by Alan Lelchuk
He sat, baffled, like a buffalo longing for the range, struck with a Valium dart.
The letter from Raoul was addressed to his wife:
Dearest Klara,
By now you will have received the papers documenting my arrangements with Kurt Becher, the German administrator, with whom I have had successful dealings. If anything were to happen to me, he will be able to provide for you. Though he is a Nazi, and a special representative for Himmler, I have found him to be reliable in past situations. He used to work with my cousins in Stockholm in banking, because of his own connections with German banks. And in Budapest on several occasions he has helped me stop a deportation of Jews by the Arrow Cross, and on two occasions he also aided me in preventing Eichmann from performing his own deportations. He has known of our family’s existence, and has never betrayed the trust here. Naturally, there are strong reasons for his remaining true to his word while I am away, both financial and political. He understands that I will support him with the Americans, if they should capture him and try him for war crimes. He also understands that there are payments awaiting him in Geneva, once certain conditions are met. Now you should take my arrangement papers with Becher, composed in German, and send them along with Per Anger in a sealed envelope—or with Lars Berg—when they return to Sweden. They are both reliable, and they will have instructions of where to keep the envelopes in a safety deposit box. In fact they will be put into the same safe bank—not Enskilda—that our own papers are kept, should anything happen to me. They will provide insurance for you, as well as other papers for future safety.
Some will protest my connection and arrangements with a Nazi like Becher. But in this era, this confusing day and terrible age, you must sleep with strange bedfellows, a little like Ishmael when he finds himself in bed with a very strange, tattooed Indian gentleman, Queequeg, in my favorite American novel, Moby Dick. Thus I have had to deal with Becher and other unsavory sorts, even an occasional SS man, for me to get my work done effectively. Exquisite moral distinctions I must disregard for now, when I have a larger moral focus, namely, the saving of the Hungarian Jews. Toward that end, I have sacrificed many of my own moral niceties, and still feel clean. Early on, in Stockholm, before even departing for Budapest, Olson, the American chief of the OSS, a good man, warned me that I was not entering an academic school room or philosophy class, but a dangerous situation where Jewish lives were at stake, and whoever could help in that mission was worth dealing with. Whoever. There is no doubt that I shall be blamed for such dealings, now, and maybe later in short-term history, but I will not feel my hands dirty or my conscience guilty. I take some solace in this position, and I want you to know this.
Please take care of our little prize, and yourself, until I see you again.
Yours faithfully, R.
Manny sat there, stunned, staring at the handwriting, and trying to make sense of all this. If he could perhaps make a copy of this letter and match up the handwriting with samples in the RW archive …
Gershwin played on, scenting the room with those American bluesy rhythms, and Manny wished he were back there, in his native land, walking past the green, watching the kids toss their Frisbees and the headbanded joggers with attached iPods looking like playful aliens, and be enfolded again within the easy zone of native playland. But instead he was sitting here, interned, in a stuffy apartment, suffocating in history. And his warden was a few rooms away, taking her bath! How ludicrous could this get! And who was she? And how’d she acquire or invent these letters? …
His heart palpitated, as he contemplated the possibility that these letters were authentic … Absurd! Probably some shrewd amateur imitations. Still, a copy for handwriting analysis would be very helpful indeed.
Switching up from this eerie situation, his mind wandered back to home turf … Playing baseball as a high school boy in Prospect Park, and hitting line drives in the parade grounds … in Madison, playing a shallow center field for the history department graduate team, in softball, and challenging the batters to hit straightaway over his head … in Hanover, playing tennis against his regular partner and figuring out how to hit the high lob to his backhand … These sporting memories calmed him, drawing him back to the familiar … Suddenly crossing his memory was Jackie Robinson, taking his provocative lead off third base, daring the pitcher to throw over, waiting to dart for home …
“So, I see, you have finished your homework?” she teased him, in her white faded bathrobe, looking like Garbo half sprawled on her thick divan. “What do you think?”
Gellerman shook his head. “How was your bath?”
“Ah, wonderful, always, though I stayed a shorter duration so you wouldn’t be alone.” She brushed her hair vigorously.
“Tell me, do you have that other letter, the arrangements with that Becher?”
“Of course, but that is in German, and I wasn’t sure how well you knew German. Do you?”
“Not really. But I would like to see it anyway.”
She laughed, her teeth gleaming. “I am sure you would. And I will show it to you, not just now perhaps. But I am glad you have found this one of interest. Now, join me with a little cognac I hope?”
Reluctantly—as he wanted to leave—he permitted this offering, and she poured two shots in cognac glasses.
“L’chaim!” she toasted. “To our future union.”
He nodded, sipped, and wondered which union she had in mind?
“I have much to share with you,” she offered, rubbing her white cheeks with a lotion, “the more I trust you, your sincerity.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Not merely letters, but a Moscow diary, and thoughts, memories, feelings. Maybe some secrets …”
He drained the remaining cognac. Best to hear her rich nonsense with this rich liquor flowing through him and Gershwin serenading.
“You have read some Kabbalah?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“That’s a pity, really. There is much wisdom there. I study it.”
“I see.”
“You would do well to read some Zohar. And other texts of Rabbis Hayyim Vital or Dov Baer, or the visions by Ba’al Shem Tov. They are magical.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I understand, a rationalist and a skeptic, all the way through. Why not? You are a historian.” She smiled, sympathetically. “But I must tell you that my father was comforted very much by reading some of these materials in Lybianka. You know that the usual name for the Kabbalah is in fact hommah nistarah, or ‘the hidden science.’ So it is not altogether fuzzy and foolish thinking, you realize.”
He nodded, again not understanding. He blurted out, “But how in the world did your father get a hold of a Zohar sitting in a Lybianka cell?”
She smiled, put lotion on her cheeks, carefully. “Do you think we were not able to reach him there? Do you think that we left him alone, the way everyone else did? No, my dear professor, it was not like that. We did what we had to do to keep hope alive in him and to nourish him through the hard times. The concrete walls of Stalinism could not keep his loved ones from reaching him, loving him.”
He waited patiently, and then stood to go. “I think it’s time, you know; it is rather late, and—”
“I won’t hear of it. Don’t be silly. The bed is already made up for you. You can check on it. It is actually in my father’s study.”
This news jolted Manny, just as she had planned, the perfect bait.
He took it and moved into the study, where the single bed was turned down, fresh sheets crisp, hospital corners. Astonishing, this carefully prepared plan, or trap. He used the adjoining half bathroom to do his ablutions, aided by the fresh toothbrush sitting on the washbasin. He slipped on the bathrobe, folded neatly for him, returned to the small room, and got into the bed. A small bedside lamp was lit, and he looked around, like a mouse carefully assessing its chances for escape. Except he felt more like a cat, an alley cat that had been taken in from the streets and was
being converted into a house pet. He scratched at his narrow beard.
He lay there listening to the whispering sounds of the streets, and a clock ticking on the desk. And waited. Was he supposed to get up and investigate? … He lay there, making out the framed photographs on the walls, the desk. He wondered, What if? What if the whole thing, this crazy fairytale, had an element or two of truth in it? Just one, or two? Like the mother had in fact known Raoul, through the parents who were saved by him? Or Raoul had kept up a friendship, even perhaps a correspondence, with the family? Maybe Zsuzsa had indeed recovered a letter or two? Any of that would be interesting enough, without all the other facts and details. Much could be mined from a single vein. As for the rest, well, let her have her embellishments, her strong fantasy; what was wrong with that?
The sound of someone walking about, lightly. He stiffened, wondering what to do if the lady appeared at the door, with that beckoning look? … He lay there, perfectly still, sorry he hadn’t turned out the lamp.
But the footsteps passed on by, through the adjoining living room, and no one appeared … Maybe it was the ghost of Raoul walking about? Could be, he mused in his drowsy state. Maybe this was the residence where the ghost lived part-time? And walked about in the night, like in a Poe tale? …
Well, whatever it was, it set his nerves on edge, and he used that phrase again, What if? A First Alert warning beeped in his brain, whenever he got too complacent about things here …
Throughout the night, he seemed to hear more muted footsteps, several times sitting up, bolt upright, even pulling the light on, since the room was black due to the closed shutters … Was it the madwoman creeping around, checking on him? Or, more probable, the ghost of Raoul, wandering up and down, unnerved by the stranger in his room, on his daybed? …
Seeking sleep, he focused on Jackie taking his lead from first base, leaning low, arms dangling, ready to go! … and next on his little cellist, practicing his vibrato, playing the Bach prelude …
In the morning, he was a proper guest, sitting at the breakfast table, dutifully accepting the soft-boiled eggs and toast with jam from Zsuzsa, and nodding or answering politely whenever a question was put to him (“How did you sleep? Did you have to get up during the night? Was it quiet enough?”) The sunlight was filtering through the white lace curtains; Mrs. Frank (or W.) was busy pampering him, and he accepted his role.
“Tell me,” she said at their second cup of coffee, “do you think, if we continue to trust each other, that you will want to help me with a project?”
He held his espresso cup, just before it reached his lips.
“And what do you have in mind?”
“Well,” she said, leaning forward demurely, “I believe that many people will want to know my story, or my father’s story with the family. And since I am not a writer,” she laughed girlishly, “perhaps you would want to help me?”
He slowly raised the cup again, eyeing her and trying to absorb her words. “You mean, a memoir of sorts?”
“Why, I suppose you can call it that.” Her face was glowing, translucent.
He drank, savoring the taste, and wondered which bridge he would go for a walk on, the Lancet or the Chain? “That may be interesting, yes. When were you thinking of this?”
Her shoulders shrugged, and she smiled. “I have been patient; I can be patient further. If you would help me, however, I know that I can get to the materials much quicker.”
Oh, he liked that noun; it rang up his historian’s register! “Yes, it would take time to gather and examine the materials.”
“I think I have many of the materials here, but some are hidden away, in the countryside. But it wouldn’t take too long to gather them all up.”
He restrained his heart from fluttering. “Fair enough. When you think you are ready, we will consider the matter very seriously.”
“And how long do you think the actual writing would take?”
“Oh, I don’t quite know, maybe six months? A year? …”
She nodded, soberly.
Patiently, Gellerman wiped his eyeglass lenses. “I better get going now; I have some work to do, and my plane leaves very early morning, you realize.”
“No, I didn’t realize.”
He got up and she escorted him to the foyer, where she helped him with his raincoat.
“You will call me later, of course?”
He thanked her for all her hospitality, thought better of kissing her cheek, and shook her hand. “Yes, I will.”
Outside the air was thin and clear, and though it was cloudy, the city never looked finer. Or was it rather the sense of escape that filled his lungs? Escape back to the real, the solid.
He walked toward the river and the first bridge, along the busy streets, but when he came across a used bookstore, he wandered in.
Finding a section on English books, he browsed. A mix of real books and incidental items. He came upon a book he had read many years ago, The Varieties of Religious Experience by William James. He skimmed through it, stopping at the chapter called “The Sick Soul,” read a few of the interesting quotes on failure from Goethe and Robert Louis Stevenson, and moved on to passages about melancholy and the neurotic condition. He blew the dust away, took the surprise volume to the shopkeeper, paid, and walked outside again, grateful that he had reading for the evening and the plane ride.
Oh, it was quite wonderful to be free and easy on these streets, away from neurosis, fantasy, and madness, and back out into the world of normalcy. Soon, he came to the Chain bridge and began walking across it, toward the Buda hills, passing pedestrians. The steel-gray Danube ran below, choppy, and he looked toward the upward bend of the river, leading toward Prague. The wind blew, and at one point snatched his cap away! But a couple retrieved it, and he thanked them. His cell phone rang, startling him.
“Yes?”
“Will you say good-bye to me?”
Who? “Yes, of course.”
“This afternoon at five, we can meet in the Central Café?”
“It’s a date, thank you.”
CHAPTER 12
On the Malév Airline morning flight to Stockholm he read through his notes, which he had worked on all through the evening and next day, after his tea with Dora, the skeptical daughter. The Zsuzsanna tale was an extraordinary one, no doubt—worthy of an Isaac B. Singer story, filled with miraculous faith and fairytale myth. Meticulously, Manny had written down everything about the meetings, from sepia photographs to sensational claims, not knowing what was important and what was dross; at home he would have much to digest. And at the tea Dora was once again sizing him up, to see whether he was remaining honest and trustworthy. (With her short skirt and pretty smile, was there also a seductive subtext?) In turn, Manny asked the small dark-haired beauty to check up on her mother, and see if she was truly serious in writing a memoir, and if so, to help her gather her “materials.” Dora smiled, her thick lips and shining eyes mobile— mocking him or her mother? Or both? (“Yes, Mum does have a small desk locked up in the country cottage,” she acknowledged, “and it’s remained a secret even from me.”) At the end he left with her his copy of William James, saying, “This may interest Mom.” Now, riding smoothly above the white clouds, he felt satisfied, having come through a challenge, and now heading back to Sweden to check out his mole in the bank.
Back in his B and B in Stockholm, he wrote an e-mail note to Peter, and when he heard nothing by the next morning, he walked over to the Enskilda and asked for him. A gray-haired gentleman emerged from the barred-off area, escorted Manny to a private chair, and asked what was his business with “this Peter?” Manny explained it was a personal matter. And what was his last name? Manny was taken aback and tried to recall a name. The young banker nodded politely, and rejoined that there had been “a Peter” who had been transferred to another branch, beyond the city, and that if Manny wished to leave a note for him, he would send it on. Helpless, Manny scribbled a note and departed.
Gathering his th
oughts, he walked around the town, past the tidy shops and the seaside yachts, took a coffee, and spent an hour and a half in a pocket-sized museum of Swedish interior designs, observing a new robotic vacuum cleaner and new automatic coffee machine and flat wall-mounted stereo, and assorted other elegant inventions dating back to the 1950s. After, he walked back to the street of the bank just near the five o’clock close, and waited across the street alongside a busy cheese shop. Soon, the employees began filing out steadily; no sign of him. After a half hour of standing there in the fine June weather, he moved off, found out the listed time of the next morning’s opening, and meandered about again. He took a dinner in a small restaurant, observing the well-dressed patrons and thought about what it might mean if no Peter turned up.
The next morning, after another useless e-mail, he was back at his observation post at seven thirty, watching the trickling of employees enter the bank, and then a fuller stream near nine o’clock, but there was no Peter. Manny was perplexed, anxious, shocked. What should or could he do? Go to the police? Hire a private detective? He held onto his cap in the wind and took a taxi over to the Municipal Building holding the archivist records. He hunted about and found the archivist who had been kindly to him on his previous research expedition. He invited the archivist to lunch, and told his tale. “Weird, isn’t it?” he asked. The fellow, Bengt, continued to eat his open-faced sandwich, and responded, “Perhaps not so weird, considering the family. The Wallenbergs are notorious for their secrecy and privacy. It is as if they are behind a high wall, powerful and private, and it is not easy to break through.”
“Any suggestions for what I might do?”
“Not really,” he shrugged. “They are very powerful, almost like a state within a state, with its own ministers and rules of governance. Moreover, nothing can be proved. Where is the evidence for any wrongdoing? Just the e-mail caution? That is not enough.”