by Alan Lelchuk
I have tried to act as a historian, but also as an on-the-ground investigator, because of the many mysteries and vast gaps in the case of Raoul Wallenberg. And what I have learned and claimed has been based on my evidence and investigation, not on a preconceived political theory or personal agenda. Moreover, I have tried to be very clear in making distinctions between my speculative opinions and those based on hard, if occasionally circumstantial, evidence, such as what occurred just after the war for the Wallenberg business and banking interests, including its relationship with America and the allies …”
While Manny delivered those answers to the courtroom and judge and a scattering of spectators, including journalists, he berated himself again for having published his essay in a public magazine and not in a professional journal. If it had been placed in a historian’s obscure journal, no publicity would have come from it, and he wouldn’t be sitting here now, in a Swedish courtroom, pinned like a New England butterfly and grilled! In his “New Uncertainties, New Proposals,” he had talked about the old Wallenberg problems: How and when did Raoul die? Did he outlive his Lybianka days? Why hadn’t he been exchanged or bribed out of the Russian prisons? But it also brought into play Manny’s new findings, new directions, and options: the suggestion of Raoul’s gay inclinations and its ramifications; the Wallenberg family’s post–World War II jam-up with the FBI, when Enskilda Bank was put on their blacklist; their harmful if not criminal passivity during the two years of Raoul’s imprisonment; the Budapest lady’s claim of a Wallenberg daughter and grandaughter still living.
As the prosecuting lawyer continued his relentless press, asking him if he knew what the laws of character defamation were in Sweden, Manny gazed out beyond the beautiful wood panels of the courtoom to focus on an oblong of the gray sky emerging through the mullioned window. And he couldn’t help recall sitting within the green oval of his campus, lazy and easy, watching the students stroll or jog by. Oh, how far away was that green zone of academic ease! And having not one friend here, or colleague, made the ordeal all the worse. Later, when he returned alone to his bed-and-breakfast, on a side street, it seemed bleaker than any prison.
Was this his final punishment for trying to get at the truth, or truths, and not taking heed of the several Warning and Stop signals along the way?
His legal advisor had said, “If you drop the pursuit of the book now, and make an apology for any unwarranted statements, the Wallenberg family is willing to drop this suit.”
What a mistake to have come here in the first place—to sign a book contract! Why had he done this? Tempted by the sensational if minor celebrity-hood? By the modest money? How foolish! And he knew the lady of Budapest would have no part of defending herself or “rescuing” him here.
He twirled a rubber band in his hand as the prosecutor repeated another query: “Do you have some secret vendetta against the Wallenberg family, Professor? Does the personal attack have anything to do with the downward spiral of your career and the need to prop it up sensationally?”
He smiled weakly. “No personal agenda, Mr. Svenson, I assure you.”
The questions continued on until the break for lunch, when Manny, eating his open-faced sardine sandwich in the restaurant across the street, wondered how he had gotten into this new particular pickle. And how he would get out of it? …
“Excuse me, may I sit down for a moment?”
A ponytailed dirty-blonde-haired woman in dark glasses was hovering near him; he seemed to recognize her from somewhere.
“Yes, it is I, from Uppsala, you remember?” She removed her sunglasses. “Boel Andersson, the journalist and documentary maker.”
He smiled, “Oh, yes, sure, please do sit.”
“I am glad to see you again, although not glad for you in this situation perhaps. But you see, this is good for me—I mean, for the film I am making about you, this situation.” The waitress came, and Boel ordered a coffee. “They are bullies—everyone knows that—but here, this bullying is out in the open, where people can see it. And I am filming it, as much as I can—the courtroom, their attorneys, you. I get a bit of it inside the courtroom, until they stop me. But it will all be in the documentary about the case, and I am quite sure I can get it onto Swedish TV, the cultural channel. The exposing of the Wallenbergs will be available for all to see, and it will not be suppressed by them.”
He nodded, not fully following what all this meant.
She faced him openly, a pale-faced look of confidence and reflection, asking how much could he, Manny Gellerman, hold up under all the pressure?
“Don’t worry, Professor, it will turn out in your favor, I believe. The citizens here are on your side, trying to find the answers to what happened to Raoul. He has become a kind of folk hero to the people here, and you have now become his … benefactor?”
Manny took off his wire-rim glasses, wet the lenses, and dried them delicately with a cotton napkin. The noun she had used reverberated in his memory, and he thought again of Magwitch, Pip’s benefactor. “Well, I am flattered,” he offered.
“And we are most grateful”—she took his hand—“for all your effort and determination. We have waited for over sixty years, you know, to move forward somewhere, to something.” Her smile was warm, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. “There is a strong current of sentiment in your favor, and my documentary will make that stronger.”
He eyed the lady, who reminded him of one of Bergman’s movie blondes, and he nodded for no reason.
“Therefore, in a way it may be said this pretrial is a blessing, since it brings new attention to the old problems. And all Swedes know that if the Wallenbergs are angry, it is because they are not getting their way, and are very defensive and afraid! So you may suffer a bit, for a while, but stay assured that in the end it will all come out on the positive side for you and our cause.”
Drinking his water, he pondered that statement. Glancing at his watch, he stood up and said, “Well, thank you for coming over. I must get back to my ‘bit of suffering’ just now, but maybe we can have a dinner later if you are free?”
“Yes, why not? Here is my card with my mobile number.”
He put the card in his jacket pocked, nodded a good-bye, and walked out into the cool sober street, where the wind had picked up and was making the small Swedish flag, hung on the court building, flutter sharply. Replaying Boel’s words, he told himself to be hopeful, that this afternoon and tomorrow of being grilled and tortured was only a temporary state of affairs.
The police guard at the door nodded to him knowingly, as though he were welcoming a regular client to this judicial site.
CHAPTER 23
He sat quietly, cozy in his armchair in the small, well-fitted cell, reading Jenny by Sigrid Undset, found on the bookshelf. Hardly a prison cell—it was more like a comfortable library cubicle, with two shelves of books, a trundle bed, a reading chair, a mirror, and a small vanity by the toilet. Plus, he had a small radio, tuned in to classical and jazz stations. And the food was pretty good too: fish dishes with cream sauces, open-faced sandwiches, a variety of cheeses and fresh salads. A prisoner could live here on a long-term basis and not do badly, Gellerman thought, crunching a biscuit with his afternoon tea. Being jailed in Stockholm may have had more perks than renting apartments in many cities.
The irony was to be found, for Manny, in the contrast between his comfortable Swedish open prison in Aby, Sweden, and Raoul’s incarceration in Soviet Lybianka. A bit different, the conditions. Of course, the imprisonment was for different reasons; Gellerman’s was for personal libel, while the latter’s was for being Raoul Wallenberg. Yet, there was a serendipitous affinity between their physical settings, Manny winding up here precisely because of his search for Raoul. The affinity was not missed on Manny, who pondered his fate in this relaxed space. His fate: weeks or months here, or longer? It was unclear now, while he stayed stubborn and debated his options. Also, he had another convenience here: the Wi-Fi access, for two hours daily, to the Interne
t and his e-mail, via a jail computer. So perhaps, all told, he had scored a peculiar sort of victory in his refusal to give in, offer an apology, and remove the allegations.
Of course, he had heard from the lady in Budapest a few days after his incarceration: “I read in the newspapers of your predicament and am wishing to help you. This is simply silly. I will come to Stockholm and meet with you and we can discuss the situation with the judge and then decide what is best. Yes?” Typical enough, as she was always appearing suddenly on the case, a Johnny-on-the-spot, a Master of the Mysterious. Manny didn’t quite know how to answer her. Let her come and talk to the judge? Why not? Or would she see to it, somehow, that he’d be a resident here for some years?!
On the other hand, maybe she’d get him set free, set him loose?
But did he want to get loose?
Curiously enough, he suddenly heard the introduction for NPR International and the familiar voices of the two hosts, the soothing Asian woman and the savvy Jewish gentleman. A bliss, or a curse, to hear NPR here? Both, probably. The usual radio talk about what to do about the recession, and soon, the standard three minutes on Afghanistan; for how many years will they torture the news (and serious listeners) with their carefully diced-up three- to four-minute segments, from wars to recessions to “summer reading” to vacations and pop culture? Everything was flattened out to the same value, same denominator. Well, the voices signified home, the familiar, nonetheless. He went back to Undset’s Jenny, the radical Swedish freethinker who belonged to no club or ideology, just lived a life on her own, an independent soul in Paris in the 1920s. A fine portrait of an unconventional individualist way ahead of her time …
Later, he was outside in the June cloudy weather for his afternoon hour of stretching his legs, mini-jogging around the small courtyard, wondering whether to ask for a sail on the Archipelago. This comfortable jail continued to surprise him with its versatile conveniences and considerations.
When he got back to his cell, he found a few notes from his sons, asking what the hell was going on? When was he getting out and coming home, or should they come over and see what was really happening? He wrote a note to each, saying how things were progressing on the legal front, and everything would be worked out soon enough.
The two lawyers arrived at 3 p.m., and they spoke in the conference room.
“The terms remain simple,” explained Sven Jorgensen, the plaintiff’s chief lawyer. “Simply offer a public retraction and apology in one of the large Swedish newspapers, and give the Wallenbergs authorization to review your final book manuscript. Immediately, all will be forgotten, and you can go home swiftly.”
Manny stared at the fellow and crossed his legs.
“Are you ready, Professor?”
Manny shook his head and couldn’t resist saying, “‘I would prefer not to.’”
“Prefer not to, what?”
“Offer a retraction or apology.”
“Why not?”
“I wrote the truth, as I know it. So I will put it into the book as well.”
Jorgensen held up his silver ballpoint. “But is it so important to you to get your ‘truth’ across, here in a foreign land, that you would sit in jail over it?”
Manny considered that. “I guess so.”
“That is very divisive and unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate for me, sir.”
“Yes. Unfortunate and inconvenient. Don’t you have a life you want to rejoin?”
Manny scratched at his beard. (Needed a trimming.) He peered over the shoulders of the lawyer to the portrait of a king on the wall, a poker face of cool imperturbability, and recalled the 1945 indifference of the Swedish government. As for the Wallenberg family and their role in the deadly game, well, he had written his views on that. Both players, family and government, had seen to Raoul’s grim fate in Moscow right here, in Stockholm. Maybe Manny’s place was here, too, after all? …
“You are silent, Professor Gellerman. Don’t you want to rejoin your life?”
“This may be my life, sir. Right here … waiting.”
“Waiting? Waiting for what?”
Manny contemplated, viewing the lawyer’s blue eyes. “I am not sure just yet.”
Sven Jorgensen shook his head, spoke words to the second lawyer, shuffled his papers together into the portfolio, and stood.
“You may be here a long time, my friend.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do; but for now, good day. I will report your response to the plaintiffs and, should you change your mind, you will let us know.”
Manny stood, watched them depart, and was escorted back to his small cell.
Later, while reading, he was visited by his shadow friend, the slender gentleman who still traveled with his hat (and backpack). Only this time it was the fellow’s old Anthony Eden hat, the silk-trimmed black-felt Homburg from his Stockholm days. He stood at the brick wall, facing Manny sidwways.
“You said you were waiting to the lawyers—for what, may I ask?” Wallenberg said. “Do you yourself know?”
“I suppose … for … justice to be done.”
Raoul laughed lightly. “You will wait a long time then.”
“I have time.”
“While lying about here, in a jail? No, my friend, you have been loyal, you have pushed far, but you have better things to do with your life, I know.”
Manny smiled. “I didn’t realize you knew which duties or obligations were, or should be, highest in my list of priorities.”
“I don’t, but I do know that sitting here, waiting, will not serve your cause.” He felt the silk brim of his hat. “Even if that cause happens to be me.”
Manny took that in, sitting on his trundle bed. He observed Raoul’s dark narrow face, the thinning scalp, the purposeful stare of the sharp brown eyes.
“Maybe you are right.”
Mr. Wallenberg nodded. “Maybe so.”
“So you believe I can serve you better on the outside, then?”
“Serve yourself better, I mean to say. Besides, what sort of justice do you think you can get for me? A redemption? A retraction? An apology?”
“Well,” Manny started, thinking of several apologies to begin with, but said, “A revised history. A verification of what went wrong, who did you in.”
He shook his head. “No need for sentimental excuses for history. I helped do myself in, somehow, I am sure, and the Russians helped me out, that’s all.”
“You are being too honorable.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And your family helped you out. And the king and his government ‘helped you out’ also, significantly.”
He shrugged, took out a cigarette, lighted it, inhaled and exhaled.
Manny eyed the fellow and wished he recalled the right Shakespeare lines to describe the restrained nobility, the higher soul, of this fellow.
“I will confess one thing to you,” said Raoul, smoking, “I have enjoyed your company, our brief chats, your unusual concern.”
“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Wallenberg, I assure you.”
He inhaled and rejoined, “You will do well to get out of here, I believe, and do your work on the outside. I remind you, you should call me Raoul.”
“I will, in the future, definitely.” He added, “I believe we have become friends through this … long ordeal.”
Raoul stared. “Yes, friends, odd friends,” he paused, and smiled wryly, “long-distance friends, to be sure.”
“Yes,” countered Manny, “long-distance friends. Maybe they are the best in certain situations?”
“Perhaps you are right,” said the reflective, lean fellow. “Well before I say good-bye for now, I will confess there is one other matter,” he added, reflecting. “I do actually know a few things, a few things of some significance, to add to my entire case, and maybe you and I can work on them together, here. We would need to gather the evidence, you might say, and decide then the best way of bringing it out.” A surp
rise smile. “Now that I see that you really are determined, stubborn, and really serious. Probably too much for your own good, it seems.”
Manny removed his glasses, scratched at the beard, stared up at the fellow and his odd words. Two years, and now, only now, Raoul believed he was “really serious”?
The gentleman leaned forward, and half whispered, in the silent cell, “I lived on,” and he gazed at his long-time shadow friend.
Manny stared at the grave expression and felt his own heart beating at the words and the meaning of the revelation. Finally, he said, “Lived on? Where? For how long? How did you—”
“That is why we need you to get out,” Mr. Wallenberg smiled triumphantly, “and begin the search, the new search.”
“But how and where—”
Mr. Wallenberg tipped his hat and added, “It is fitting, don’t you think, that you, a Jew, should be helping me now?” He nodded, “And myself, a sort of ghost, accepting aid from a private ghostwriter?” He smiled and exited.
Manny, still in shock over the revelation a moment ago, sat there for a while on his cot, trying to take it all in. What was going on? Was he batty, or more whole than ever?
Then, suddenly renewed in spirit by the new direction, he stood up to call the warden, to see about his release, to explore his new mission … He called, “Guard!”
Here in elegant Stockholm, he would situate his base of operations for a while. And probe the austere, masked city with more hands-on investigation, especially with his ghost of a friend around so much, revisiting—and haunting?—his old home ground. Maybe the two of them together, one living, one a live-in specter, could indeed work to dig up new old evidence, discover something newly relevant, either here in this stealthy town in a secret diplomatic note, or family letter, or in KGB/FSB files, or in a new surprise … Gellerman felt in his gut something stirring, sure now that they were forming a unique partnership, a kind of metaphysical detective agency, in pursuing the elusive truths of this sixty-plus-year-old cold case of murderous indifference and moral corruption. “Guard!”