Searching for Wallenberg

by Alan Lelchuk

  Eichmann drew back, in awe and reflection. He adjusted his glasses and, drinking his beer, eyed this surprising adversary.

  “You are practical, then, as I imagined. Good. Only one thing is missing. Cash. How much will you give me for the Jewish bodies? Ten thousand a body?”

  Wallenberg turned over the doodled napkin, wrote down figures, and said, “I can probably get you $50,000, half up front and half upon delivery.”

  “That’s not very much.” A half smile. “Aren’t those children worth more?”

  “If you allow me to put the cash into a Swiss account, I can get you seventy-five.”

  “One hundred, with suitable guarantees?”

  Wallenberg leaned back. “All right, yes.”

  Eichmann nodded. “I will take that. After this fucking war is over, I have my sights on a South American retirement home, and access to Swiss accounts from there should be easy enough. Deliver the account and the guarantees beforehand—”

  “Half beforehand, Eichmann.”

  He gave a little laugh. “All right, half before. But remember, any attempt to cheat me, and they will be shot immediately, right here in Budapest.”

  “You will have it. By the end of the week, Friday afternoon. If we can get wires through to Zurich and back by then …”

  “You are a man of business, after all, as I thought. I don’t like you, Wallenberg, but business doesn’t require friendship, does it?” He put out his hand.

  Wallenberg nodded, stood up, started to walk out,—

  “Besides,” said Eichmann, standing too, following, “all of this will be forgotten in generations to come, or denied, or so twisted, that what has really happened here will be subject to debate, and historians will have a field day revising and—hey, Wallenberg don’t you believe me?”

  But Wallenberg didn’t turn around and walked out of the room into the dining room.

  “So, you are still walking?” put in Berg, “You had a successful meeting?”

  Raoul smiled wearily. “Sorry to have kept you from your dinner …”

  “Is he yet another Nazi psychopath?” queried Göte Carlsson.

  Raoul took out his napkin and unfolded it neatly. “Oh, I believe he combines what you might call an entrepreneurial urge along with his other ‘urges.’ Money for his personal retirement plans seems as important as deporting Jewish bodies. Not much difference to him. A different sort of Nazi specimen, let us say.” He checked his notes on the napkin and turned it over to the other side.

  “Have you been drawing again?” put in Elizabeth Nako, a late arrival. “One day we may publish these drawings?”

  Raoul smiled weakly. “One day I’ll collect them and send them on to Professor Slusser, my architecture professor, and ask him to revisit my old project grade.” He turned to Langfelder, the mini-giant chauffeur who was standing aside, arms folded. “Come, Vilmos, we should get going now.”

  “What?! What about our dinner?” implored Lars Berg. “The chef has managed to find your favorite fowl!”

  “Oh, another time,” offered Raoul. “In some other company perhaps.”

  Vilmos held out his overcoat and Raoul got into it, and he bid farewell to his Swedish friends, just as Eichmann returned into the room, with his aides.

  “Wallenberg, where are you going?”

  “Oh, we have much work to do, Colonel, more tasks to perform than when we first came tonight. We will meet again, I am sure.”

  Berg and Elizabeth and Carlsson looked at each other, shook their heads in disbelief, as the prominent guest left the dinner party before it had actually begun.

  What could Manny say, or think, about such a scene? Had he shaped the material too generously toward RW, gone too easy on him? Was the scene altogether too sensational? (Or not sensational enough?) Again, there was no hard evidence that the meeting ever took place, outside of Berg’s claims. But many curious things happen that have no hard evidence, and they count for a lot. Not everything that goes on in life gets recorded, and leaks sometimes take decades … But if Eichmann didn’t meet Raoul, he certainly wished to; that much is clear from the history. So call Manny the historical facilitator of that hoped-for meeting, a scene-maker of tacit desires …

  He settled back in his little room, poured a shot of cognac from his leather flask, and checked out the few old black and white photographs on the wall. Old Stockholm. Not too much different from today’s city. Then, he opened his e-mail. Three from the college, one from family, another from the lady in Budapest, and a curious unknown one, which, when he opened it, turned out to be from the banker at Enskilda:

  Do not put your life in any danger. What you seek is at the bottom of a well-preserved mystery, an intrigue. Sir, you will never get at the whole truth. That is buried under layers of paperwork obfuscation, discarded notes, lost files. It will take many years or decades before they are cleared away, and the truth about the circumstances of RW will be allowed to surface. Please enjoy our city, and do take a sailboat excursion in the archipelago; it is the best way to experience it.

  Peter S.

  Was this a written exclamation point on their meeting in the coffee house? Was the fellow a friend of the truth, offering Manny a STOP sign of caution? Was he a freak of some sort, or a paid servant of the current Wallenbergs? How to react? Manny had to figure out a next move, a plan of attack, or a retreat …

  He went over his notes on the actual history.

  What was America up to in 1945, when they learned that RW had been grabbed by the Soviets in Hungary and transferred to Lybianka Prison, never to get out? Did they try hard to get him out? Well, actually, the evidence of the diplomatic notes suggests strongly yes, starting with the American ambassador in Stockholm, Minister Johnson, who cabled the State Department (April 4) urging them to alert his counterpart in Moscow, Averell Harriman, to help the Swedish legation there in any way, since “we had a special interest in Wallenberg’s mission to Hungary.” And on April 9, Secretary of State Edward Stettinius cabled Harriman to “give all possible support to the Swedes.” And even the secretary of the Treasury, Robert Morganthau Jr., having received a copy of the April 4 cable from Johnson via the War Refugee Board and its new director, Brigadier General William O’Dwyer, scribbled on the bottom, “Let Stettinius know that I am personally interested in this man.” So everyone was on line, wanting to help the Swedes recover their famous diplomat. Moreoever, by then, even the Swedish population was alerted to the heroics of RW via a front-page story in March in their daily newspaper Dagens Nyheter, which carried an interview with a Hungarian Jew who gave an account of RW’s heroic rescue operations.

  But hold on: the Swedish ambassador in Moscow, Staffan Söderblom, rebuffed the American offer of help, and was quite satisfied to accept the Soviet explanation, that they knew nothing of this Wallenberg. This curious decision and feeble judgment was discovered only some twenty years later; also later discovered was that his telegrams on the issue were censored for the public by other diplomats in Stockholm. Furthermore, that mistake and cover-up was compounded by an act of direct cowardice, when Ambassador Söderblum was granted a surprising audience with Marshal Stalin, on June 15, 1946. In awe of Stalin, Söderblom brought up the name of Wallenberg only at the end of the meeting, and Stalin said that he never heard of the man; he wrote his name down and promised to look into the matter. Stalin reminded the ambassador that all Swedish citizens and diplomats in Budapest at the time were under the “protection” of the Soviet army. “Yes,” Söderblom replied, “and I am personally convinced that Wallenberg fell victim either to a road accident or bandits.”

  “Have you not had any definite information on the matter from our side?” asked the dictator politely.

  “No,” said Söderblom, “but I assume that the Soviet military authorities do not have any further reliable information about what happened after that.”

  After that astonishing exchange, Söderblom went on to ask for an official statement from the Soviets, asserting that all po
ssible action had been taken to find Wallenberg, though without success, and offering assurance that if they were to find out anything, it would be passed on.

  “I promise you,” Stalin replied, “that the matter will be investigated and cleared up. I shall see to it personally.”

  Documentation of the above Söderblom-Stalin exchange was released in 1980. One year before, Söderblom, in retirement in Uppsala, told his questioners that he had done all he could under the circumstances. “I didn’t want to make a direct accusation to the Russians that they had killed Wallenberg or something of that kind,” he said. “It would have made the whole situation more difficult if such an unsuitable suggestion had been made.”

  True, Gellerman knew, since those old days, the Swedes had become more and more critical of their ambassador and their diplomacy of that time. But where was the Wallenberg family, the powerful Marcus and Jacob, during all of that? Where was Swedish skepticism and inquiry about that famous family? Why were they let off the hook, so conveniently, till this day, and the full blame placed on the politicians? …

  Through a young Swedish friend who had once been a student of his ex-wife’s at the college and was now an architect living in a suburb, Gellerman had a lead on a local gentleman who claimed some personal knowledge of Wallenberg.

  A short older gentleman, paunchy in a suit, arrived at the house in Lindingö with boxes of files, and a shy smile and handshake. He introduced himself as Olaf Selling and sat in a chair; and, after introductory words, he explained who he was and how he had come to save all the clippings in the Swedish newspapers that had come out about RW. Politely Manny interrupted him and asked him to talk first about his relationship with Raoul. In a basic English, Olaf told of meeting Raoul when they were both drafted for their two-year service in the Swedish army. Their basic training was up north, for several months, and while he never came to know Raoul intimately—nobody did—it was a very small group of recruits that were housed together, several of them heading for officer school. In the training camp, RW proved himself to be a good soldier in every way, dutiful, respectful, modest, never relying on his famous name for any special privileges or preferences. Except for one time.

  “A few things stood out.”

  “Like what?” inquired Manny.

  “Well, Mr. Wallenberg was always a great practical joker, you see, never to really hurt anyone, but just to be sort of … playful.”

  “Mischief, you mean?”

  “Yes, small mischief. Like creating a letter to a young man from a made-up admirer. Everyone liked him for this, very much. It made everyone laugh, and loosen up, you say?”

  “Interesting. One wouldn’t have known that. What else?”

  “Well, I remember one situation very clearly to this day, which showed a different side. Our platoon sergeant grew very angry one day at one of us, a lower-class brat, and he called him out front and criticized him very severely, humiliating the fellow in front of all of of us. Suddenly, Mr. Wallenberg stepped forward, saying the sergeant was going out too far in his denunciations, and he had no right to do this! Everyone waited for the sergeant in command, who had total power to reprimand anyone, including Mr. W., and probably restrict his chances for making it into officer school. He challenged Raoul, who had taken two steps forward, standing at attention, to think about what he was doing, and I always remember Mr. W.’s words back: “I have thought about what I am doing. You may criticize and chastise any of us, but not humiliate us.” This was amazing, a true challenge to army authority! And Mr. Wallenberg, despite his familiar name, was clearly endangering his status. That made no difference. He faced the tough sergeant who, after a very a tense minute or two, sent the first soldier back to the group, and he proceeded on with the next drills. We were all shocked at this rebellious act by our young comrade. And for the rest of our time there, we all admired Mr. Wallenberg very much, and he returned to being a well-behaved soldier. And, yes, Mr. Wallenberg made his officer school, and became a lieutenant, though he didn’t stay in the army.”

  I thanked Olaf for these memories, adding that the same character traits he recalled had shown up both in graduate school in America and in service in Budapest.

  “You see, though he stayed to himself,” Olaf continued, “he was the favorite of our group, because we could rely on him, because he did not try to use the power of his name, and because he used his humor well. The army, and patriotism, were to be taken seriously, but not that seriously. We as individual human beings came first, always. It never mattered what class we came from.”

  I nodded, charting more of Raoul, and accepting the boxes of files, which Olaf had collected ever since those army days with his old training comrade.

  Before leaving Stockholm, Manny did some more checking around and research. With the aid of historian Susanne Berger’s work, he discovered that in 1943 the Enskilda Bank alone controlled resources of $647, 794, and 917 millions, and by 1947 Wallenberg firms world-wide employed 150,000 workers. (In 1999 the number of workers had grown to 600,000 and the Wallenberg business assets were valued at about 900 billion Swedish kroner, or about $90 billion.) Furthermore, he learned that during the war the Wallenberg firms had not only been the main supplier of ball bearings to the Nazis—to keep their tanks and planes running—but also to the Soviet Union, and in late 1944 Marcus Wallenberg was crucial in bringing about the Soviet-Finish Armistice Agreement. In other words, the power of the Wallenberg family was enormous, both financially and politically, and it was emphatically clear to Manny that, had the family exerted any pressure on the Swedish government, or even worked with the Russians (who needed the trade badly), Raoul would have had a far better fate. He would have been exchanged, and lived.

  Manny went to the bank to try to see his source, Peter, but no luck; he was given the runaround. When he wrote Peter from his laptop, he heard back only a cryptic note, saying that, when it was time to contact Prof. G. again, he would. Shades of Deep Throat.

  He tried to see Nina Lagergren, the half sister of Raoul, but she said she was just leaving town to visit a friend and was unsure of her return. A two-sentence note. So he ambled about the modest-sized cozy city, regal with order, charming with narrow streets, small elegant shops, thatched roofs, and church steeples. The sky hung low and was gray. The citizens were polite, orderly, cosmopolitan; they went about their business efficiently; and there was no big traffic noise or bustle like in New York. At the Stockholm Public Library, he admired the inside architecture, the beautiful circular shape and dark woods, the curving mahogany bookshelves, the cordiality of the librarians and students. Manny came to realize that, beneath all that, the city disguised its past, and the government, its secrets. All that order and civility was hiding deep dark truths of Wallenberg family power and betrayal, and of government cowardice. Beneath the handsome architecture, and the high moral declarations, ran Bergmanesque truths of cover-up and evil; the soul of its recent political history was rotten.

  A pedestrian in the SoFo district recommended the Café Cinema coffee shop, where Manny ordered an open-faced sandwich of herring and onion and a cream sauce, reminiscent of his sailing days with Norwegian freighters. A superb dark coffee was brought first. The café was small, maybe ten tables, with film photos and posters on the walls, DVDs, and a cozy atmosphere.

  A gentleman asked if he might sit across from him, as the other tables seemed filled up or private. The familiar stranger wore a dark sport jacket and patterned blue shirt, set down his fedora and asked how he was enjoying his visit.

  Above him Manny noticed an old movie poster of Leslie Howard, with Myrna Loy, in The Scarlet Pimpernel. He remembered it from the Pitkin Theater in Brooklyn, years ago. “The visit has been fine.”

  “Have you learned anything new on this mission?”

  Manny held back his surprise. “New? Not particularly, I guess.”

  “It’s a cool sober city, as you can see. I had some good plans for modernizing it a bit more, in my small ways; even made some dra
wings. Did you get to the quay or dock?”

  Manny shook his head.

  The waiter came and brought over the sandwich, which was set on a large plate with sliced tomato and onions on the side.

  “How about the Wallenbergs? Any luck there, with my cousins? Or my half sister?”

  Manny shook his head.

  A wan half smile. “I didn’t think so. But you did try; so now, do you wish to give up the journey?”

  A pause to take it all in. “Of course not, my friend.”

  The waiter asked if he needed anything else? “I heard you say something.”

  Manny motioned him away.

  He spoke again, to Raoul. “I am in this for keeps.”

  The gentleman nodded. A gesture of understanding and sympathy. “But you did hear a danger signal, I imagine. Pay attention to it, Professor. My cousins are very strong people in this town. And elsewhere. All over Europe.”

  “I shall pay attention to it.”

  “Europe is not America, you know. Things have happened here that got covered over, for years sometimes. This is our history.”

  Manny nodded, thinking of all the American things “covered over”—the Dred Scott case, the Leo Frank lynching, Sacco and Vanzetti, the Rosenbergs, on and on, and the anonymous lynchings, killings, injustices. “Ours too.”

  “Ah, but Europe is a bit different. As is my family and its unique history, especially during the war.”

  “Did you know ‘too much’ for your own good, if I may ask?”

  “Maybe. But regardless, I would have said nothing to injure my cousins.”

  “But they wouldn’t or couldn’t take any chances.”

  The gentleman shrugged. “Who knows? But finally it wasn’t up to them to find or free me; that was the government’s responsibility.”

  “But the family could have helped.”

  “We should avoid ‘could haves’ as much as possible. And pursue instead, well, what you wish to pursue.”

  The waiter was standing there, bowing slightly, asking if everything was in order? Smiling sympathetically.