by Alan Lelchuk
He paused and shuffled in his book bag, to ready his private manuscript. “To explore Nazi history, we’ll read The Tin Drum by Günther Grass, and the lesser known To the Unknown Hero by Hans Nossack, about a young man writing a doctoral thesis in history.”
Knowing smiles. He went on.
“And we might try the hybrid works by W. G. Sebald, reflections upon World War II, which mingle fiction with history—maybe Austerlitz. Among works on the Holocaust, let’s look at An Interrupted Life: The Diaries of Etty Hillesum, and two great autobiographical fictions, This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen by Tadeusz Borowski, and A Scrap of Time and Other Stories by Ida Fink. Of course, one of the memoirs of Primo Levi. That should give us enough to start with.”
That remark got the class laughing. “Obviously, we will choose from among those works, and not read all of them.” He paused, fiddled with pages.
“But first, I want to begin the course with a problem in basic historiography, namely how to examine sources, study the various materials, and consider how they get developed and transformed into an actual book. In other words, you are going to be the historian here, not just the student. So for the first few weeks let’s look at this updated source book for the trials of the Rosenbergs and the Alger Hiss/Whittaker Chambers trial, and how they emerged into the history books, and the notable novel I cited above. This will be interesting. But maybe more exciting, and more exacting, will be this”—and here Manny raised high the manuscript from his tote bag—“a bunch of collected papers by a woman in Budapest who claims that she is the daughter of Raoul Wallenberg, the Swedish diplomat.” He paused. “Anyone know the name? Who he was?”
A few hands went up, and he called on a student, a European who uttered a few sentences about Raoul. “Good,” Manny nodded, and went on.
“It’s not all that long, maybe 150 pages in sum. But it will be like digging into an original archive of historical material. As I said, you’ll play the historian. And alongside that, I will have you read some of the essays and maybe a few select books written about the subject, Wallenberg. What you and I will be examining are the notes and letters for a memoir written by this private lady, the self-proclaimed daughter of that Swedish hero who saved Jews in Budapest. If these papers are real, they will change the way we look at Wallenberg, and you graduate students will be engaged in making history.” He paused, for emphasis. “We will read the materials, explore ways to verify their authenticity, and finally try to determine their ultimate historical value. Is this a collection of papers of major significance? Or is it a minor contribution to the subject? Or hardly even that? Perhaps a few of you will try to put all this together here, into a publishable form. It could be an end-of-term project for one or two of you. Start with a long paper, and turn it into something more extended for a thesis or monograph?”
The class buzzed and took notes. Several questions were posed. And while he answered, Manny understood that now, while he was doing as Raoul had suggested—getting back to his own life—he was also continuing with his own preference, keeping up his long pursuit. No, he would not abandon Raoul—not abandon him as Bartleby’s former boss had abandoned that lonely scrivener—he would pursue Raoul in the classroom, with his students. And in writing. Further, via his newly “discovered” website, he’d keep up with RW’s wish-fulfillment “followers” and “would-be witnesses” who buzzed him from all corners of the world, weekly, monthly. Yes, Raoul would stay with him, stay in his daily life, in teaching, e-mailing, and maybe even in occasional private conversations.
As for the Medium in Budapest? He had written her, and “spun” the situation for her, calling it “rather exciting.” He was giving the materials over to his class to sort out, examine, study, for developing the memoir, and after that, he would work on it along with the lady herself. Her “devotion” to her father would be respected, and they both could observe how intelligent readers react to the materials …
To his amazement, Zsuzsa agreed to this unforseen “new situation,” and said she was willing to leave the matter in his hands. When was he returning to Budapest? He was able to explain, with sound logic, in a few months, after his course was over. She accepted that too, and added, innocently, that she could even visit the class, if he wished? (Was she not brilliant?!)
And then: “There is a chance that Dora will come to visit you, after her conference at The New School. You will be happy to host her, yes?”
To this bright news, he responded, “Of course.” Only later, he wondered what he had said yes to….
From the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, he received an invitation from a historian who wondered if he could come down and talk to him about the new Wallenberg materials he was working on. Calling the discovery “very noteworthy indeed,” Professor Shapiro also suggested that, after their meeting, he would try to set up a panel discussion on the full possiblities and value of Manny’s “groundbreaking new work.”
Suddenly, via Lady Z.’s “Let’s Pretend” pages, and vision, he was catapulting onto the world map of Wallenberg scholars in no uncertain terms. From Sweden again, from Moscow, London, and Budapest, he received invitations to address one or another institution, or committee, to discuss his new findings. Not to mention media like the BBC, CNN, NPR, two major Swedish TV stations. For now, he held off, keeping them at arm’s distance, but not entirely away.
What a bizarre mask he felt himself wearing, part truth, part illusion, part fraud, and he didn’t quite know how to escape it. Did he want to? … After all, for now he had his class to teach, and he might learn from them, as he always did from the brightest few, what they thought of the “collected papers.” And he could take it from there, go wherever, and develop what he might think fitting … Now here was coming little Dora, visiting. Why?… As an honored guest or a cunning spy? … (Like Raoul wondering if he was taken as a prisoner or a guest to Moscow.)
His son cheerleaded his new mini-celebrity status, saying, “Dad, you must go on all the shows, accept all the lectures!” His luminous face and hazel eyes beamed with pride. “You deserve it!”
Surprisingly, in his new limbo status, Manny felt relaxed enough, in paradoxically out-of-control cruise control. Things were so daffy, so baffling, he felt there was no way he could unscramble everything, or resolve anything. Yet the fact of the new attention being devoted to RW in various countries and sites, that was healthy enough, for now anyway. All the old facts of his desperate situation were being dug up, and there was even talk of putting new pressure on Putin to have the FSB dig up that lost file from the basement of Lybianka and allow real discovery … Maybe something really honorable would emerge from the deceptive situation after all? … Further, if he had to play this hide and seek game in order to protect certain private truths about the real RW—while offering to the world the family version of RW—well, why not? …
Jack came by his office one late morning, his hair in a ponytail, bearing his backpack, and Manny suggested they have coffee.
So they proceeded to the backstreet coffee shop Rosey Jekes, and sat in that quiet space with small wrought iron tables.
“I never thought I’d be back here, Professor, I’ll tell you that.”
“How does it feel?”
“Pretty good, actually. But it’s because of you; you’re ‘the man.’”
“Oh, I didn’t do that much, did I?”
“You did what you had to do, man! You showed up on my territory, you stayed around, you met the whole family, and they then all agreed that, yeah, you really did care, and you really wanted me back! And therefore I should go back and finish up!”
Manny stirred his coffee and overheard a Tuck School group, busy planning.
“You know, they don’t invite too many whites to the Walpi snake dance!” He smiled. “But my uncle and aunt, they said you were maybe the most honorable white man to come to Oraibi since Mischa Titiev arrived in the early thirties!”
Who was that? Manny wondered, embarrassed. “How
’s the thesis going?”
“Oh, well, I’m just getting into the real writing, you know, where you don’t know how it’s going. It’s not easy getting focused again after the months off!”
“I know what you mean.”
“And I’m still unsure how I feel about General Crook, his role in the betrayal, after all this time. I keep going back and forth.”
“Well, you’ll figure it out as you write it.”
“Yeah, I know, you always say that! Hey, how’s Wallenberg coming?”
Manny reflected. “Not too bad.”
“Any new ‘revelations?’”
“Just some … false positives,” he smiled, “as they say about my PSA exam.”
“What’s that?”
“A medical exam for old guys like me. No worries for you yet.”
“Hey, I know what you need, a Hopi prophecy man, you know? Someone who can go to the mountaintop and have a special Vision! Yeah, I’ll introduce you to an old one next time you come around.”
“Yes, you do that,” he said, and listened to the coffee machine hissing a latte. A Hopi vision about Wallenberg—yes, that would do the trick, and add to the mix.
Jack lifted his backpack onto his lap, and removed an item in white wrapping. “This is for you, a little present from the family.”
“Hey, you didn’t have to bring me anything.”
“I didn’t, Professor; they did, especially my aunt, you know, the lady on the other side of the studio from you.”
He set down on the table the package, which, when unwrapped, turned out to be two kachina dolls. One was about ten inches, the other maybe sixteen inches high; brightly painted, richly detailed, with black squares for eyes and feathers on their heads and tails. They were mounted firmly on thin platforms of wood.
“Those are real eagle feathers,” Jack explained. He leaned forward to whisper, “Even though that may be illegal, you know!”
“Well, thanks; and thank the family. I’ll put them on a shelf where I can view them daily.”
“They might bring you real luck!”
Smiling, Manny said, “I will count on that.”
Later, at home, he set the two Hopi dolls in his study, on a bookshelf in front of books. Colorful, strange, forceful, they looked like two odd sentries on guard. Against what, protecting what? Should Manny shrink and paint himself and climb up there with them, and look colorful and strange? …
In a few hours, he picked up his son—meeting his mother halfway—and brought him outside for a cookout dinner. When the boy asked about the trip to the Southwest and was shown the kachina dolls, he smiled widely. “Dad, they’re great! Can you get me a pair next time you go?”
Manny laughed. “Sure, next time I go. What will you do with them?”
He thought a second. “Put them on my shelf overlooking my music!”
After dinner, the boy went to the cello in the living room, sat down, fixed the end pin. “Here, Dad, the final section of the Wallenberg Suite. It’s pretty short. Ready?”
Surprised, Manny sat on the couch and observed the boy tuning the strings. Concentrating, he was already a little pro at thirteen.
The music proceeded for five to six minutes, a mingling of the mournful and the lyrical, maybe some Schubert with Mozart, part harmonious, part haunting, with lots of stacked chords. Every now and then he looked up, checking to see if Dad was listening attentively. Oh, he was, for sure! Those several minutes seemed like a lifetime for this adagio section, as Manny tried to peer through the music to the boy composing, and contemplate what he wanted to express through it. While the boy played, his mouth forming, as it had from childhood, that small O of concentration, Manny followed the lightning-quick fingering of the strings, the position of the right hand for bowing, the occasional pizzicato. Manny wondered, Which aspect of Raoul was the boy reaching for? With the windows at his back, the tall avocado plant at his side, and fields behind him, the boy looked like a figure in an interior painting (Vermeer?). He finished off with several harsh dissonant chords, however, which forged a frightening sound!
Silence, and a wide sweep of his bow; a gleaming smile emerged, and he took out his handkerchief to wipe his perspiration.
“That’s really special.” Manny clapped. “And so interesting. That ending, where’d you get that from?”
The boy nodded. “I took it from Shostakovich, his own funeral quartet that he wrote for Rostropovich. Did you recognize it?”
Manny shook his head. “Tell me, was there a particular aspect of Wallenberg you were trying to capture, or express?”
The boy reflected, still wiping his face with his handkerchief. “Oh, his courage, and then his terrible downfall.”
“Well, I felt that. Strongly. And maybe, somewhere, he felt it too.”
The boy looked at him, puzzled. “You think so, somehow?”
“Why not? Stranger things have happened.”
The boy shook his head. “It’s really very hard to compose—I think I’ll stick to playing after I revise this.”
Manny gave him a tight hug and soon was driving him back to town to his mother’s place, and school the next day. “You did a great job! When you’re finished with the revising, you have to make a recording of it for me, okay?”
“Sure. But that may not be for a while, you know.”
“Of course. When you’re ready, take your time. Bye sonnyboy!”
Manny, walking back to the lounge of the inn, felt a stirring, sat down with his laptop, and recalled a remark made by Raoul in an early letter to his grandfather, about how studying in Michigan for three years had confirmed his idea that America was different from the Old World, and how the experience had changed and deepened him in many ways.
Now, in his out-of-the way corner, Manny composed:
Sitting in a curved row in the lecture hall, Raoul savored the modern space, and savored more the way the class was taught. Not a monologue lecture with occasional slides, as in Sweden, but a lecture that was often broken up by the give and take of student questions and comments.
Like just now, as Professor Slusser was lecturing about Louis Sullivan and his first skyscrapers, second-year student John Hermansky raised his hand and asked, “But don’t we have to look at and question the full context of these skyscrapers? I mean, sir, the fact that they interrupt and supplant regular residential neighborhoods—well, shouldn’t the architect have to consider
this?”
Slusser nodded, and replied, “I think you do have a point. But there is also the question of the commission itself, and therefore it is up to the individual architect.”
“You mean,” John countered, “whether he is commercial minded or aesthetic?”
“Hey, come on,” put in Jacob Trottier, from across the aisle, “can’t the architect be both? After all, most of us are going to have families and mouths to feed. Mr. Sullivan was not exactly a capitalist pig monster, you know.”
The class laughed.
“By the way,” put in Ted Smith, “can’t a cluster of skyscrapers constitute a whole new neighborhood, like now on the Chicago skyline? For example—”
Prof. Slusser silenced him with his hand, saying, yes, the architect had to consider the whole neighborhood context; and yes, the skyscraper “neighborhood” was also an interesting topic, but that that was a discussion for later on. For now, he wanted to move to the transition from Louis Sullivan to Frank Lloyd Wright, his disciple. As the tall professor with the monotone voice spoke, Raoul felt again the rich pleasure of the open discussion and debate, which could go on at length and even get heated. Raoul promised himself to overcome his natural reticence and European restraint and join the class discussion one day … That democratic student-prof question and answer and rebuttal was so different from the Swedish lecture hall, he knew, where the atmosphere was imperial—the professor ruling his empire with dogmatic voice and rigid ideas, while student silence was de rigueur.
As Professor Slusser began talking about the “prai
rie style” of both architects, Sullivan and Wright, showing slides, Raoul’s mind suddenly grasped something. He began to jot down notes, on a graph-paper pad, for a grand idea, based on the slides and prairie style. He admired the long horizontal lines, open interior spaces, flat-pitched roofs, and he briefly sketched out a house; and he decided, right then, on his thesis: a plan for a grouping of such houses—maybe a half dozen on a single street in a suburb of Stockholm, like Lindingö, near the river, where right now there existed only a scattering of conventional homes. Naming it the Lindingö Project, he would do a formal design for the cluster and write a long introductory essay, with individual notes for the different residences, marked by small variations. Our suburbs need artful simplicity and variation, he thought, but also economic planning and the most modern materials of wood and glass. First he’d visit a Wright residence, naturally. He couldn’t wait to tell Grandfather about his sudden inspiration.
“Mr. Wallenberg, have you been with us?” asked the Professor, amused. “Or have I so enchanted you that you are off dreaming?”
The buzzer rang, interrupting the professor, who nodded and called it a day.
“Hey, Wallflower, come join us for a beer!” said John H. “You’re always going off on your own. C’mon!”
Two students teasingly lifted him up and escorted him out of the lecture room, where they were joined by four others. Soon, they were hustling Raoul into a large jalopy, Ted saying, “We need to give you a nickname; what do you think?”
Tim jumped in, “How about “The European?”