank tops and shorts. An ultimate Frisbee game was being played in one area; in another, a game of six-against-six softball was played; and in a third the kids were spiraling a football. On narrow paths joggers ran with iPods, bicyclists moved along carefully, students tanned themselves on spread blankets. This was a good site in which to regard the letters and documents of Madame Zsuzsanna. In the sun and frolicking green, to probe deeper into the other worlds of dark fantasy and selective memory. By his side was his laptop, wirelessly connected via the college. The spirit of the new technology had invaded every pore of college life.

  After consultation, he had sent down to a Boston handwriting analyst six documents and was awaiting the results. Manny nurtured few illusions. Those letters, translated from German by a colleague, were touching documents written by a father to a newly born daughter and her mother from a prison in Moscow; they were composed by someone intelligent and caring, and the impersonator was someone very familiar with Raoul, and no doubt brilliant. As for the official documents, from diplomats to diplomats and to Zsuzsanna’s family, they were equally clever and ingenious. Those meticulous copies or frauds were similar to the flawless copies of the great painting masters, where the average art viewer could not tell the difference between the original and the copy. And that’s what he expected to hear from the handwriting analyst professional. (He knew that he’d ultimately have to solve the authenticity problem at some point. But for now an honest ambiguity might serve his interest best …)

  A Frisbee flew near; he leaned down and tossed it back, aiming poorly; he had never gotten the hang of Frisbee tossing or the rules of the game.

  He opened his e-mails and, sure enough, some surprises landed upon him on the sunny green. The first e-mail came from Dora in Budapest, asking how the organization and writing was going. Was he ready yet to make working suggestions to Mother? Another missive came from the Swedish mystery banker. “Do not give up your pursuit, Professor. It is a noble cause.” Manny smiled, feeling played; but that was okay. Here on the a late summer day, sitting on a bench in this small college town in New Hampshire, he felt beyond grasp of those European hands reaching out for him.

  The third e-mail blasted through his complacency. It came from Zsuzsa herself, who said she now had a Hungarian publisher, Corvina, quite interested in making an early arrangement for the book, and they were sure they could also sell it to a large English and American publisher rather soon. “What should we do, my friend? Should we accept this early offer or wait? You see how quickly things can happen! Especially with your name connected to it as well!”

  What exactly did she mean by that? Had she forgotten Yale? He put on his sunglasses and felt dizzy. Trying to digest her news, he walked over to the music rooms in the basement of the Hopkins Center, and there met up with his son, in practice room C.

  The boy hugged him. “Okay, Dad, sit; here is a surprise for you.” He declared this news slowly, melodramatically, “The complete first movement of my Wallenberg Cello Suite.”

  Sitting on a stool with his cello, he first warmed up and proceeded to play, for six or seven minutes, a piece with dissonant harmonies and strange lovely melodies, a mélange drawn from mid-Beethoven quartets, Mozart, and a touch of Schoenberg. Music that was awkward, potent, harsh, riveting. Using much vibrato, he held notes extra long and played a fast passionate ending!

  Manny clapped hard and enthusiastically.

  “My allegro maestoso—what do you think?” he smiled widely. “Next comes my poco adagio for the second movement.”

  Gellerman was rather overwhelmed, by the music, the thought, the playing; he went over and hugged the boy tightly. “Really, it’s just terrific! So exciting.”

  “Yeah, I kinda like how it came out, though it’s still a little rough and needs work, of course.”

  “‘Of course’—you little whippersnapper!” Kissed his forehead. “Mr. Wallenberg would have been truly honored, believe me.”

  “Think so?”

  “Know so.”

  Manny took him for an ice cream at Ben & Jerry’s across the street.

  The boy said, “It’s very hard writing a piece, you know—completely different from playing a piece. I’m not sure if I prefer it.”

  “You don’t have to prefer it at all. Do both or do what you wish. If that’s the only movement you ever write, it was great.” He wiped some ice cream off the boy’s shirt. “By the way, what does ‘maestoso’ mean?”

  “Oh, that means ‘grand.’”

  Later, at a movie, still feeling the blessing of the boy’s composition and grand intention, he reflected on the new serious gambit from Budapest. What had Zsuzsa gotten him into? What had he allowed himself to be seduced and trapped into? … A book contract based on materials that were created out of fantasy and clever mischief? Letters invented by a mad, if brilliant, imagination? Manny’s name “connected” to it would inevitably mean the loss of professional credibility; “Gellerman’s Grand Hoax” would make for great fun in the profession! That’s just what you need, Manny, to finish off your career and life, a little major hoax as a finale.

  In the next few days, he went through his routines with a quiet underlying panic. Walking, reading, taking notes, playing tennis, seeing a few students, watching baseball. He called the handwriting analyst and asked for a verdict by the end of the week. He discovered that the expert, Mr. Blaylock, was on vacation in Cape Cod for two weeks … He had tried to be kindly to the Budapest lady and now was on the verge of being destroyed by her, in one way or another. No good deed goes unpunished, he recalled. If he helped her write her so-called memoir, he would be helping her fantasy life come into print, and destroying his reputation. If he signed off the project now, promptly and completely, he would sacrifice the tiny possibility of something real in her past, a point of authenticity or relevance in her biography. And then, might there not be a discovery of some historical importance? One that should be written up by a historian? … Fortunately, he had a few weeks of his own “vacation,” a respite before he learned for sure what the terms of his decision were to be. Once he heard from the handwriting analyst, resolving that these papers were a fraud—a good or bad fraud—it would be a pure and simple decision. A complete break.

  In looking over the letters, he found two groups: the personal letters written to the family, and the others concerned with the political situation. They were written with intelligence and concern, like that of any paterfamilias; and their political acumen was sharp. The effort put into creating this collection was determined. Yet Manny only glanced through it, not going at it seriously, since he knew that in a few weeks the whole escapade would be blown up, and he’d be saying good riddance—and maybe sad riddance too?

  But, surprisingly, he came across something else, of different interest and kind: a small booklet, maybe seventy-five pages, written by Zsuzsanna, with drawings, letters, and photographs. It was a kind of child’s journal, composed by an adult, and it had a child’s charm and appeal. The photographs, pasted intermittently, created a family album, showing Raoul, a little girl (presumably Zsuzsanna) and her own mother. How did this slip in? When was it written? And why hadn’t she told Manny about this? … One level of conundrum and surprised perplexity always seemed to lead to another here.

  Manny asked her those questions in an e-mail. She responded immediately (and he could practically hear her giggle!), “Oh, that. I forgot all about that early project! My first me
moir! Did I really leave that with you?”

  Of course, by now Manny understood that she did nothing by mistake; with Zsuzsa, nothing was accidental.

  Sitting in his living room, with his laptop open and ready, he looked out at the shorn meadow and composed another scene:

  June 1947; Raoul in Lybianka Prison

  Daniel P., the interrogator, entered the room, nodded to his associate, who left the room, and sat down opposite Wallenberg, now a much wearier prisoner than when he arrived.

  “How are you, Raoul? Any more sketches?” Daniel smiled sympathetically, speaking German. A short wiry man, carrying a small brown leather briefcase.

  Raoul shook his head.

  “Your last ones were quite a while ago, three months or so. I would be happy to see any new ones, you know.”

  Raoul nodded.

  Daniel paused and offered Raoul a cigarette. “Lucky Strikes,” he said.

  Raoul took it and allowed Daniel to light it for him.

  “Raoul, I am worried. You don’t look so healthy anymore. This is a troubling development.”

  Raoul inhaled and exhaled, slowly.

  “I think you need to face the situation with reality; it is important.” He leaned forward across the table. “You know now, they are never going to rescue you. It’s been almost two years, Raoul. You will stay here forever. And perish here. Your family and country, both have abandoned you.”

  Raoul stared at his close adversary.

  “Is this the way you want to spend your last years, my friend? Please don’t even contemplate such a fate!”

  Raoul smoked, and dropped an ash into a bucket.

  “Your face, it is getting … hollow in the eyes and cheeks, and I know why; not merely the prison food, but also the lack of hope; I understand this. And I sympathize, believe me.”

  Raoul looked at him, rather forlorn.

  “Do you have anything to say now, regarding any of the questions I have been asking? After these two years, isn’t it time to yield a little, and explain yourself more? Talk about your friends in Budapest?”

  Wallenberg smoked and said, “I could use another sketch pad, if you don’t mind. And some shading pencils.”

  Daniel jotted down a note in his book.

  “Anything else?”

  “Have I any mail? Diplomatic or personal?”

  The interrogator shook his head slowly. “Not since the note I showed you, what, six months ago? Your colleague doesn’t seem to have written you again—not out of lack of interest, I am sure, but probably thinking … who knows?”

  Raoul said, “If I could get a piece of meat once in a while, I would be happier.”

  Daniel made a note. Looking up, he signaled to the standing guard, who departed.

  He leaned forward once again and spoke in a whisper. “You must listen to me now, Raoul, and listen carefully. I know I am your interrogator, your co-handler; but I am also your ally. Your friend. The date is approaching—I don’t know when—when they will make a decision about you, and it won’t go well if they have nothing to show for it, after these two years. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  Raoul put out his cigarette butt and smiled, almost wryly. “I think I understand you, yes.”

  “I have recently gotten several signals about this matter, and I am anxious. I do not say this to you as a strategy to provoke you into talking, believe me now. I say this to you as one who has gotten to know you, and know you well, better than anyone in these past couple of years, and I admire you and am fond of you.”

  Raoul nodded. “I believe you, Daniel, and I thank you for your … sympathies.”

  “Raoul, do you not want to see again your favorite old places, the Bergius Botanic Garden for orchids, the Court Theater for Strindberg and Ibsen at Drottningholm Palace, or the Fjaderhomarna islets for your sailing lessons? Do you remember your youthful pleasures sailing in the archipelago?”

  Raoul smiled, clasped his hands. “You do do your homework, and always have, Daniel. You are very resourceful, no doubt.”

  “But I am not speaking idly here, of what you are missing.” He spoke even lower. “I am not speaking of merely recovering your life, but of surviving your life! That is what I am saying to you, warning you!”

  Raoul narrowed his eyes and looked tired. “Why this … sudden passion? Please, it’s not like you, Daniel.”

  Daniel pulled back, lit a cigarette, gave another one to Wallenberg.

  “Raoul, you are the prisoner; I am the interrogator. But it might as well be reversed. What I mean by this is that we are in this together. You and me. If I lose you, I lose a strong part of me as well. Do you understand?”

  Raoul smoked, and blew the smoke aside. “You are getting too deep for me, too … existential perhaps?”

  “Yes, maybe I am, but I want to, now, here. It is getting late, very late, and the clock is ticking near midnight. Won’t you save yourself?”

  Raoul leaned in, interested. “Do you mean save you as well?”

  “How do you mean this?”

  “Will they do harm to you if you have come up with nothing from me?”

  Daniel’s eyes widened. “Yes, I see—you are worried now about me, and my fortune!” He nodded. “I understand and admire you my friend. No, I am fine, and believe I will be fine. It is you I am worried about.”

  Daniel peered at his prisoner across the table, three and a half feet away.

  “Good, I am glad about that.” He paused. “Also, Daniel, if I can get any fresh vegetables in the soup, apart from any meat, that will be an aid. A piece of cabbage perhaps? Or a nice turnip? Just something to go with the potato”—and he nearly smiled—“the perpetual potato.”

  Daniel nodded and jotted down the new requests, as he had jotted them down for months and passed them along, with few results.

  Now he reached down into his small leather briefcase and brought out a folder and a small mirror. “Raoul, I want to show you something. Do you recognize this man?” He held up a few photographs. And waited, while Wallenberg gazed. “And here, please, look at yourself.” He held up the small mirror. “You see, my friend, what has happened, don’t you? The wrinkles, the coloring … what this place has done to you? Here is all the evidence you need to convince yourself about what is happening!”

  Raoul said, “I am sure you too have aged in two years, don’t you think?”

  “Touché,” said the interrogator. “But there is a difference, between what Time has done to us, and what Lybianka has done to you. Listen, man, you need hope, real hope, and you haven’t got much left! And I am worried!” He stood up, a wiry little fox of a man, and marched back and forth, before taking his seat again. “Anything, give me anything—a few names, a Swiss bank account, a basement or attic where the Jews have hidden some artworks? …”

  Gesturing permission, Raoul stood up and walked to the wall, about a dozen feet away. Oddly, he stood there, arms folded, against the cement blocks.

  “For god sakes, man, turn around! Don’t allow yourself any self-pity—not now, it’s too late for that.”

  Slowly, against his will, a wounded creature in a drab gray uniform, he turned back toward the room, toward his interrogator, and said, “You know, a fresh cucumber would be a bit of heaven. If you can manage just that.”

  Daniel sat back in his chair. “I will do my best, Wallenberg. And I will try to get Kaminski not to cross-examine you today; I see you are quite wearied, and maybe some rest will settle you somewhat.”

  Raoul walked back to the table and sat back down. “I have never asked you this, Daniel, and you don’t have to answer me if you don’t wish.”

  The little interrogator looked at him, baffled.

  “You are Jewish, aren’t you?”

  Daniel looked at him in quiet amazement. “Jewish?” He shook his head. “Wallenberg, religion doesn’t count in the life of comrades. We are Soviet communists, without any religion.”

  “I know that view. But your parents gave birth t
o you as a Jewish boy, didn’t they? Your mother and/or father were Jewish, weren’t they?”

  “Why would you ask such a question?”

  Raoul stared at him, at this clever little man with whom he had been dealing and negotiating for the past few years, and who had exhibited, today, an apparent true concern for his life. Raoul understood the pain of these people, the pain and the wound, even of these proud comrades, who believed they lived by secular faith while living with deliberate and cultivated amnesia. He had seen and known many of them in Budapest, and he understood.

  “Oh, I was just wondering. Please, don’t forget the fresh cucumber, yes?”

  Daniel P., at first furious, took a few breaths, relaxed his face, and responded, “Yes, I shall try.

  Manny leaned back, rather exhausted, and reflected over where he had gone in the little scene? … Why had he pursued this last direction, for example? … Would Raoul have played that card? For what purpose? … Because Daniel had shown some compassion? (Or was it, to shift to the real, because of Manny’s own live interview with the aged Daniel P.? …) It was curious how, in trying to discover a possible truth, the “imagined” had taken the historian to unexpected territory. Would the interrogator really have “warned” his prisoner that if he didn’t speak up soon, say something of relevance, that his end was near? (Actually, Raoul was probably murdered a month later, in July 1947, probably by lethal injection, after Stalin, in June, had ruled out assassination by shooting.) And did it have a kernel of truthfulness that the two had become, like caged creatures set together for a long while, crossover intimates? Where one felt the emotions of the other as much as those of one’s own self, so that at moments the two selves were like one, or were like blood brothers? … Was this in part why the real Daniel P.—whom he had luckily interviewed in Moscow—never again admitted a word, not to KGB or to family, in the next fifty years, about what had gone on between them?

  CHAPTER 18