Searching for Wallenberg (33 page)
Read Searching for Wallenberg Online
Authors: Alan Lelchuk
But then he realized that they just had.
At night, reading in the study—“my father’s,” she confided—he saw a small photograph of Raoul in the corner alongside one of his grandfather, in two matching oval frames, with an inscription that Manny couldn’t make out, in Swedish or German. Manny looked closer and saw a framed note with a quote from Raoul: “A person like me, who is both a Wallenberg and a part Jew, can never be defeated.” Manny was taken aback; was this a genuine quote? He knew that Raoul had been a small part Jewish, dating back to a great-great grandfather on his maternal side, named Benedicks, who had converted to Lutheranism, married a Christian girl, and done well. Manny also knew that Raoul had been proud of his Jewishness—but this proud? He had a thought, an inspiration, and opened his laptop, despite the late hour. He composed a note from Raoul’s grandfather, the good Gustaf:
Dear Raoul,
I have received your good letter from Haifa, and am both touched and disturbed by it. I am disturbed because I always wanted you to end up going into something practical, like commerce, and am sad to hear that you think it doesn’t suit you after all, for the long run. Especially after Erwin Freund, your boss, an excellent man and Jewish, has written to me how well you have done at his Holland Bank branch, praising you highly and saying you have a real future ahead of you in banking if you wish it. While I have been very satisfied to have you spend your three years in Ann Arbor studying architecture and receiving your diploma there, I always thought you would use that as a stepping stone to move into some form of commercial situation here in Stockholm, if not with your cousins, at least with some other successful firm.
Naturally, I am very touched by your remarks on the Jewish refugees who have been streaming into Palestine, from Europe, through Haifa, and your strong feelings about them. The situation in Germany is growing more desperate, and to have this happen in ultracivilized Germany is most depressing. Once a dictator gains control over the masses, the outcome is tragic. But please, do not get personally involved; concerned, yes, but not involved. The difference is important, Raoul. Would things be easier for you if you moved from the kosher boarding house you are currently living in? I understand your deep sensitivity and sympathy, and even your own personal attachment to your mother’s great-great-grandfather, who was part Jewish. But that was a long time ago. It’s been a few hundred years since everyone in the family converted, you know, so that your mother grew up Lutheran and thought nothing of it. In these growing dangerous times, lead a prudent personal life, my grandson; no need to take extra risks, personally or politically. (Although I have long admired your high personal principles.)
I have never been hostile to the Jewish people, you understand; on the contrary, I have long appreciated their worth and accomplishments. In every society they have lived, they have enhanced the society. Look, I sent you to my good friend Freund there at the bank in Haifa, because he is a superior banker and good man. And everywhere, always, the Jews have proved to be excellent bankers and leaders in finance. Consider the great banking families of Germany, the
Loebs, the Lehmans, and the Guggenheims; they have been the backbone of high finance in Germany, and will go on doing that. I cannot believe that even this sleazy National Socialism and cheap little dictator will toss out those great banking families. Nonetheless, you be careful. Do not take on extra risk for yourself. Sympathy is one thing, highly commendable; but direct involvement is another, imprudent and problematic. Stay to your course, and accomplish much, but beyond politics, especially in this volatile day and age.
I will only add that your extra sensitivities will probably not go over well with your cousins Jacob and Marcus, who feel little of the Jewish side you have always felt. And if you ever expect to get help from them in your future career, whatever that may be, no matter what you—or I—feel toward them, you should take into account their own sensitivities and preferences.
I look forward to hearing from you and do give my best to Mr. Freund.
Grandfather Gustaf
Manny pulled back, reread the letter, and tried to remember when Grandfather Gustaf died. About 1937? Though it saddened Raoul, it also meant an escape from the loving old tyrant. And it left Raoul on his own, to commit freely to his extra risks and imprudent acts. How would the old man have acted toward Raoul in Budapest 1944–45, once he learned of his intense involvement? … Manny thought, or hoped, that Gustaf would have lauded his beloved grandson, while worrying deeply. And certainly the old grandfather would have broken down all private or public walls to try to free him from the Russians.
The next day, he and Z. returned to Budapest, holding Zsuzsa’s papers; but her understanding of what he meant by checking on authenticity was not what he had hoped for. First off, she would not let the papers out of her hands or sight. This meant that she would accompany him everywhere. This was itself an embarrassment, he saw, after their first engagement with a handwriting analyst, who insisted that he be able to examine privately, over a period of forty-eight hours, the several letters they had chosen. Zsuzsa laughed derisively and said, “Forty-eight hours? You must be crazy! You can be safely in Vienna by then, and make your fortune, and we would never see you again. I know your type well!”
Manny was shocked. But was her role real, or playacted perfectly? That’s what he needed to find out. So he tried another tack, and took her over to the national archives, where they were to examine some of the historical documents from the diplomatic office. Once again she created a huge fuss and semi-hysterical incident. The archivist, a paunchy bespectacled fellow in a frayed suit, brought out a variety of documents for her to sign and get notarized and return with in a few days, and she blew up at him, in Hungarian! Who was this “little man” who thought he could order her and her American professor around? Manny tried to make peace, but it was hopeless, and as they left, Zsuzsa complained bitterly. He understood this was not going to be easy.
“Supposing I take a few of these letters and a few other documents back to the states and find an analyst there who can give us verification?”
She smiled, quite peaceably. “At least
there
we will have competence, without corruption. This is a backward place, you must understand.”
All that sounded fine, until he came to understand, later at dinner at Rosenstein’s, near the train station, that she meant to accompany him to the US, if he were to take the originals. But chaperoning her was out of the question, he knew. So, what could he do? …
At wit’s end, he suggested that he make copies of a half dozen or dozen originals, and take those. What did she think?
“Yes, that would be possible. Copies—why not?” She paused. “This food is undercooked. We should have eaten in; my paprika chicken is superior.” She smiled impishly. “But while you are here, we may proceed with the start of our work?”
Digesting his food, he felt trapped, and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “Well, we could do that, yes, and see how it goes. But I need to finish looking through the materials first, to see where and how to proceed.”
A foursome arrived and sat down on the little platform area where they were seated. One couple noticed Zsuzsa, and they came over excitedly to give her a hug and kiss; they exchanged pleasantries, and Manny was introduced, “My American professor friend.” The couple returned to their table, and Zsuzsa raised her eyebrows. “Old Communists, now pretending to be liberal! Feh!”
Just as they returned to their own dinner, Dora stood before them, a vision in white!
Mother grinned and hugged her, and Manny stood and held a chair for her. She sat demurely, her face a beacon of innocence in the dour atmosphere.
“Did you eat yet?”
She shook her head. “I don’t need much, thank you.”
A waiter came by; she ordered a Greek salad with wine and sat quietly.
Mother said, “Good news, we are proceeding to work immediately. Professor Gellerman has agreed!”
Manny barely nodded. He heard some Brits at a nearby table digging into Bush and Blair.
“I have a very strong feeling, Dorottya, about our new partnership. At last I have found a true champion to serve Father, and his memory.”
Dora looked over at Manny, her brown eyes fixing him, waiting.
Manny massaged his beard. “Your mother is optimistic. I hope she is correct.”
Dora half smiled. “And you?”
“Me? I am always pessimistic, but I am also always foolish. So, anything is possible!”
A moment of puzzling silence, the ladies absorbing that; then Zsuzsa laughed, and her daughter smiled. “You see,” proclaimed Mother, clapping her hands, “he is a gentleman of possibilities. What more can we ask for?”
“Yes, a Professor of Possibility,” Dora observed, wittily. “That is a good role.”
She stared at him, with those shining—demanding?—brown eyes, to see how he was taking her playful mocking. Satisfied, she said in a low voice, “‘Anything is possible.’ I like that; it is very philosophical.”
“Credit to Dostoyevsky, though the new phrasing is mine,” Manny explained, breathing in her musk fragrance and pink cheeks, and wondering if indeed the phrase had pertinence here.
The next day, before meeting Zsuzsanna to go to the copy shop, he called the Budapest historian whom he had consulted with in the past, and luckily found him in.
In Borhi’s fourth-floor Buda apartment in the third district, Manny proceeded to narrate further—more than he already had told him in the past, via some e-mails—about the madwoman (and/or charlatan or medium), and her wild claims, and her cache of so-called authentic letters, documents, etc.
Lazslo shook his head and said, “Oh, I doubt most of it, as I have told you; but you know, so much of Wallenberg in Budapest and in Moscow is obscure, mysterious, unknown, and even invented, that we can’t be sure that her tale is
entirely
fictitious.” He shrugged. “I myself have heard many apocryphal stories about him, in relation to the Nazis, the OSS, the Russians, and also his personal relationships of all sorts, so that without hard empirical evidence, we can’t prove or disprove such claims. Of course, if we could check some of the papers you speak of, yes, that would help. But if she won’t give them up for a day or two, how would you accomplish this?”
“Well, I’ve tried, but thus far, no success.”
He got up, went to his desk, found a name in an address book, and wrote it down on a piece of paper. “Here is a bona fide handwriting analyst, who specializes in old documents and manuscripts. Use my name. I have used him in the past a few times; see if he is still around and what he may require to check the papers. Yes, I believe it will be the originals, for many reasons.”
Gellerman thanked him, took the address and phone number, and told him he would keep him informed.
Borhi nodded, and added, “Let me know if anything turns up. All leads should be followed, as you are doing. And really, who knows?” He raised his eyebrows. “Remember, nobody really knows anything about this case, after all these decades, so anything you can come up with will be of great interest.”
As Manny departed and entered the small old-fashioned steel elevator, he thought with surprise about how open Borhi was to the possibility of discovering some pay dirt. However, in the elevator cage, as it dropped down, he felt more like a prisoner of the situation than a free man pursuing history.
The next day, Wednesday, at a copy shop, they proceeded to make copies of twelve documents, and as they waited in the tiny shop, Manny realized the folly of this; just as Borhi had cautioned, no serious handwriting analyst could work from mere copies and declare a verdict with any certitude. That was foolish. It came to him that he would have to resort to stealth work, if he wanted to get anywhere …
Later, in the apartment, he searched through the
Tribune
for the baseball scores, saw the Red Sox holding up in the dog days of August, and sat down at the large table in the parlor. He shuffled through a pile of papers, then took out a notebook and a pen. He called Zsuzsa in and said, “So, shall we begin? Let me ask you some questions, concerning these letters and other documents, and you can answer as best as your memory serves you …”
