Searching for Wallenberg

by Alan Lelchuk

  He felt so ambivalent, so anxious, so unsure about what to do, how to act, that he didn’t—didn’t answer the expert, didn’t write the Budapest lady (asking for the originals), didn’t respond to the Working Group or Embassy. In a state of paralysis, he waited for a sign, a signal, to pull him free.

  An e-mail arrived from Jack. “It’s best if I really do skip the next few quarters, Professor G., and shoot for the spring quarter. I hope you won’t be too disappointed. Don’t worry, sir, I’ll try really hard to make it back.”

  No surprise for Manny, but it disconcerted him. He understood what it meant, and he could either leave it alone and let it run its course, or he could intervene, as in a drug intervention. Jack was good and smart; Manny felt a connection, and he didn’t want him to fall away into a lost wilderness.

  He prepared for his talk, to be given in a circular hall in the Rockefeller social science building, holding maybe 150. The crucial thing was the strategy of the talk: what to tell, what to omit, whom to thank and pay homage to.

  September distracted Manny with memories. It filled him with longings, or energized his old longings … for his sons when they were little: the older son who read R. L. Stevenson and Kipling at age six or seven and understood all the motives and plots, while beginning to write his own small artful stories; and the younger son who played his one-quarter-sized cello in the living room at age five; for his Russian father, who would speak tenderly in his native language to Manny at six, taught him chess, took him on Sundays uptown to the Fourteenth Street Stanley Theater in Manhattan to see Russian movies and eat dinner (homemade borscht with potato or sour cream and a well-done brisket of beef) on Second Avenue with other émigrés; for his sports-splashed youth, playing baseball in Lincoln Terrace Park, (pink Spaldeen) handball and softball at the PS 189 schoolyard, or ring-a-levio in his Brownsville/East Flatbush neighborhood, near the El at East 98th Street … And now, this curious longing for Raoul, the abandoned prisoner in Lybianka, or Gulag … Weird how Wallenberg had penetrated his consciousness so deeply …

  The talk would be “safer” if written out as an essay and read aloud, where he could carefully edit the words and monitor the fault lines; but it would be easier and richer, though more dangerous, from notes … Which to choose? The dilemma was what to leave in, what to omit and stay away from entirely? … He sensed there would be a big crowd, larger than the usual narrow academic one because of the subject and his new renown.

  Indeed, the crowd was overflowing, with standees on the sides and in the back. After a dramatic introduction by his flashy boss, he stepped behind the podium before the eager audience—judging from the ovation—and tried to speak neutrally, seeking to deflate the high expectations of the moment:

  “I want first to thank my former graduate student, Angela Roberts, who first came to me to discuss a possible thesis, did some useful research on Mr. Wallenberg, and wrote a good one. That thesis rekindled my interest in the subject, leading to my pursuit of new field research and investigation. Secondly, I want to thank Richard Mackie, my chair and colleague, who has always given me great support, no matter how far afield I go, in my research wanderings. And believe me, they can be far afield … [laughter]

  The chief thing to remember, when talking about Mr. Wallenberg and his fate, is how many true mysteries are associated with him; and how few have been solved through the sixty plus years since his disapparance. Has there been another figure of such prominence who has vanished so thoroughly, both in fact and in history? One whose identity has proven so difficult for historians and biographers to pin down? Maybe, but if so, not many …”

  Manny took a drink of water and breathed deeply, trying to relax and focus on how he wanted to proceed, and what tracks to avoid … “First, let me lay out the mysteries of the man and his work that have arisen through the years; and second, offer a few clues on those mysteries; and third, suggest a few opinions if not outright conclusions …” As he spoke, from his notes on a Steno Book spiral pad, it was easy enough to cover the first: the uncertainty of the actual death of Raoul, the curious languishing for two years in the Soviet prisons, the apparent passivity of the Wallenberg family, and the incompetence and cowardice of the Swedish diplomatic core and government. (He mentioned the post-1947 witnesses who had cited seeing old man Raoul in various Gulag sites.) Next came the overview of the man himself: his background and training, including his three years at Ann Arbor, which seemed to astonish everyone. With dexterity, Manny described Wallenberg’s character: the fortitude, the humor, the early and ever-present rebelliousness against authority (as when, in his early officer training days, he stood up for justice), the ability to handle himself cooly in a jam (as he did during the holdup outside Chicago). Now, with about ten minutes left in the hour, Manny had to race through the modern history of the investigation, with few results from RW’s own Swedish family (step-father Fredrik von Dardel and half sister Nina Lagergren), the Swedish-Russian Working Group. Finally, the recent discovery of the possible Hungarian family of Raoul, now under his current research and probing. Yes, he figured, with the audience clapping, he had gotten through it, protecting Raoul, protecting himself.

  The questions came, and the first several were easy enough; but then one came about this recent strange family. “Who were they? How did the professor come upon them?” Here he resorted to the historian’s shield of privacy and protection for the family. “Until I can firmly deduce the authenticity of the papers I have received and make a true judgment on them, I don’t think it is fair to reveal any details or sources. Of course, I have consulted with the family members and they concur with me on this.” There, he had used Madame Zsuzsa against herself, for once. The follow-up question pushed this logic farther. “Does this account for the fact, or impact upon it, that Mr. Wallenberg did not marry that we know of?”

  “Yes, that is a very good question, and you have provided your own answer,” he responded. “It will indeed impact upon that question, if the papers prove to be authentic, and not mere … wish-fulfillment, perhaps.”

  “In your estimation, Professor, was there any truth to the later witness sightings?”

  “So far as I can tell, mistaken persons and wishful projections of one sort or another. Still no hard evidence.”

  “And what about the charge that he was indeed working for the Americans, gathering names and data to use for the OSS against the Russians?”

  “Again, no real evidence for that; Wallenberg had little truck with the Nazis or the Arrow Cross; he in fact despised them, but he needed them in his work to save Jews.”

  “One last question, over there.”

  “Was he a real hero in your mind?”

  Manny considered his final answer. “Yes, but I would call him a tragic hero, one who didn’t start out trying to be a hero, but conditions thrust that role upon him; and then he was doomed, because of the confluence of circumstances, to an awful fate, a slow perishing in a Soviet prison.”

  The crowd surrounded him, and he understood that while he had protected Raoul—no mention of his possible gay status—Zsuzsa had protected him, at the same time that she had propelled him to this higher level of authority and expertise. And soon, in return, wouldn’t he have to protect her, and her fantasy, for everyone’s sake? A thrilling, or chilling thought …

  At the dinner at the inn afterward, he was pushed on several counts by colleagues, but Manny shook his head and offered a crafty smile, one of pretend power and deep knowledge, and asked for more red wine.

  There was a letter from Zsuzsa in his e-mail box:

  My Dear Professor,

  I sense that you are in a state of dilemma, of perplexity, and therefore offer you this wisdom, from Mr. Fitz James Stephen, as quoted by your Mr. William James at the end of his splendid essay “The Will To Believe,” which I hope you will read.

  “What do you think of yourself? What do you think of the world? … These are questions with which all must deal as it seems good to them. They ar
e riddles of the Sphinx, and in some way or other we must deal with them … In all important transactions of life we have to take a leap in the dark … (my italics). If we decide to leave the riddles unanswered, that is a choice; if we waver in our answer, that, too, is a choice; but whatever choice we make, we make it at our peril …

  “We stand on a mountain pass in the midst of whirling snow and blinding mist, through which we get glimpses now and then of paths which may be deceptive. If we stand still we shall be frozen to death. If we take the wrong road we shall be dashed to pieces. We do not certainly know whether there is any right one. What must we do? ‘Be strong and of good courage.’ Act for the best, hope for the best, and take what comes … If death ends all, we cannot meet death better.”

  A leap in the dark, Emmanuel?

  Yours, Zsuzsa

  Was the woman clever, or was she way more than clever, as well as dangerous? You gave her a book gift, and she used it to challenge you! Who was helping her choose those passages? Was it little, sly, devilish Dora? The daughter was quiet and smart, and maybe, beneath her innocent surface, knew just what was going on.

  Another e-mail came from the eminent Hungarian congressman in California:

  Dear Professor Gellerman,

  It has come to my attention that you have come upon a family or surrogate family of Raoul Wallenberg in Budapest. As you probably know, my parents were saved by the great man, and my wife too, and therefore it is of urgent interest to me what you have discovered. Please let me know as soon as you are able to, and I will be much appreciative. I am pleased to help you in any way.

  Frankly, I always felt there was more to this tragic and bewildering case than the Russians, or Swedes, have let on.

  Respectfully yours,

  The Hon. Tom Lantos

  Things were heating up for sure. Clearly now, there was more to the case than all those professionals and diplomats knew or imagined, only her name was Zsuzsanna.

  Manny had to get away from all of it, and also he had a chore to take care of, so, in a week, he was on his way to Arizona. He he had answered both letters with polite and appropriate responses, promising reports soon on any and all progress. On the lengthy flight, with stops in Chicago and Phoenix, he was glad to have brought along the folder of papers projected as Lady Z.’s memoir. Waiting in airports seemed the perfect place for reading such stuff (or mush?).

  Of course, it wasn’t mush, as much as musings, memories, magical history, millenial thinking, memorabilia. How strange! Not uninteresting either. With accounts of places in the countryside outside Budapest during the war, where Jewish families went to hide. Many letters, diary entries, newspaper clippings, letters from Raoul to the family and the daughter, and from the mother to diplomats, statesmen, the Wallenbergs. A mass of materials, assembled by a shrewd magician and probably assisted by a top-notch researcher, or team. Well, he’d sit on it and wait. No need to rush to judgment, especially one that could topple him back into obscurity, and probably comedy.

  In Phoenix, Gellerman rented a car and drove up through Flagstaff, through Winslow, and on to Hopi land, a small rectangle set in the midst of the much larger territory of the Navajo reservation. He had been at the reservation once before, years ago; but once he stepped outside, he recalled immediately the simmering heat, the arid fields, the sense of desolation. (He recalled too several lines from RW’s Ann Arbor notebook, and his desire to see/study the region for its architecture.) He drove up to the Second Mesa, where he would meet Jack, after a call. At the modern Hopi Cultural Center, a surprising series of interconnected adobe buildings housing a hotel and a commercial store, he parked and walked inside. There was Jack, immediately coming up to greet him warmly.

  Giving Manny a bear hug, he said, “Good to see you, Prof!”

  “You too, Jack, you too.”

  “C’mon, let’s get over to the house, where we have some lunch.” His face had grown darker, leaner, in such a short time.

  With Jack directing, they drove out on the single two-lane road, passing isolated small houses, run-down and shack-like with giant antennas or new satellite dishes on the rooftops. The landscape was hilly, gray, and bare, with two mountains looming nearby. Jack explained again the tragic history of the tribe, which had been reduced by smallpox at the turn of the century, and by the marauding Navajos, who had raided and pillaged them again and again. “It’s not the white man who was my boogeyman when I grew up, you know, but the Navajo and his greed and deceit. They stole all the great land from us, and left us with this. And we’re still fighting them through the legal system, but once Senator Goldwater died, we didn’t really have a champion to fight for us. But I told you all this, right?”

  “Well, maybe some years ago, yes. But I always need a refresher course.”

  At the small house three kids were shooting hoops in the yard. Jack introduced his two sons, teenage boys, dark, with big eyes and good smiles.

  “Do you have a favorite team?” Manny asked.

  “Phoenix, of course!” they shouted in unison. “Steve Nash!”

  Jack shook his head. “My Celtics are too damn bad right now, wrong generation to have raised them!”

  Inside the dwelling, in the small kitchen, Jack’s wife, Arwitha, had prepared sandwiches, with salad and bottled water. She was a small dark woman, with jet black hair and narrow dark eyes. Manny shook her hand. A television was running in the adjoining room.

  With his wife leaving to do errands, Jack hosted their lunch, and soon they began the discussion of relevance, how to bring Jack back to school.

  “Look, as I said, if it’s a question of the money for travel, and even to bring your family, we can try—”

  Jack shook his head, stopping Manny. “No, sir, it’s more than that, really. It’s my mom and dad too; they count on me in more ways than one. Maybe you’ll meet them and see.” He crossed his arms. “It’s a kinda different culture here than back east; the old folks here really rely on their children to take care of them; they don’t go off to assisted living or nursing homes or things like that. They die at home here. And the kids, like me, care for them.”

  “I understand,” Manny countered, seeing a framed photo of JFK on the wall, “but you’ve got to understand too—finishing your graduate degree will help you seriously, and it can be completed in a few more terms. You’ll then be eligible to be the principal of the high school you’ve talked about, or even go on for a PhD as you’ve sometimes joked about. In the meantime, you can come back here every few months for a visit; we can arrange that.”

  His arms crossed, grinning softly, Jack said, “You know, Professor, I really appreciate the time you’ve taken to come all the way out here, just trying to persuade me. Let me think on it for a few days, okay? And you can have your own room too, for your work, for the few days here, like I mentioned. And maybe, at the end of the day, I’ll drive you around and show you the sights if you won’t be too bored. Not much grass or water around these parts!”

  “The room would be useful, and yes, maybe later in the day, we can see some sights.”

  Jack stood up, lean in his jeans, and Manny too, less lean.

  Outside in the warm dry September day, Jack spoke to the kids for a minute, citing chores (“Pick up them eggs!”), and told Manny to follow him.

  Jack jumped into his Ford Ranger pickup and rumbled away, with Manny on his heels in his rented white Impala. They drove down the rickety road, past an isolated ramshackle house with old people sitting on the porch, who waved at Jack. It was a moonscape area up on this mesa, with an occasional patch of green, where corn was high and plentiful. The ride was potholed and bumpy, but Jack drove along like it was a highway. Manny took it easier. This arid, strange landscape was a long way from green New England and its smooth roads, fertile earth, and picture-postcard campus town.

  In twenty minutes they were parked by a modest modern building, one floor, with an awning and a sign: “Hopi Artifacts For Sale.” Inside, he followed Jack to meet his ni
ece, LuEllen, a young woman reading Glamour, at the front counter. In a glass showcase behind her, there were shelves of Hopi jewelry, leather pieces, and colorful kachina dolls of all sizes.

  Escorting Manny inside to the adjoining room, Jack introduced him to his Aunt Linda—“her American name,” he said smiling, touching her shoulder—a short dark woman in her fifties, working at a workbench, painting dolls meticulously. She smiled and explained how she couldn’t shake hands properly. “You see, she doesn’t have time for small talk!”

  Jack took Manny by the arm, and walked him through a plank door to the other half of the studio, which had a sort of workbench/desk with a high chair. “You can work here, Professor, and there’s a chair for reading as well. And you can use the cot for naps if you wish! Not the prettiest, but it’ll do, right?”

  Manny was charmed by the makeshift studio space, and said, sure, this was just right for a little work. “I’ll get my papers and laptop from the car. And do a little of my own homework.”

  Jack grinned widely. “I thought you’d like the place. And Euella, or Linda, she’s a mouse, never peeps a word or listens to loud music, any of that stuff. A good person and a good artist too. Also, there’s a little fridge out in the front, and you’re welcome to use it, Mr. G.”

  Manny tapped his friend’s arm, went to the car, got his stuff, and was helped by Jack back to his side of the studio.

  “All right, thanks, now you know what you have to do this weekend,” advised Manny. “Reflect on the things I’ve said to you, your long-term future, okay? Ask me any questions. Let’s try to come up with a pragmatic solution.”

  Jack nodded. “A perfect place for decoding Mr. Wallenberg, right?” he teased Manny. “Your own private kiva! Anyway, I’ll see you about six, when I pick you up, okay? We can have a ride and some evening chow with the family. Good luck today!”

  “You too.”