Searching for Wallenberg (37 page)

A new missive arrived from Zsuzsanna, right on cue, after a week of silence:

Gellerman, who simply hadn’t known what to write her and therefore had stayed silent, was now rewarded for his silence. He would receive some original pages for the handwriting analyst to check on and check out, at last.

Summer was ending, and autumn approaching, and Manny was nearing … what? A resolution?

He walked around the tidy town and familiar campus, played some tennis and ping-pong, visited with his son between music camps, tried to clear his head of all unnecessary matters. (But what was
necessary
?) He listened to music, classical (Bach, Schubert, and the Vienna Phil. playing Mozart—son’s suggestion) and jazz (Miles Davis’s
Kind of Blue
, Ellington’s “Mood Indigo” and “Solitude,” and Sarah Vaughan). He drove on country roads up through Lyme, Orford, Thetford, and felt pleased by the narrow dirt roads, the thick overhangs of foliage and the dappled sunlight, the green hillsides and low mountains, the privacy and pristine clarity in these New Hampshire and Vermont towns. On this late summer trek to no particular destination, he considered his own quest, specific but open-ended, a destination without a name. Did one journey mirror the other? Not really. But if he took pleasure in the one, couldn’t he take solace in the other? …

So was it a journey without end—or, maybe a journey on the installment plan? …

He called Jack in Hopi and asked how he was doing.

“Well, not too bad, but not so good either,” he said. “Family problems.”

Manny quickly understood. “You mean you’re uncertain about coming back for the term?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But don’t worry, Professor; if I miss out on this term, I’ll make it up in the spring!”

“Really?” Manny knew better. “Well, I’d like to see you come back now and finish up, and start on the thesis, Jack. The writing you can do back home.”

A pause, and Manny realized that Jack was under pressure, maybe even pressure right there in the room.

“Well, I’ll give it my best shot,” Jack said, feebly.

“Is it the money? I can try to get you some more funding, Jack. Should I?”

“Nah, you’ve done enough already.”

“I can loan you some, no problem.”

“Nah, you’ve been great, Manny.”

“So it’s the family; they don’t want to let you go, huh?”

“Something like that. I can understand them, you know. Arwitha has two kids to take care of, plus her job … my parents; it’s not easy without me around …”

Manny nodded; it didn’t matter that Jack had only one term of classes left; the family wasn’t interested in the long run. Manny knew that if Jack returned, it would only come about if he went, coerced them, and pulled him back.

“Well, you still have a month to get things straightened out, Jack.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “that’s right. Maybe things’ll turn around. Let’s see.”

“Sure, let’s see.”

“Hey, Professor, don’t you worry over me, okay? I’ll make it through the … situation here.”

Manny felt tugged, but it was not in Arizona that he found himself; it was in Sweden, at a gathering of experts on the state of RW studies. At the University of Uppsala, he sat on the dais at a table of six panelists, waiting for his turn to speak. The invitation had come from a professor there who said he understood that Gellerman had access to possible exciting new information concerning Wallenberg, and they would welcome his attendance at the conference. Ambivalent about accepting, Manny nevertheless decided on going, not really sure about what he was going to say. Even on the plane going over, he wasn’t sure which of two talks he would deliver.

Now, as he sat at the table listening to the diplomat, the historian, the newspaper journalist speak, he felt his heart beating strongly, as much out of indecision as anything else. The lines of the discussion, before an auditorium filled with about five hundred students, teachers, citizens, repeated the old saws: early Swedish diplomatic incompetence, Soviet secrecy and deceit, the witness sightings through the years, and the need to go forward and keep searching. For twenty minutes each of them gave an opening speech, while Manny shuffled his two packets of notes like two hands of poker cards, one with his interpretation of Raoul’s personal nature, helping to enhance his outlaw status, and the other, his notes concerning Zsuzsanna’s crazy tale … He stared well into the back of the auditorium, seeing a clock of some sort and a blinking red light, probably a video recording.

The moderator, Professor Bergston, turned to Gellerman, introduced him, and everyone’s attention turned his way.

Manny gave a low-key preamble to his main thread, citing his entry into the Wallenberg story via his graduate student’s thesis, his pursuit of research in Budapest, and his coming upon a Hungarian woman who claimed to be part of the Wallenberg family, indeed his daughter. “Of course, it is a speculative story, farfetched, and perhaps entirely fabricated and fanciful, but it must be checked out, and I have been in the midst of trying to ascertain its veracity for the past year or so, and checking on a whole pile of materials. Because of the nature of the claims and, also, to protect the privacy of the lady, I cannot go into the particulars of the case. But I am hopeful of coming to a conclusion, some sort of verifiable result, sometime soon, probably in the next few months.”

There was much buzzing in the audience and a stirring on the stage, and immediately hands shot up to ask questions.

Gellerman did his best to answer the questions with vague responses and nonanswers, all in the “service” of protecting the privacy of the mystery lady; but what was eminently clear, during the Q and A session, was that he had become the controversial star of the event. And when the session came to a close an hour later, he was surrounded by a crowd of scholars, diplomats, journalists, and ordinary citizens. Far from elated, Manny felt nervous, cornered, semi-shocked, like a jungle animal who has been brought in from the wilderness to become a celebrity cheetah or panda in a big city zoo, his long-time status of obscurity suddenly pierced and transformed into something else.

What had he gotten himself into? he wondered, as the circle of people around him did not seem to lessen, but grew.

“Mr. Gellerman, can you give an interview to my newspaper,
Svenska Dagbladet?
Swedish citizens will be most interested,” asked a bespectacled blonde with a vertical journalist pad.

“What do you think the Wallenberg family here in Stockholm will think of this news, if it turns out to be true?” inquired a small, middle-aged, goateed gentleman carrying a leather satchel.

“Professor, can you tell us how you are handling the materials you have been given, and are so secretively guarding?” This, from the suave historian from the panel. “Do we not deserve to hear a full report about these materials?”

A fiftyish woman wearing a traveler’s jacket with many pockets and carrying a camera, asked, “Does the Budapest lady not want to come to Sweden and present herself and tell her own story? Have you asked her this? Please, here is my card. I would love to do a documentary about her.”

“You have raised some serious issues here, and I believe the diplomatic corps needs to have a thorough interview with you, Professor,” advised a tall rather stern gentleman, handing him a card. “Shall we have a car pick you up at 9 a.m. tomorrow?”

Overwhelmed, dazzled, and exhausted, Manny was finally bailed out by the host, the Uppsala professor, who broke through the huge circling posse and escorted his guest out of the auditorium.

“You created quite a ruckus in there,” the young professor said outside, with an American accent. “This is what Wallenberg fans and followers have been waiting for for years, a break in the no-news category.”

Manny loosened his tie and shirt collar. “But I hope I made it very clear that this is
not
news yet, but just some sort of … research work-in-progress.”

The young man smiled his crooked-toothed smile. “At least the rumor of news was true, and you fulfilled it. That’s why you were invited.”

Manny nodded, bewildered about how to take that, and all of it.

“I hope I haven’t created false hope.”

“You’ve created hope; that is enough, even plenty.”

“You’re American?”

“Yes, I am, but a transplant for over fifteen years. I teach here and have done work on Wallenberg myself. It’s a fascinating case, one that embarrasses the state and confuses the citizenry.”

They drove to the hotel where Manny was staying.

“So, I will see you about 7:30 for drinks and dinner, yes?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ll try for a nap before that, so I won’t answer the phone.”

At the desk, there were already three envelopes with messages waiting for him. When he got up to his room, the red button was lit up on the message machine, and when he played it, there were seven messages: three from journalists, two from the media, one from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, and another from a private caller.

Manny undressed, took a shower and felt lighter, then lay down after calling the front desk and asking them to defer all calls until he came down or called later.

What had he gotten himself into? That was the $64,000 question. He had come over here on a lark almost, maybe to test the waters, but really, he suspected, because he wanted some attention for his long-private investigation and steady devotion. Well, he was getting it, wasn’t he? In spades. The bright northern light filtered through the blinds, and he took out his eyemask; it would be light most of the night. At least he’d be safe through the dinner and evening, he believed. Who would have dreamed that taking the crazy lady fifty-percent seriously or, rather, humoring her—and himself—would lead to this? … What was it, after all? An event. Whose meanings would only emerge later on, he figured, maybe beginning tomorrow.

What interested Manny, as his mind continued to rev, was how different reality was out here, away from books, from academics, from theories and research. You could publish serious papers and complex essays in learned journals; but once you made a public claim, out in the big world, the world was all over you, wanting more,
more.
Was this good for his pursuit? Was this what he wanted? Or was this what the Budapest lady wanted, all along? Some glare and publicity, her eight minutes of fame? Yes, some fame; that’s what worried him, a lot. He was unused to this and afraid to confront it. (Especially because of the nature of his evidence, or nonevidence.)

Yet, reflecting on it, hadn’t he served her purposes perfectly? Hadn’t she—and maybe the daughter too—played him exquisitely? …

But now, ironically, was she and her fantasy serving him well too
? … At least temporarily? Was her fantastical play and narrative now providing him a certain power in the real world, here? … But to do what with? he wondered.

Was this a tipping moment for him and his career too?

The dinner food was excellent, and the surrounding chat for the most part was polite. Lots of North Sea herrings—ah, too bad his father wasn’t alive still!—and salmon and cream sauces, and superb ice wine. Along with diffident Swedish probes at the table, collectively playing the proper host and not pushing or confronting their guest. Gellerman nodded, ate, and said little, and allowed the other panelists to dominate the discussion. When questioned directly, once or twice, with pointed questions, he put them off easily, with a casual answer about the continuing research of his project. No one protested; in fact, he was openly appreciated for his researcher’s restraint. (“Even though you are already trending like crazy on the Internet!”)

Just before they departed for the evening, his host, Prof. Sonnanstine, suggested an early breakfast and trip to the airport, if he wanted to escape any of the diplomatic “cars” or further journalistic inquiries just now. “Yes, I think that will be very helpful,” said Manny, and they agreed to meet at 7:30 a.m. in the hotel restaurant.

Back in his room, he felt easier, and, alone, watched a television melodrama. Actually, it was the American
Law and Order.
He lay back and … suddenly felt inspired. He straightened up, got out of bed, went to the small wooden desk with his trusty Apple laptop, and composed:

Early July 1947; Lybianka Prison, Moscow

A weary Daniel P. entered the conference room, where Raoul W. already was sitting on the other side of the table. Daniel dismissed the guard.

“I have come to say good-bye to you, my friend,” Daniel said. “My time with you has come to an end, I am sorry to say.”