by Alan Lelchuk
I finished my beer. “Thanks, but I have so much to take care of immediately after this, at home, as I’ll be traveling for a bit. Besides, this is a good time for a family to celebrate off by itself.”
“Maybe not this family with Aunt Anitra coming!” half joked Angela.
“I understand,” Jonas acknowledged, “But if you should change your mind, please come along. Simon Pearce over in Quechee.”
“Where are you going, sir?”
“Oh, a little bit of this and that, over in Europe.”
“Ah, I wish I were going back, but I have to earn some money this summer and pay Dad back a bit.” She took his arm.
“Good idea. Duty first, pleasure second,” Manny said. “But let me hear from you about your plans.”
“Oh, for sure, Professor. You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”
Jonas put out his firm hand and Manny took it.
Some friends came up to greet Angela, and Manny said good-bye.
He made his way out of the terrace, down the stairs, and back into the street, where parents were helping kids pack up their cars, some profs were still strolling in their university robes, and the sense of the serene was still palpable. A grand day, brimming with future possibilitiy and promise.
Manny had his own more questionable possibilities in mind.
On the overseas flight, away from telephones and e-mails, students and responsibilities, he felt freer, easier, up above the clouds in the wild blue yonder. The woman next to him, a petite Vermont librarian, was happily quiet, so Manny could wander in his thoughts, reflect upon things. This might be it, he thought, this current crazy mission; this might be his last chance for having a mission in life, for going forward intellectually with a passion, not as an exercise, not as an academic formula. Where was this leading, this wild pursuit, this imaginative journey back into history? Was it to recover a life as well as a history? Well, he figured—helping the librarian Mary Jo Edwards fix her movie channel sound—even if it didn’t give him all the answers, it would energize him anew, fill him with a youthfulness that might propel him toward his new work. And give him a New Life, now in his sixties, like some new romance— only maybe better because it wouldn’t leave him high, dry, and exhausted if and when she were to shift her affection. Here, the affection was his to sustain, and his alone. (Though he might need some help from his subject, the elusive, abandoned Raoul.) This pleased him, and he jotted down a few addresses to visit on his spiral pad.
CHAPTER 10
In two days he was walking about the cool windy streets of Stockholm. It was an austere city, with its blue archipelago sea and harbor, the narrow cobblestone streets, the well dressed, unsmiling citizens. All in all, an elegant quiet town. He found his two research sites, the City Municipal Building and the Archives of the Foreign Ministry, where he sought any new open files about the RW case. The library and reading room in each was stylish and impressive, with high ceilings, comfortable chairs, modern tables, light pouring through the high windows. There wasn’t much on file, however, that he hadn’t seen before; the government still had not opened key diplomatic notes from the 1945–50 period. The Swedes in power had stayed secretive and protective of those years of strategic mistakes, hidden calumnies, cowardly betrayals.
So Manny proceeded, in the cool June air, to the famed Enskilda Bank, still run by the Wallenbergs, as it had been for hundreds of years, but he was given the polite brush-off, first by an assistant manager, and then one of the main managers. In a small office he was told that there had been a full report written on the subject of Raoul at the bank, and that he could find that online. When Manny responded that he had read that report, found it filled with huge gaps and censored pages, and carefully managed materials, the pale-faced manager shrugged, and said he could be of no further help. Just as he had imagined, Manny figured, departing the bank.
At an old wood-paneled coffee house, he sat at a table and opened the International Tribune. Presently his coffee was delivered on a silver tray, and he felt a sense of having been taken around, or in, once again, in a goose chase.
A slender tall fellow appeared, well dressed, and asked, in good English, if he might join him. Surprised, Manny invited him to sit down. The fellow ordered a coffee and a small cake.
“My name is Peter. My last name is not important. I work in Enskilda, you should know. And I have seen you in there, a little while ago.”
“Yes, I was … I didn’t notice you.”
“Why would you? I work in the back. Investments, acquisitions. But I overheard your request.”
“Oh, I see. But … I don’t quite …”
“I know, you were given little information, and then you were ‘asked’ out. Or at least left alone, to leave.”
Manny nodded, noting the regal cufflinks on the shirtsleeves. A gaunt man with a pale face, Peter resembled the knight in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal.
“I believe you should probably desist from your search here.”
“What?!”
“Yes, for your own good I mean. It will not work out well if you persist on this particular path of inquiry.”
Manny sipped his coffee, taken aback by the words, but the face opposite him was cool composed. Was he being threatened, or protected? He had already decided to forego the inquiry, and now, abruptly, was tempted or provoked to dive back into it.
He set down his porcelain cup and said, “Oh, I think the story goes deeper than what I have gotten thus far.”
“It probably does, Professor, but the risks may not be worth it. I offer this as a friend, or at least, as a friend of the memory of Mr. Wallenberg, whom I have admired tremendously.” He sliced his fruitcake and smiled. “He and Björn Borg were the heroes of my youth.”
Manny removed his eyeglasses and wiped the lenses with the linen napkin. “Well, thank you for the cautionary words. Are you saying, though, that I could be in some danger if I continue on?”
“Oh, I didn’t, and wouldn’t, use such words. But you should know there is a boundary line, drawn somewhere, and if you cross that, even unawares, the other side is a territory unfamiliar.”
What an odd way to put the matter! thought Manny. “Your English is very good.”
“I studied in the states, at the Wharton School, where I took my MBA. And I traveled around a good bit. I liked the states very much: its freedoms, its wilderness, its freaks.” He smiled narrowly, his blue eyes narrowing too. “We are a more uniform, conformist people. That’s why I admired Mr. Wallenberg so much. He went his own way, always, and stubbornly so.”
“Have others tried to inquire about him at the bank?”
“Let us say they have been discouraged earlier, before they arrive at it.”
“Oh, really.”
“Discouraged, or charmed, I might add.”
“Wined and dined? By the two cousins themselves?”
A wan smile. “It depends on the name, the power, the pedigree.”
“And you know Marcus or Jacob personally?”
The waiter came, asked if anything else was desired, and went for the bill.
“Oh, I know them by face, yes, and greet them formally, if I should see them, but I do not know them. In fact, no one really knows them, you understand. Unless you are perhaps the prime minister or the king.”
“I see,” said Manny, taking the bill. “Please. And I appreciate it. May I call you sometime?”
“I think not, if you will forgive me. But if you give me your e-mail, perhaps I can reach you if I have something more to add.”
Manny gave him a university card with his e-mail, and observed the tall stranger stand, nod, and depart.
Manny stood up, walked over to a wall of wood panels and mirrors, and tried to catch up to the turn of events. What sort of warning was this? Was he really treading into perilous waters? Heart pounding, he observed himself, a middle-aged bearded fellow, a kind of New Hampshire bear with spectacles, peaked cap, and sport jacket. Set down in this elegant coffee
house … But who could tell the clown or fool beneath? …
Who was that stranger, and had someone provoked him into that act? Might the bosses of Enskilda, those Wallenberg cousins, act that reckless? Or was it he, Manny, who was being reckless?
On the side street to his hotel, he came across some graffiti: “Down with Zionist State! Yids To The Ovens Again!” This was plastered in black spray paint across a long bulletin board with posters of upcoming theater shows and stars. What was going on over here in Europe? Such filth—even here, in sedate Stockholm? …
Upstairs in his bed-and-breakfast bedroom, he sat by the small desk, took out his laptop, and drank peach tea. The view outside revealed small shops, brick buildings and thatched roofs, citizens passing. Everything in order, solid Swedish order. He began to write:
Lars Berg has told us, in memoir and video, that he arranged a meeting between Raoul and Eichmann, at Berg’s flat in Budapest in 1944. Did this take place? The only witness, according to Berg, was Göte Carlsson, an aide, who, however, never mentioned the meeting, either confirming or denying it. Did it happen? We don’t really know. We do know it was on RW’s calendar at one point; but he never discussed it or referred to it. Per Anger, his good friend in the embassy, never referenced this in his memoir, nor did any other friend. Would Berg have made this up? Why? For attention to himself and his prowess in arranging the meeting? Perhaps. In that supposed meeting, Berg claims that Wallenberg argued with the SS killer, and actually convinced him, to the point where Eichmann said, “I admit you’re right, Mr. Wallenberg. I actually never believed in Nazism as such but it has given me power and wealth. I know that this pleasant life will be over soon …” Oh? Are we really supposed to take these “heroic” words as the real thing, part of a real meeting? Or as a wished-for fantasy? Or was the meeting private? If it occurred, did it go in another direction? So we have this problem in history: Did it occur and, if so, what transpired? My old U. of W. prof, William Appleman Williams, comes to mind; he once suggested to a student in the 1960s to write a history of the 1930s based wholly on the films of the period. Always creative. Well, here was Gellerman getting creative, shaping his version of that ephemeral meeting, given Budapest 1944, Raoul’s personality, and Eichmann’s interests.
The Berg house in Hunfalvy utca in Buda was well appointed, and included six servants and a superb cook. The large dining room was fitted with a large oval dining table, and set out were fine china and crystalware. A grand dinner had been prepared, so that when Eichmann showed up with two aides, he was duly impressed. “The best Rosenthal china as well, here in lowly Budapest. Well, this is an occasion. Now, where is your other guest?”
The problem was that that other guest had not yet arrived, and Eichmann, growing restive, was almost ready to leave when, nearly a half hour later, Wallenberg finally showed, with Vilmos, his personal chauffeur, in tow. Raoul wore his familiar wool overcoat and dark suit. Eichmann was in his black uniform, adorned by the SS band.
After a few formal introductions, Raoul took over. “Come, Eichmann, let us have a private little chat in the salon there.”
Eichmann, taken aback—he was usually addressed as “Obersturmbannführer”—smiled narrowly, and signaled for an aide to accompany him. But Raoul signaled to forget him, and join him alone.
In the small salon, Raoul took a club chair, and Eichmann sat on the small divan. Drinks were brought; Raoul chose a Belgian beer, and Eichmann a Beck, and he chastised, “You are either recklessly bold or foolish, you realize.”
“Yes, I have been told that before.”
“Tell me, Wallenberg, why are you not friendlier to us Germans? Have we done something against your country, or comrades?”
Raoul continued to pour his beer into a glass. “Now, what is it you’d like to see me about?”
Eichmann took off his black horn rim glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I usually don’t tolerate that sort of tone, but I will forget about that for now. And speak to our purposes.”
“Good.” Raoul observed his adversary’s small brown eyes, interpreting narrow greed and furtive cunning. What else was there? he wondered.
“Let me put the question in a different way: Why do you insist on saving these Jews? They are not your people, they are not from your country, and they are Europe’s scum. So, why should you continue to serve them?”
Raoul drank his beer, savoring the tartness. He paused and looked at this man, with the half smile lingering on his small face, and wondered, for a moment, what was his childhood and youth like, before he was recruited into the army of savagery? Treated how by other boys? The schoolmasters? He spoke neutrally, “I think about the Jews the way I think about the Christians: many are good, some are less so, and there are even some beneath that. I try not to judge general categories, however.”
“Oh, what noble bullshit! You know human nature is never so peaceful or accepting. Your Jews must be paying you very well, Wallenberg, and,” he leaned closer, “for that motive, I secretly respect you.”
Eichmann smiled slightly and took from his jacket pocket an envelope, and set it on the table. “You know, Mr. Wallenberg, I can have you killed later tonight, by Colonel Ferenczy, or tomorrow, by one of the Njilas boys, or right now, by me.” And here he took out a small revolver and set it on the table. “And nothing would change, with your Jews or with our countries. Oh, some complaints, some diplomatic troubles for a while, but then it will be forgotten as the larger troubles descend.”
Wallenberg took out a pencil and doodled on his napkin. “Yes, you may be right, Eichmann, but you may also be wrong. In which case you would be hanged soon enough.”
Eichmann looked startled for a moment, ceased all motion, broke into a small laugh. “You have a sense of humor, and you stay cool in the face of a threat. Also, your German is excellent. I see now how you got your reputation.”
“My reputation, Eichmann, is also of little importance to me.”
The Nazi scraped his lips with his tongue and drank his drink. “Wallenberg, let me get to the point, although I thought we would chat after our dinner. I believe, no I know, that you have a little black book that contains the names and bank accounts of many of the rich Jews, and if you are truly interested in saving some of the poor scum, right here in Budapest before the Njilas boys gets their hands on them, deliver me that account book and we shall make a negotiation.” He paused and looked at his Swedish rival. “Furthermore, my friend, I can also assure you that you shall receive your share of the funds, a percentage of one or two, say, on every account, which, in the long run, would make a tidy sum, and allow you after the war to retire very early and nicely.”
Wallenberg continued to scribble, sketching a skyline of Lake Erie by Detroit, as he recalled it, from his drawing project at Ann Arbor. Could he somehow get it to Professor Slusser?
“I am very glad you are taking this offer most seriously,” Eichmann remarked, sitting back, “and jotting notes to yourself. Please, go ahead, take your time in your figuring.”
Raoul shaded in the large lake, recalling his class in landscape architecture and that challenging Michigan professor. Looking up he said, “Oh, I have no such book, I’m afraid.”
Eichmann moved closer. “You are taking me lightly, Wallenberg, and that is very dangerous. Everyone knows that you are not in the business of saving Jews for the moral pleasure of sainthood. And as an American spy, which you may very well be, there are other projects of more importance. So stop toying with me.”
A noise from the doorway, and Berg asked, uncomfortably, “Will you be finished soon? … The cook, dinner … And another incident occurred at the New York Club …”
Eichmann continued, to Raoul, “You see, those Njilas boys can smell a Jew from a long way off. Just as I can smell a Jew-lover from up close. And believe me, Wallenberg, you are not such a dumbass. You are a practical Swede from what I can make out. From a very practical family, as we Germans know. And, therefore, you are hurting yourself when you he
lp out the Yids. So give it up.”
“You know, Eichmann, those sorts of incidents will be remembered when the time comes, and the perpetrators punished. And that time is closing fast.”
Eichmann’s small face tightened, his mouth twisting. “Maybe you are not as practical as your family, or as I thought.”
“And I’ve told Wiesenmeyer that what the Arrow Cross does will also be the German responsibility.”
Eichmann grew visibly livid. “So you try to cover all your fronts! Well let me tell you something. Wiesenmeyer and all the polite diplomats will soon become obsolete, and then you will have to face the Gestapo without any protection. It will not be pretty.”
“Shall I pass that along to the ambassador?”
Eichmann took up his pearl handled revolver. “I can shoot you dead right now, declaring you have insulted the Führer, and no one will lift a hand.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He gestured toward the other room. “My friends will not like that much. You may earn an equal reward. Besides, you have not let me make my offer.”
After a tense moment, and pause, Eichmann relaxed his hold, smiled narrowly. “Well, go ahead, make it.”
Wallenberg suspended his drawing and said, “Get rid of Krumey. We both know that beneath his apparent charm, he’s a vicious fellow. Get a written order on the Njilas thugs, so that the German commanders run things. And finally, you will let me have the approximate 7,500 Jewish children who are currently warehoused for eventual deportation to Auschwitz. In return, I shall get you the shipment of trucks and food that you are looking for.”
“How do you know this?” Eichmann stared, surprised. “How many trucks?”
“I can get you a dozen trucks immediately. For cargo and for armed personnel. And once the children and women are released to me personally, and given my safe passage out, I shall get you twelve more. Plus, five hundred barrels of petrol.”