by Alan Lelchuk
“Do you believe this?”
She gazed up at him, cheeks reddening slightly. “What do you mean? This is what I was brought up on—why should I think otherwise?”
“That would make you the granddaughter. His.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“And you know who he was?”
“Of course. I have learned.”
The waiter approached. Manny asked, “A cake or sandwich?”
She shook her head. She wore a white blouse, and around her neck, a gold pendant, actually a locket.
He took a chance and put out a question like putting out a risky pawn. “Do you think that perhaps she could be wrong—your mother, I mean? That maybe she has imagined this relationship?”
To Manny’s surprise, the daughter took this proposition calmly. “Perhaps. But I don’t bother about it too much, you may say.”
“You mean … what?”
“I live my life, and my mother lives hers. She is a bit strange, but wonderful. I respect her, and her memories, and her directions, or wishes.”
Manny finished his coffee, digesting her sentences, with their ambiguities.
He nodded, pretending to understand, and not wanting to push his luck now.
“And you live here, in town?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I like your city.”
She shrugged. “I prefer the countryside.”
In all of this she had hardly faced him, glancing at his eyes only now and then.
Finally, she looked up, above her teacup, and asked, “Would you tell me what you want with my mother?”
What a perfect retort to his questioning! Was that the real reason for her coming? “Well, that is a fair question. I am not really sure, actually. A student at my university is writing a graduate thesis on Wallenberg, and has interviewed your mother, and I am here to verify what my student has written, and to learn more about the interesting man.” He paused. “Forgive me, I haven’t asked your name?”
“Dora.”
He put out his hand awkwardly. “I am Emmanuel, or Manny, Gellerman.”
She shook his limply. “So have you confirmed this knowledge already?”
“Well, sort of, yes.”
“Then why do you stay on?”
He wanted to ask her what was inside the locket. “I am not staying on; I am leaving in two days.”
“And you are writing your own book on the subject of Mr. Wallenberg?”
Another question in perfect pitch, this one maybe a curve. “I don’t think so, but actually I don’t quite know. I am learning about the subject, you might say, as I go on. And the more I get into it, the more I am intrigued. He was a great puzzle, this Wallenberg. And what happened to him was also puzzling.”
The waiter appeared, asked if there was anything else desired, and they declined.
“So you believe that my mother is one part of this puzzle for you?”
He didn’t really know the motive for this line of questioning, and he proffered delicately, “Do you think I am, in some way, invading her privacy? Or using her for my purposes?”
Her face looked troubled, maybe confused. “My mother is … I am interested in protecting her, yes. She has, as I said, her own way of looking at things. She has had a hard life. And is very … vulnerable, you say? But I don’t think you are here to injure her, if that is what you are asking.”
The waiter brought the check; Manny was grateful, and took out Hungarian forints to pay.
“I assure you I am not here to take advantage of her, at all.” He leaned over and added, “Maybe I am here for her to take advantage of me?” And that prompted a smile, a sudden wide smile, in the young woman’s small beautiful face.
The dinner was the next night, his last in Budapest, at Zsuzsanna’s apartment, and he was pleased to hear that Dora would be there too, not just the two of them. Manny had become increasingly baffled by what he was doing there, and by his relationship to the odd woman, and her daughter. He had come to his resolute conclusions, and this last evening was for courtesy and politeness, he advised himself. He sat awkwardly in the sitting room, looking aimlessly at the old furniture and mahogany piano and old photos on the walls, while dinner was being prepared. He heard some conversation, and knew that the daughter had come in. He sipped from a glass of wine in his stuffed chair. His eye wandered to a small Menorah set on a mantelpiece, and he got up and went to inspect it. It was small, old—made from iron? Probably a family heirloom. He was about to leave the area, when he noticed a small black and white photo showing the same candelabra, set on a Passover table, with a family portrait of a youngish mother, her small child, and a darkly complected man. They were dressed formally, standing by a shining challah and a decanter of wine, set on the white lace holiday table. He lifted the small, framed photograph, and began to realize, almost painfully, that the man seemed to be Wallenberg! (Or a close facsimile?) Manny’s chest thumped as he had a strong urge to steal the picture—just as he had wanted to take the KGB photo of Daniel P. from the Moscow bookcase—but just then heard the ladies coming and set the framed photo back in its resting place. He walked back toward his chair, his head spinning, and wondering what was going on here.
At the dinner, over a savory paprika chicken and superb red cabbage, Gellerman quietly asked about the menorah, and Zsuzsanna explained how it had been in the family from the early forties, obtained from a small synagogue in Pecs, and how much her mother and father cherished it. Gellerman listened, and at dessert stood up, went to the mantelpiece, and brought back the framed photograph. Was this the same menorah? When Zsuzsa replied yes, Manny said, “And is that your family—you the baby, your mother, and Mr. Wallenberg?” She responded, “Why, yes, of course. It’s one of my old photos from the family scrapbook.” Taking the news in stride, Gellerman accepted a slice of homemade strudel and offered, “Oh, a whole album of pictures? I would like to see that one day.” To which the lady replied, “Yes, one day I will be pleased to show them to you. May I pour you some tea?”
Throughout the dessert and aftermath, Manny was careful not to seem too zealous, but was eager enough to find out any more details or facts about her family that Mrs. W. was willing to disclose. While she answered everything politely, she volunteered little; meanwhile, the daughter Dora sat quietly, attending to her mom’s needs—helping to clear and move the dessert trolley to the kitchen—but also, privately, it seemed to him, observing Gellerman, to make sure he was acting with the requisite amount of respect for her vulnerable mother. It certainly was an odd arrangement, he thought, a configuration layered with mystery and intrigue—and maybe deceit?
As he sat in the sitting room afterward, with Dvorak’s cello concerto playing, Dora sat knitting, and Mrs. W., speaking slowly, answered his questions, often wandering, sometimes asking her daughter for the right word. Gradually he became immersed in the heavy-lidded room, the thick drapes, the 1930s stuffed furniture, the black and white photographs, the huge mysterious armoire or wardrobe. Manny felt himself encased in some sort of time warp, not here in 2006, but back, back in time, maybe fifty, sixty years, in old Budapest. Was this a weird tale by E. T. A. Hoffmann or a drama by Schnitzler?
Mrs W. smiled so broadly, so warmly, to many of his queries, treating him as though he were a young innocent nephew asking his wise old aunt family questions whose answers were patently obvious. Did she grow up Jewish? Of course. Religious Jewish? We observed the religious holidays, yes. We observed many of the simple traditions, such as Friday night shabbat, yes. What about Mr. Wallenberg’s wartime efforts and obligations, and the family? Oh, we were sent to the countryside, of course, to the north, and he visited periodically. It was very difficult. Was he a good father? She was too small to really remember. And when he was detained by the Russians and imprisoned, did her mother know about it? Yes, actually, yes. How so? Oh, there were ways, with bribes, that you could find out most things. Any direct communication? There were a few letters, yes. Do you still have those? Y
es. Dare he ask if he might see them? She smiled. “Why not? Later on. When I know you better, trust you more, see that you are serious about us, not merely a journalist intruder. So there is hope for me? he half joked. “Yes, why not?” And on and on played János Starker and next Chopin, while the mother sat in her chair wearing that half smile and looking to be in perfect rapture, and the young daughter said nothing in a corner chair, but knitted and eyed everything. At one point, he asked how Raoul first met her mother, and she explained how he rescued her grandparents and her mother from the orphanage, and then began to know her more intimately. Aloud he speculated, “Was that how he got his inspiration to make it his mission to save the Jews?” and she reacted with such a modest smile, such an embarrassed sideways nod of her head, that he couldn’t push the speculation any further.
After an hour and a half of this melancholic atmosphere, played out in this scene of cat and mouse fragility and moral uncertainty, Gellerman wanted out and didn’t want out, wanted to lift himself away from the spell, and also felt that the spell had its real and specific attractions. Could he open that huge wardrobe and enter a door into another world, like that Narnia beloved by his son as a boy? Or was he already inside that world of pure fantasy? Yes, of course, and he needed to escape back to the real.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality tonight, and for the past meetings, and I shall stay in good touch with you,” he said, standing at the door with both ladies.
“I hope you got what you came for, Professor,” she offered, slightly embarrassed at taking any credit, “but you are always welcome back, to learn more.”
He nodded, didn’t know if he was supposed to kiss her hand or cheeks, performed the latter, and, looking over at Dora, standing just behind her mother, reached over and took her hands in both of his, thanking her too. She stared back at him with those small brown eyes, and he wasn’t sure if he was being inspected, or invited …
Departing down the three flights of concrete steps, in the dim light, he felt unsteady, and gripped the banister tightly, since a fall could be disastrous. This old 1920s Budapest apartment house was darker, more dilapidated, than his old Brooklyn one, and was clearly more dangerous with its secrets.
Before leaving town, Gellerman had made contact with two historians, and finally found one in: Professor László Borhi. In Borhi’s fourth-floor apartment in Buda, Gellerman sat over a cup of coffee and put to the fiftyish gentleman questions, speculations. A trim fellow whose Jewish father had been persecuted, and later a well-known reformer and historian in Hungary after the war, Borhi was responsive and alert, speaking fine English, and showing considerable knowledge of Wallenberg and what had occurred. After explaining about the Arrow Cross and their vicious campaign—including killing three thousand Jews alongside the Danube in winter and tossing them into the river, where some bodies were recovered in the spring floating down river—Borhi gave his opinion that, yes, RW had been a genuine hero, and had been helped by various organizations, including the Americans, but that he doubted very much that he was a double spy.
Leaning over the low coffee table, Manny said, “Tell me, personally, do you think—as I do—that Raoul was probably gay? Or do you think I am over the top?” (No need to mention here the other bizarre story, a few miles away.) “You see, I know of no document, not any letters or notes, indicating any girlfriend in his life; and when he writes his grandfather from places like Haifa or Capetown, or especially Michigan, where he was for three years, it’s always about his buddies, never girls. Even when he takes trips to Mexico or Chicago, he never mentions a young woman.”
Surprisingly, Borhi nodded. “I think I agree. All the evidence I have seen would suggest you are right.”
Relieved, Manny added, “Which would make him even more of an outlaw or outcast in the Wallenberg family’s eyes. I mean Marcus and Jacob.”
Borhi nodded again, picked up a small piece of paper and pen, and jotted something down. “You should call Mária Ember. She is an older journalist, a serious one, who has followed Wallenberg and his case for years, and she may offer you some valuable information. But do it soon, as she is ill, and I think it is cancer.”
Manny took the paper, chatted for another hour, learned more about the opposition to Raoul from some of the other delegations, especially the Swiss, and departed. As soon as he got back to his hotel, he called the number of this journalist, found her in and most receptive to a meeting. He asked if it could be tomorrow, as he was leaving soon.
“Yes, do come over,” she said, after consulting her husband, “but please call me in the early afternoon to hear about my energy. Sometimes I have it, sometimes not. I am receiving strong medicines.”
Manny thanked her, and the next day, after checking with her, he took a taxi back to Buda, to a different side of town, and was greeted by the husband upstairs at her front door. He brought Manny into the living room, where a short plump woman in her sixties stood up, greeted him warmly, invited him to sit down. Maria was pale but welcoming; her hair was clearly dyed red, and she seemed of a piece with the formal Victorian decoration. The husband excused himself to get drinks. Mária Ember coughed a bit and explained, with a thick accent, how happy she was to hear of his interest in RW, and praised Borhi, “a moral historian, not just a fact-recorder.” Gellerman smiled, took note of the distinction, and asked about her interest in RW. By way of answer, she handed him two paperbacks, one a museum catalogue, and the other a small booklet on RW, authored by herself; the latter was in Hungarian, the former, a mix of English and Hungarian. “I organized the first and only museum show about Wallenberg, in the 1960s, and this is the catalogue revealing everything in it. Please, you can keep this one.” He thanked her and continued to glance through the two books, filled with pictures of the man and the various artifacts of his life.
The husband brought in a tea cart, with coffee, tea, and cakes as well, and poured a cup of tea each for Maria and Manny.
He asked her some questions about Budapest in 1944, and she suggested an important book on the subject, The Siege of Budapest, by Ungváry, which she believed was in translation, and continued for another half hour on elements of his arrest and Soviet deportation. Manny, sensing he had only a limited amount of time with the brave lady, then put out his gambit: “My strong feeling or opinion is that he was gay, a closet sort of gay probably, if you understand what I mean. This is based on the evidence I have seen. Do you think I am mistaken?”
She smiled wryly, coughed, excused herself as she brought a handkerchief to her mouth, before she was finally was able to speak. “Yes, I do think you are mistaken. He was not a ‘closet gay,’ as you put it, but an active gay!” She looked at him for a reaction. “I spoke with several German officers from the war, who had seen him in the several known gay bars of Budapest of the time, openly with men. Also, there were Hungarian witnesses who knew about this and kept it quiet, of course. I even have some written letters. So it is not a mystery, or even a well-kept secret, but rather, a closed open secret.”
Manny almost fell back, as though he had taken a punch. “But why, why has this never been mentioned or cited?”
As she leaned over to put down her cup, she revealed a Hebrew chai around her neck. “Why do you think? It was his private life, and what he did with that private life was his business, especially since his public life was so important, so necessary. It was not a big deal, in the light of the whole context.”
Gellerman scratched his head, returned to drinking tea, and took a slice of cake. He asked, “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“Only Borhi, whom I trust, as I informed you.”
“No Americans or Western historians?”
“Who comes to see an old lady?” She smiled, even beamed, at her self-description. “Or wants to see an insignificant journalist.”
Manny wanted to ask to see those letters, but Maria began coughing; the husband came to her aid, and nodded to Manny in a signal to depart. Manny stood up, waited several
minutes until the coughing spell diminished, then took Maria’s hand. “Please, no need to get up. Thank you so much. I will be in touch. Here is my card with e-mail. Do you use e-mailing?”
She shook her head. “But you have my telephone and can call me always. Also, you may write my husband, who checks his e-mail at the university.”
As Manny turned to leave, he realized he might never see her again. “I think Mr. Wallenberg would have appreciated knowing you, for many reasons.”
She smiled, clearly exhausted. “The feeling is common, you say?”
He nodded, understanding her intended meaning, and left. Rather than take a taxi back, he decided on a tram; and as it zigzagged and rattled through the streets, it felt like his old Ralph Avenue trolley ride in Brownsville. His head was buzzing, and he tried to connect up the many thoughts racing through his brain. This new information was stunning, and upsetting to his view of the man. (If only he could see actual evidence!) But Borhi had vouched for this Maria; Manny had met and found her totally credible and sincere, and he held in his hands her two booklets. As the tram rocked, he tried to absorb his recent findings. While passing over the Danube on the Margaret Bridge— no Jews floating now—Manny contemplated the sharp careening passage from Budapest family fantasy to sudden real history. It was dizzying. This new piece of the puzzle—did it change the overall picture, or just add some invaluable if oddly-shaped pieces? … Maybe Raoul needed Manny the historian more than either of them had suspected?
CHAPTER 8
Walking through his country house in New Hampshire, he felt comforted to be back amidst his orderly disorder: mounds of papers and books, clothes strewn everywhere, notes upon notes of things to take care of, people to call. Surrounded by the photos of old friends and the boys when they were little. This fond past had provided nutrition for his rather thin present. Outside, the green meadows of June were already high, and he spotted the monarch butterflies back again, flitting among the clumps of milkweeds. Three radios were going in his daily rooms, one classical, one country, one NPR talk. He had made arrangements for his son to come over later and mow the lawns on the riding tractor, a task the boy adored and did rather well, if somewhat dangerously. In the two weeks since he had been home he had gradually caught up with the piled-up e-mails, attending first to the more urgent ones from the students, his son in New York, his ex-wife, his CPA. And just yesterday a note arrived from Angela, telling him that her final draft was done. Should they meet so she could deposit it with him?