Free Searching for Wallenberg by Alan Lelchuk

suburb of Stockholm, and he’d write him. A young architect no less. Perfect.
    At home he took care of all the immediate needs—his part-time handyman, Russ, had done a good job of house-watching—and then went through the snail mail and the few dozen e-mails. He wanted to get to sleep early, but his head was still filled with the trip, with thoughts, impressions. So he sat down by his computer, checked some of his notes, and got ready to compose a new little scenario. As he felt a bit sleepy, however, he put on an Ella Fitzgerald CD and sat back with a drink listening to the velvety smoothness of her voice.

    But a stranger came in silently, a gentleman in a dark suit; he nodded, as though familiar, and sat down on the leather chair in Gellerman’s study. He removed his fedora, and spoke in a quiet, slightly accented voice:
    “Ella and Louis, my favorites, and no one had her wonderful clarity,” he began, and crossed his leg. “But now, Professor, here with me, do you really think there is a point in this pursuit? What’s done is done. The past is the past. What happened to me will never really be found out, or completely understood. I was alone through it all, please remember. Well, almost alone; my driver was with me for a time. Suffice it to say, I managed to help a good number of Jews, and they in turn gave me a sudden sense of purpose. So we each benefitted from the other.” He gazed at Manny. “Isn’t that enough of a story?”
    Gellerman responded calmly. “I understand your views, sir, but I am determined to push forward and find out the truth. Well, if not the whole truth, a piece of it, or perhaps several truths.”
    The gentleman fiddled with his hat. “I see you are one of these ‘stubborn’ Americans that I used to know back in Ann Arbor—stubborn in their pursuit of any adventure of interest. Even off-limits.” He flickered a smile. “Well, do me one small favor then. If you should find out anything too dark in my ‘case,’ don’t be afraid of exposing it. Even if it might hurt me personally.”
    “Why do you say this, or rather, sir, think this way?”
    “You should call me Raoul.” A pause. “I lived so long with truth as my only bedfellow, that I became devoted to it; it was the only thing I had, you see. So, if you should by accident find out anything resembling it, feel free to reveal or expose it.”
    “Sounds a bit dangerous, sir.”
    “Dangerous? Well, the real truth always is, I suppose, to one or another. But in my case, it would be something like Sicilian revenge, served up nice and cold.”
    Gellerman was quietly stunned, and also somewhat confused over what was being said. And who was saying it. He felt the heat from the fire.
    “Let me caution you, if I may, about certain things. You will find in your path false leads, varieties of disguise, appearances of truth that are in fact untruths or semi-truths. Are you prepared?”
    Gellerman opened his palms in uncertainty.
    “And beware the Swedes—their government dispatches, subsequent covering statements. And beware my family. They both have an interest in concealing the past, brushing it clean, leaving no marks, protecting it from outsiders, whom they view as unpleasant intruders. All of this will pose a problem for you, Professor, an obstacle. Not to mention the usual zealots and cult followers, harmless though most of them are, in Stockholm, Budapest, maybe Moscow. They also will cloud your vision.”
    Manny felt uncomfortably chided, and nodded. “Why are you telling me all this, sir?”
    The stranger crossed and recrossed his leg. “To prepare you, to warn you, so you do not waste months or years on this pursuit.”
    Manny stared at the strange, formal figure.
    “Please remember, Professor Gellerman, what I said earlier: that if you come upon something of importance, or if you are avenging me in some way, you must not worry about my personal feelings, but ‘go full steam ahead!’ as my Michigan friends used to