Searching for Wallenberg (4 page)

Vilmos repeated his information, and the lieutenant shook his head, pointed to the exit. Immediately Wallenberg stepped into his face, took out a notebook, asked his name in German, and told him that if anything happened to any of these people, for whom he had safe house passes—which he waved in the man’s face—he would be shot or hung. Or far worse, if the Russians arrived first.

The lieutenant’s face changed from fury to bafflement, and Wallenberg stood right before him, not budging, blocking his way. The gray sky hung very low.

Wallenberg told him, if he was in doubt, to call the German high commissioner, whose number Raoul held out for him.

The lieutenant said something in disgust, waved his hand, and walked off. The sentries moved out of the way. Wallenberg and Vilmos walked into the yard.

The crowd moved in closer, very slowly, and an older woman wearing a large black hat pointed at Raoul and whispered to her husband, and presently the whisper circled through the crowd, creating a consensual hushed conversation. They moved closer toward Raoul. Two children were allowed to run up to him, chattering away in Hungarian. They fiddled with his trousers, reached for his hand, and held it.

A light sleet began to fall as Vilmos called out to the group to stand in queue, and he collected their Swedish safe house passes.

He remarked to Raoul, “I didn’t know you had Wiesenmeyer’s direct phone number.”

Raoul smiled and made a face. “Oh, I thought
you
did.” He began filling out the safe pass, or Schutz-Pass, cards, while asking the mulling families not to push forward. “Please, let’s get this done orderly.”

But the old lady, wearing lipstick and the odd hat, had stayed by his side and now handed him an old leather bag, a doctor’s black bag, and set it furtively in his hand. In German she said, “You will hold this for us, yes? For the two families, Dr. Kornis and Mr. Marton. Please.”

Raoul understood and nodded, and held onto the bag, knowing that inside would be a collection of family heirlooms and old jewelry, maybe some cash and a few bank books, and an important address book. A life in a bag. To be added to his collection.

The Arrow Cross lieutenant came up and said, “Get the scum out of here soon, or I will change my mind!”

Raoul allowed the fake sign of bravado, and observed a flock of pigeons flying overhead. He signaled Vilmos to hurry the Jews into the vans and rickety bus that had arrived.

“What is that smell?” he asked his friend.

“Coal, probably. There is a plant not far away.”

“Awful.”

“Yes, but it is good to be able to have the time for the smell.”

Raoul smoked, noticed the cold wind whipping now, and walked a few steps back and forth. These minutes were always the most nerve-racking, waiting for everyone to line up and get out before there was a sudden change of mind for any reason, and more desperate measures had to be taken. How could he ever do this without his Vilmos? Well, he couldn’t.

The ten minutes passed slowly, the crowd dwindled, the light went out from the short day.

“Perhaps we’ll stop on the way to Pest and grab a few of those custards,” proposed Vilmos, “to celebrate our little victory today.”

“A charming idea—but I think we would do better to deliver our clients safely, and tonight, maybe at the Arizona Club, then celebrate with a few drinks.”

“What about the bag?”

“Leave it in the trunk of the car. Until we can make the transfer, later tonight.”

Vilmos nodded, a cigarette dangling from his thick sensuous lips, as he shepherded the remaining Jews into the last vehicles. “We can take the final three with us, yes?”

“Sure.”

They got into the car and squeezed the three old souls into the back, setting their few bags into the trunk; Raoul kept the bag of valuables in the front, by his legs, alongside his backpack.

On the streets, driving, they viewed the pitted buildings and the sparse traffic, seeing armed groups of Arrow Cross on the way as they headed down through the hills of Buda. Occasionally Raoul or Vilmos motioned each other when passing a German military vehicle; up here the Germans were fortifying themselves for the oncoming Russians from the East.

With slow calm, Raoul inhaled and exhaled, enjoying the pleasure of the smoke and the drive, listening to the nervous chatter in the back. He took out his little notebook, wet the lead tip of his pencil, and wrote down the names of the two families … Should he put the bag in the vault or keep it with him? One day he’d have to transfer it all, back to Stockholm. But for tonight, he’d focus on drinks at the Arizona.

Manny looked up from his computer and thought about the scenario he had just composed. Had he written the railroad scene too smoothly, with Raoul a bit too competent, even though it was based upon research? Was there enough sense of imminent danger, personal risk? What about the times when RW had to use his revolver to threaten a guard? And what if an Iron Cross officer had indeed wanted to call Wiesenmeyer, the German commissioner? Well, the important thing, Manny decided, was to try to recover the visceral scene, the actual moment. But, he thought—playing devil’s advocate—why would a historian go this indirect route, even exotic path? Was Gellerman risking his own career here? Well, he recalled one of his old professor’s advice—was it Curti or Williams?—at Wisconsin: “Get to the heart of the matter, the truth however you can get to it. Sometimes fiction is a better route than the so-called facts.” Said half in jest, but meant seriously. And wasn’t Manny’s scene based on his reading and research?

Manny gazed out at his meadow, with the rows of trees at the edge of the field, and sighted a hawk flying overhead, circling, hovering, and diving. A New England pastoral scene down there, while up here, in his head, he tried to insert himself back into the Hungarian scene of 1944. Quite a challenge. He wondered if he needed a touch of the real Budapest to continue the quest.

Doing his ablutions in the bathroom before bed, he washed his face thoroughly with the shea butter soap and studied his reflection. The skin was clear, the hair mostly gone except for silver wings and the slim beard, and the nose prominent. The look read? Determination, skepticism, openness, and … folly. What percentage of each, he wondered? And where was Belief in something beyond his boys? In history, for example? He smiled mockingly at his cynical view, and decided to close the windows in case of hard rain.

Manny glanced out his tinted-glass window at the large green, on the Dartmouth College campus. It was March. Some kids were tossing a Frisbee, and others, strolling from classes. A twenty-first-century New England postcard scene down there, while up here, in his office, he tried to imagine Budapest of 1944. Quite a transport. Realistic? Or merely fanciful, hopeful? He set his feet up on the messy desk.

How did he get into this fix in the first place? Get involved with the long dead and long forgotten Swede? With the horror show of Budapest 1944? He had this easy, comfortable life, here on this protected campus oasis. Why go and tamper with it?

He recalled the beginning of the fall term, when the bright graduate student had come to see him, said she still hadn’t a good idea for a thesis, and he offered, “Well, maybe I have a topic for you: Raoul Wallenberg. Ever hear of him? His case is full of problems and mysteries, just right for research and educated speculation. See what you think.”

She immediately took notes as he gave her a few ideas and a few leads, and told her to see him in ten weeks at the end of the quarter. “And if you can find this rumored lady in Budapest …” And he gave her the name. The rest was history, as they say.

Manny had always wanted to figure out the mysterious Swede, as well as the mysterious circumstances, so here was a chance to start.

During her December trip, doing research, the student had e-mailed him, saying how excited she was, and her father also. (“He’s half Swedish you know, and Lutheran too, so he was delighted at the project, and he’s even supporting my trip to Budapest.”) Later on, she had e-mailed him from Budapest, saying she was visiting the libraries, meeting people, getting the feel of the place, and making real “hands-on” progress.

When reading her ten-page proposal, sent via e-mail from Budapest, he had kept his doubts to himself, thinking, Let her get through it. Why not? So what if it produced not much new? Had the legions of experts done any better for the past half century? Not really. Besides, it might trigger his own detective work. Which it did. (But where had his own interest come from?)

When she called him from Budapest, he told her that the proposal was pretty decent, and cautioned, routinely, “There’s been a lot of stuff written about him, so you will have to come up with some sort of real argument, you understand?”

“Yeah, for sure!” she responded. “But I just wanted to check with you, to make sure you’ll go along with it, and me!”

“I’m not really an expert in the field,” he said. “There is Michael Atworthy, who is the European World War II specialist, you realize, and—”

“Oh, no, sir, it’s you I want to direct it, absolutely. You suggested it, and also, you’re Jewish, not that that makes a great difference. But you’re the one who knows me, and whom I trust totally!”

“Jewish? Who told you that?” he deadpanned in his voice. “And what difference would that make?” Then he said, “Okay, it looks good. You’re on.”

And maybe, he advised, the Budapest lady would be worth a footnote in the thesis, and maybe in history too.

A few days later, having done some more RW reading, Manny found an observation from C. Vann Woodward on Francis Parkman and tacked it up—“He sought by creative imagination to bring the past to life”—then proceeded with his own imagination to create a new scene for his small portfolio:

Raoul walked into the Adolph Fredricks Kyrkan in Stockholm, and when the pastor sighted him, he walked up the aisle to greet Raoul. “Well, it has been a while, Raoul,” said the graying pastor, in his sixties. “Five years?”

“Probably more, Johann.”

“Good of you to come in, Raoul. Your cousins will be pleased that you accepted my invitation. Let us go to my office. Your mother, she is well?”

“As well as can be expected, thank you.”

“I don’t see her often, you know.” He smiled narrowly, showing forbearance. “And I was sorry to hear about grandfather. But you are looking fit and handsome. Please sit.”

Raoul nodded, and sat, holding his hat on his lap.

“So, you must catch me up on so many things. You have been all over the map, haven’t you? America, Palestine, South Africa.” He laughed. “Where
haven’t you been
is the better question!”

“Yes, I have been around, haven’t I?” Raoul mused, to himself as well.

“And now I understand you are off again, to Budapest, yes?”

Raoul nodded.

“For the foreign ministry, yes?”

“Yes,” he said, lighting up a cigarette.

“I know these are difficult days in Hungary, and I know too that the Jews are in particular trouble over there, so you will have your hands full, Raoul.”

Raoul nodded. “I am glad you keep up with things, Pastor.”

“We may be neutral politically, but morally we have to stand firm.” The pastor smiled narrowly. “But I asked you in, to ask you, before you go, if you have thought more about your faith?”

Raoul took up his hat and twirled it, hiding his impatience. “‘Thought more about it?’ That is an odd way to put it.”

“But you know what I mean, son.”

“Did my cousins—” Raoul smiled. “Yes, I do. But I am not sure I have thought much more about it than I did when I was younger.”

The pastor, his neck straining in his white collar, leaned forward. “Do you not believe, even now, that Jesus died for your sins?”

“Please, Pastor, I have not come for this sort of testing now.”

“But Raoul, my son, this is crucial for you, as you are about to embark on this journey. It is a journey of danger as much as one of challenge.”

Raoul nodded. “I think you are right.”

“Please, then, you should come to terms with yourself, with your faith, with Christ, before you embark. This will be a comfort for you, in your trials ahead.”