Searching for Wallenberg (31 page)

Manny looked up, not amused but amazed, at this premature expression of gratitude in her manuscript. Why? Why had she proceeded this way?

She interrupted his reading with a gleaming smile, standing before him. “Dinner is ready, and it is best while hot, if you don’t mind.”

Dazed and even stunned, he got up and was led to the round wooden table in the next room, the table set with a linen tablecloth. He sat and faced the bowl of soup.

“I made it without too much hot paprika, so please don’t worry!”

He carefully tried the first spoonful, a sort of gazpacho. “It’s tasty.”

“I am so glad!”

He tasted his soup, debating his words, and raising his appraisal of her ingenuity.

“Is the translation suitable?”

Slowly he nodded. “Yes, it is fine.” He broke a piece of bread, took another few spoonfuls. “But why did you already insert my name in the text? At this very early stage? I don’t understand the need for—”

She stopped him, by handing over a sheet of paper across the table.

He shook his head. And read the note. It was an e-mail printout, with a Yale University Press return address, and he perused the body, a single paragraph:

It was signed by the editor in chief, Jason Margolis.

Gellerman read it over three times, to try to digest the full import. He scratched his beard, stood up, and went to the window looking out at the green hillside and the birds landing at the bird feeder. “Swallows?” he asked?

“Ah, let me see. But it is Dora who is the bird expert.”

Presently she was standing by his side, her white blouse brushing his shoulder, and they gazed at the hungry birds. “Yes, perhaps swallows.”

They stood for a moment, looking at the happy birds eating and chattering. The twilight was filtering the yellow light with a yellow-green beauty.

“You like it here?” she asked, smiling at him.

He took a breath. “It’s the countryside, and I feel at home in it, yes.”

“I am glad.”

He waited, and presently she asked him to return to the table for the dinner.

She served him the roast chicken dish, with kasha varnikas and carrots, and he watched her perform the simple tasks with careful skill. Clearly, he understood now, she was also skilled at the more complicated tasks, and with planning as well.

“Would you like some music?” she chirped.

“No need, thanks. I can hear the birds.”

She smiled.

He ate a bite of chicken, with the old-fashioned ribbons of kasha noodles, and took a carrot too. Sweet. He drank some wine. She was waiting for his verdict, and he said, “Very tasty.” To which she nodded happily.

“Why and how did you choose Yale to write to?”

“Oh,” she beamed, “I learned they have a special series devoted to Jewish questions.”

“I see,” he said, seeing little, understanding less, but knowing this was a sly, formidable madwoman, not simply a freakish nutcase. And if tomorrow was a surprise, what was this, here tonight? An early reward? Or an early warning?

That night he slept fitfully, alert at every noise, wondering if he could possibly be locked away there, kidnapped in some Edgar Allen Poe thriller …

The next afternoon they were back on the train, chugging back to town. At Zsuzsanna’s apartment, she excused herself and refashioned herself, dressing up in a rather formal suit when she reemerged from her room. When it became clear that they were going out, he nodded and asked where? She put her finger to her lips, silencing his request, and ushered him outside. Soon they were waiting by a tram stop, chatting, and next they were on the tram itself, number 7, zigzagging in and around the town. The heat was sticky, twilight had arrived, and he hoped they would reach their destination soon.

In twenty minutes they alighted, taking care with the sharp steps of the tram. She led him to a small old building, just around the corner from the large celebrated synagogue. Taking his hand, she led him through a long dark corridor and into a plain room—“the real shul,” she beamed—where a small group of participants was waiting, mostly older souls. A slender rabbi wearing a blue suit and gray tie welcomed them graciously. Soon a few others filed in, totaling maybe a dozen altogether, and they got ready for the service.

Manny followed the others in removing his shoes; candles were lit, and everyone sat on the floor. Along with a yarmulke, Manny was handed a slender prayer book for the Tishah B’Av service, which was printed in both English and Hebrew. The room was squarish and simple, reminding Manny of the Brownsville basement where he had learned Jewish history and language some fifty years ago in a Sholem Aleichem Bund school; the atmosphere was plain too, except for the flickering lights of the candles. How strange! he thought.

The rabbi spoke in Hungarian but directed Gellerman to the appropriate page and asked if he would read a section, in Hebrew or English. Manny nodded.

As the rabbi began his low chanting. Manny read to himself:

Manny was nudged by Zsuzsanna, and he looked up to see the Rabbi asking him to lead off the reading, a graceful courtesy amidst the group sitting around him, like old Indians at a camp fire. So Manny began, in English, in a neutral voice, chapter 1 of the Book of Lamentations:

The atmosphere was of quiet and spareness; and the long-ago written words, and the sniffling of Zsuzsanna beside him, worked a surprising sense of uncertainty into Gellerman; he paused. Restraining his tension, he started up again:

Gellerman concluded his page-long portion; his friend Zsuzsa sobbed lightly; the group was quietly waiting. Privately he wiped his brow. Though he had read poetry aloud, always in the same neutral voice, the stuff had never really affected him as this selection did.

Next came a yarmulked octogenarian reading in Hebrew, and the hour of reading from the Book of Lamentations ensued. Just as moving as the text of loss and mourning was the intense emotion triggered in his friend, sitting alongside him on the floor; Zsuzsa cried and shook all the way through, though trying to restrain it. As much as Gellerman admired the ongoing rhythmic chant, he had little idea that a text would affect her that way; she used a small white handkerchief constantly at her eyes and nose, but at an angle, away from the sight of the others. Oh, the Jews had lost much, much, and seemed to memorialize and remember each and every blow. Suffering was displayed, honored. The Book of Lamentations was direct, evocative, monstrous in its news, its powerful history urgent and consuming. Near the end of the dark hour, Manny found himself caught up in the grim memory, and his head ached. Probably the plain room, the old Jews, and the simple ceremony contributed to his disorder, he felt.

The hour ended with the Aleinu prayer recited. Zsuzsanna stood and chanted, and he followed her.

Walking out afterward into the soft night air, Manny remarked to his friend that he had never realized how much this holiday of collective remembrance meant to her.

She shook her head. “My father, that’s what it means to me. My father! In this room, where he once recited the Lamentations with my mother; it’s terrible, terrible! I remember and honor him, and what I’ve lost. Can you imagine?!” She walked unsteady for a dozen steps or so, and suddenly she began shaking, and nearly fell, sagging onto a black iron fence bordering a park, where she began shaking violently, and crying, hugging herself in paroxysms of pain and torment.

Gellerman was so startled that for a few seconds he stood his ground, stunned, before moving to help her, holding her around, clasping her for the next four or five minutes, holding her to his chest and rocking her for comfort. It was maddening, and bewildering.

Her disturbing performance, especially after the hour and a half in that room of ancient despair, shook his equilibrium and easy assumptions about what was going on and
even how to read her.
He must give her more delicate sympathy, he told himself, and her whole situation too. Obviously she was as frail and stressed as she was obsessed.

Ahead on the main street, the cars darted back and forth, along with the circling yellow trams, and this simple reality flashed for a moment to his overheated brain like some sort of children’s toy game, played out here in the night of Budapest. He helped his newfound patient up onto the trolley, and held her hand all the way back to her apartment, where he made sure she was home safe, and then he bid her adieu, saying he would call later.

Budapest at night did possess that toy-like quality, he concluded, at least here walking across the Liberty Bridge toward the Gellert Hotel and Palace Hill. Lit up at night, the series of four bridges crossing the Danube made for a pretty sight, with the big white Elisabeth Bridge just up the river to the right, along with the occasional boat gliding down river. You could see the parliament buildings festooned with light in the soft black night. Manny was reminded of his first trek, as a teenage boy, across the Brooklyn Bridge toward the skyline of Manhattan, and feeling the sense of transport to a new world. Now, walking toward the hills of Buda, he thought what a new territory of strangeness this current situation presented, the way the adventure kept taking turns this way and that, so that apparent fact merged with subtle fantasy and sure assumption was toppled by new event. Just ahead, up here in the first district, was where Raoul and his legation had operated, where Vilmos would have the Studebaker ready for him to hop in at a moment’s notice, to race to an urgent rescue point.

Meanwhile, the roller coaster ride of the emotions roared on, taking neutral Manny up and down with sudden turns and twists. This was not Dartmouth predictability, or a professional historian’s usual journey in foreign turf; this was something else. But what?

He had a quick drink at the hotel and then walked back across the bridge, where he took a tram back to the Oktagon station area and his rented apartment.

In the morning a phone call came from Dora, who explained that Mom had to go to a doctor’s appointment, so would he join her for breakfast at a café, and perhaps a walk in the Margaret Island?

Only slightly surprised, Manny accepted, and soon was meeting up with Dora in the New York Café, not far from his place. Was this to be the pattern, a fantastic night with the strange mother, and then a consoling visit from the dutiful, practical daughter? To calm him down?

“This seems like a repeat of how we met last time,” he observed.

She smiled lightly. Brown curly hair, white blouse, trim figure, the same lovely young face with the small upturned nose.