Searching for Wallenberg

by Alan Lelchuk

  “Thanks, and you’ve been super.” He pecked her on her cheeks, and departed in the cool air, down their Fifth Avenue, Tverskaya. Stores sparkled with all sorts of expensive goods, along with Nite Flite, the infamous Swedish nightclub. Russian consumers were on the march, shopping, walking, chatting. He came upon the huge store of the nineteenth-century merchant Eliseevsky, which Natasha had cited; he entered, trying to clear his head, and picked up an item or two. It was an elegant shop of two large rooms, and carried an array of gourmet groceries, from cheeses to pastas to croissants, and fancy vodkas under lock and key (some $200 per bottle), with ceilings like those in a cathedral and the high stained-glass windows. Nearly destroyed in World War II, and languishing in Stalin’s days, Eliseevsky’s had been renovated in the past decade. He moseyed about, found fresh bread, and investigated the huge array of vodkas, including expensive ones in a locked glass case, settling for a small bottle for ten bucks, and went on his way.

  Soon, he was back in his hotel room, sitting at the small desk and taking notes on his extraordinary meeting. Had it really happened? (It was a little like the ghost of Wallenberg appearing in his New Hampshire study.) He was glad for the witnesses, the son, and his translator. He pondered how Daniel had actually interrogated Raoul, with what instruments of persuasion, and with what results?

  The phone rang, and Natasha said, “The father was very angry, it seems, that he spoke with us at all. And Gyorgy says it will probably be best to wait a week before seeing him again. He will calm down and forget it all anyway; he is very old, you know, eighty-eight next weekend. In fact, they are having a birthday party for him.”

  He took that in. “Sure, I understand. So, why don’t you come over for a coffee in the late morning and we can finish up our conversation and plans for the future? My taxi is picking me up at 2:30.”

  They arranged the time, he made a note to take out enough cash to pay Natasha, and he returned to his notes and thoughts. So the old boy was going to be eighty-eight? A well-rounded figure. Too bad he wouldn’t be around for the birthday, as a few of the invited guests might be interesting people! (Maybe he could bring him a token from Memorial House?)

  He flicked on the TV, found CNN, listened to more dreadful news about Baghdad, and tried to tunnel back into that Lybianka Prison cell in late June and July 1945. He was sorry now that he hadn’t snatched that small photo of the KGB Daniel; he had many others. That youthful Russian officer’s face haunted him, in a montage superimposed over that savage death mask he had just encountered. Had he been present at the final stage, the execution?

  How far flung was this puzzle? he wondered, stepping into one of those un-American showers, with the hot and cold positions reversed and no shower curtains. How deeply into a strange middle of the case was he plunging? He knew he was getting a long way away from that graduate thesis and his early clues.

  Back in Budapest, he went to his favorite library, the law library of Eötvös Loránd University downtown, and sat at a small desk in an empty wood-paneled room. He opened his charged laptop, and waited for all operating systems to kick in. Shifting from his historian role to the growing, more fragile, role of imaginative scenewriter, he felt stronger just now, armed with the evidence of the recent interview. His challenge was how to turn that recent preternaturally real hour into the distant faraway hours of the powerfully imagined? He proceeded:

  Lybianka Prison; late June 1945. The interrogation room, approximately fourteen by sixteen feet. The thick walls and floor were made of cement blocks whitewashed over; a rectangular wooden table and three chairs were set in the center. The lighting: an overhead bare bulb and a pair of bright strobe lights off to the side.

  Raoul was brought in by two Soviet guards, and sat down; a glass of water was at his place. He was wearing a prisoner’s uniform, and his regular dark visage was now pale.

  After a few minutes the young, handsome KGB officer, with a thick mop of dark curly hair, entered, nodded to the guards, who departed, and nodded to Raoul. Carrying a sheaf of papers, wearing his uniform informally, open at the collar, he sat down opposite the prisoner and offered him a cigarette. Raoul accepted, and lit up. The interrogator opened the manila folder, searched through it, and took out a long white pad.

  In German, Pagliansky asked Raoul if he had been treated well thus far. Raoul nodded and asked when he would be released.

  “I don’t know how much longer you will be treated well, with our full courtesy,” Daniel said, with reluctance. “I am doing all I can to keep it this way, but there are others, including my bosses, who are growing impatient.”

  “I still don’t understand. What am I doing here? Why are you keeping me here this way? I am a Swedish diplomat, with full international immunity. You have seen my official papers.”

  Daniel inhaled and blew the smoke out to the side.

  “And what about my driver, Vilmos, who has a family back in Budapest? Is he being provided for?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I will appreciate it if you keep your eye on his situation.”

  “I will do my best.”

  Another officer entered, came over, leaned down to Daniel, and whispered something. Then he departed.

  “Mr. Wallenberg,” Daniel began, “have you been working with the American secret service, the OSS? Please consider your answers carefully this time.”

  “But you have asked me this twice already, and I explained my situation. I knew only Mr. Olsen, of the War Refugee Board. I accepted a modest amount of money to help save the Jews of Budapest, and knew nothing else about any OSS organization.”

  “But then why did we find such a large sum of cash, over two hundred thousand, in your possession when we stopped you?”

  Raoul shook his head in frustration. “Some of the Jewish victims gave me the money to hold, knowing that their lives and property were in severe danger. I could use it for bribes, to save people, or put it in a Swedish bank when I returned to Stockholm.”

  Daniel jotted down a note on his pad. “Did you cooperate with the German Nazis or Hungarian Arrow Cross?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you make any deals with the Nazis?”

  “No.”

  “Not with Veesenmayer, or Eichmann?”

  “No.”

  “Did you work for the Nazis?”

  “Of course not. I was their staunchest enemy.”

  “But you spoke with them constantly? And you did manage to save those thousands of Jews through some of these conversations? How?”

  “Various means, as I’ve told you: various sorts of bribes, and threats for when the German occupation would end. I’ve already explained this to you.”

  Daniel P., whose head was bent slightly forward in pursuing these questions, leaned back now. “But, Raoul, we both know that the Wallenberg family and bank and businesses in Stockholm were very friendly with the Nazis.”

  Raoul shrugged.

  “So why would you be any different?”

  “You are merely trying to provoke me.”

  A pause. Daniel smoked. Raoul drank water.

  “Did you stay in touch with your family while you were in Budapest at the Enskilde Bank?”

  “No.”

  “Were they in touch with the Nazi officials in Budapest, concerning you there?”

  “Not that I knew of.”

  “But that was possible, to make things easier for you?”

  Raoul shook his head. “Possible, but highly unlikely, since they did not know—that I know of—German officials in Budapest.”

  Daniel got up, circled around the table and the seated Wallenberg, and when he returned, asked, “So tell me, whom do you prefer? Goethe or Schiller?”

  A slow smile emerged from Raoul. “Goethe.”

  “And why?”

  He considered his words. “His use of the language, his cadences, his feelings.”

  “You know,” Daniel nodded, “I’m afraid I agree.”

  Raoul squeezed ou
t the butt of one cigarette, gestured permission for another, and said, “Actually, I probably prefer Rilke to both of them. He seems to speak more deeply, to me anyway.”

  Daniel lifted his glass of water. “We agree again! Yes, Rilke is special, a German with a noble soul.”

  Raoul smiled, “You are rather educated.”

  “So are you.”

  “A humanist, beneath it all?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why … why this?”

  Daniel smiled wryly. “It is not a contradiction to be a patriot and a humanist, Mr. Wallenberg. In fact, quite the contrary. This Great War has been fought on behalf of both principles, don’t you think?’

  Raoul nodded, almost reluctantly.

  “Now tell me, these Jews, what did they mean to you? Why did they come to compel your attention so much? Was it purely … idealistic?”

  Raoul clasped his hands and faced Daniel intently. “Sir, though I am a Christian of a sort, I am a humanist too, as you are; when people are being deported and murdered in front of your eyes, you try to do something.”

  “Did you want to be a hero, do you think?”

  Raoul shook his head slowly. “Not a hero, just a man doing what needs to be done. Or doing what he can do, in the face of extreme circumstances.”

  “Let us go back to the subject of the money these wealthy Jews gave you. Did they also give you other assets, such as paintings, gold, jewelry?”

  “Well, a few gave me addresses of where their paintings or other art works might be in hiding, yes; but I never was able to check on the authenticity of those.”

  “A few families, or many?”

  Wallenberg craned his neck in a circle. “Several families did, yes.”

  “Where are those names and addresses?”

  “They might have been in my small black address book.”

  “Might have been? Well, where is that?”

  “I believe in my diplomatic pouch, confiscated by the soldiers who stopped me.”

  Daniel made a note on his pad. “Did you happen to sneak out any of those art works, to Switzerland, for example? Or give the Nazis any of those secret addresses?”

  “No, absolutely not. And I wouldn’t.”

  “Do you happen to remember the soldiers’ names or even the uniforms of those who initially stopped you on the road to Debrecen?”

  Raoul shook his head. “Standard Red Army uniforms, from what I recall. One was an officer, a colonel I think. My driver, Vilmos, may remember more details.”

  Daniel put down his pencil and drank water.

  “Naturally I will check on the whereabouts of this little book. And I imagine that there were more than a few wealthy bourgeois Jews who wanted to protect their art works from the Nazis—or the Russians!” He smiled at his irony. “Raoul, let me speak to you now as a … friendly interrogator; there are those who are worse than me, far worse. Do you understand?”

  Raoul shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “There are other interrogators who are less lenient, less delicate, less patient, than myself; and their methods will not be with words alone.”

  Raoul stared.

  “That is what I am trying to make clear to you, Mr. Wallenberg. We seem to be on the same cultural plane, share a common understanding, though we come from very different backgrounds. But some of these others who may question you, they may not be … And things could get difficult, even painful.”

  “You wouldn’t dare; you are simply trying to intimidate me.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I am afraid I am telling you the truth.”

  Raoul stood up, walked to the wall, smoked, returned. “Am I through now?”

  “No, I wanted to share one other thing with you. Your drawings, those architectural drawings you have made, I admire them very much, especially the one for the new quay—very impressive!”

  Raoul looked anew at his inquisitor. “When did you—I didn’t know you had taken those drawings from my cell.”

  “Oh, I didn’t, not at all. I simply looked through them. You see, I too am an architect,” he confessed modestly. “That’s what I was trained for. Another coincidence.”

  Raoul shook his head, dumbfounded.

  “Yes, it is true. Here in Moscow. When all this business is over, I shall return to my profession, my passion. Therefore, my compliments are not those of an amateur. I speak to you as one professional to another. They are very fine drawings, perspectives, both in scale and in vision.”

  Daniel put out his hand in congratulation, and Raoul fixed him, staring.

  “I assume you will be wanting to go back to Stockholm to hand them in and see them realized, so please, do cooperate with us.”

  Daniel called out in Russian. The two guards appeared and escorted the bewildered Wallenberg out. The interrogator sat back down and wrote copious notes in his long white pad.

  Gellerman sat back, rolled his head, and read through his pages, noting here and there a mistaken phrase, a nuance missed. Were the sensibilities and cultural affinities between the two men too close to be believed? Was the KGB that precise? Thank god for actuality, for his real interview with the old man, so Manny could have imagined it the way he did. And what about the threat made to Raoul? Real or strategic? Why not both? The torturer’s track was a separate track from the interrogator’s track, Petrov had advised, so it could very well be that Daniel was trying to “protect” his charge. But was all this to be “allowed” in, if he were to do a semi-documentary fiction? His colleagues in the profession would smile in disdain, mock his attempt at “inventiveness,” and write it off as amateurism. And maybe they were right. Sure they were. But how else to get at what possibly happened, without sources, documents, witnesses? … So he’d play the fool, the history clown, the adventurer in the speculation trade, and see what he came up with. After all, he already came up with something real and important … (He would call Natasha and check on Gyorgi and the father’s availability for another meeting.)

  Just now, he’d have to return to playing the fool with the madwoman of Budapest … Pulling the chain on the small desk lamp, Manny was reminded of the old New York Public Library reading room, where he periodically read, in college, and the other two libraries he had been nourished by: the Brooklyn Public as a youth, and later on, as a grad student, the womb-like British Museum Reading Room. Libraries were as cherished as playing fields, and even this small one in downtown Budapest served as an honorable field for work, memory, invention.

  CHAPTER 7

  He called the lady Zsuzsa, and said he was back in town for a few days, and she replied with cordiality and warmth. Yes, she wanted very much to continue their discussion, and arranged a date for the late afternoon.

  Manny then called Moscow, and Natasha immediately reported, “I have some bad news, Professor Gellerman. I spoke to the son Gyorgi last night, and his father had a bad fall at his birthday party on the weekend and is in a coma. At eighty-eight, who knows if Daniel will recover?”

  “My god!” Manny exclaimed, and added, only half kidding, “I hope it wasn’t the interview that ‘induced’ the fall and the coma.”

  “Oh, I doubt that, Professor. You saw how frail he was at the interview. I will check back with him in a day or two, and see if there is any news.”

  Manny thanked her and hung up. How awful, he thought.

  He went outside, found a kiosk with an International Tribune, and went to the Central Café, a few blocks away, where he ordered a coffee and tried to relax reading about the home sports and dismal Baghdad news. Through the years, playing tennis or watching good football or baseball had relaxed him. America concealed its true business—power, money, wars—by means of such diversions as playoffs, clever articles, flicks. Here in the Trib there was a huge piece on three new Hollywood movies, featuring the sons and daughters of famous movie stars. These were not the kids of Hepburn, Cagney, Bogart. Not only did the country produce mountains of moronic movies—for budgets that equal
ed the GNP of many small countries—but it produced endless waves of movie talk that floated all through the nation, via every newspaper, journal, college classroom, and blogger, plus NPR of course, swamping the brain power of the citizenry in a tsunami of endless celebrity, chat, and public gossip. The average citizen knew far more about Tom Cruise than Mark Twain, cared far more about Hanks or Nicholson than Melville or Bellow. The nation had become Certified Dumbed Down.

  An older well-dressed group of four sat nearby. While observing the varied crowd, he awaited his new friend, whom he dubbed his “Madwoman of Budapest” (after the Giraudoux play).

  But instead there appeared a young woman, maybe in her late twenties, who smiled modestly and asked, “Are you the American Professor?”

  He nodded in bewilderment.

  “My mother asked me to come and meet you, as she had a sudden appointment to reach. May I sit?”

  “Please,” and he stood up to hold her chair, ridiculously. She was trim, smallish, curly-haired, and darkly beautiful. As she sat opposite him, he took notice of her vivid brown eyes and sensuous lips, as well as the cheekbones of the mother.

  The waiter came by; she ordered jasmine tea and sat quietly, looking a bit afraid.

  Gellerman, who himself didn’t quite know what to say, offered, “And what do you do, if I may ask?”

  “I am a graduate student, going for a PhD in psychology.”

  “Oh. What area?”

  “I work with children, handicapped children.”

  “I see.” A porcelain pot and cup arrived on a silver tray. “Where?”

  “Well, I work with the children here, but started my thesis at Debrecen. But now, I have moved to Eötvös Loránd University, where the new referee of my thesis teaches.”

  Was everyone writing a thesis? he wondered, observing her small earrings, her full lips, her shy demeanor. Or mentoring one?

  “Well,” he began, not knowing how to approach the subject, “Your mother seems to think, or truly believes, that she is the daughter of Raoul Wallenberg. I assume you know this?”

  “But of course,” she said, sipping. Her eyes stayed down.