‘tikkun?’”
“Well, I know the word, but not really the meaning.”
“It is a word that means healing, restoration. That is what my father brought to the Hungarian Jews in 1944. The sense of healing, recovery, in the middle of catastrophe; that is very special. And for that they loved him, you see. Not merely admired him, but loved him.” Her face grew luminous. “Wanted to touch him like touching the Torah itself, you understand? Others may have helped Jews, but from afar, and with letters and papers; my father stood with them bodily on the ground, at the railway stations, on the streets, at warehouses or on the forced marches, always.” She stared at, scrutinized, him, to see if he was understanding the depth of her words. He followed her eyes closely. “I would not call him their zaddik, you know; he wasn’t quite that; he was their mentor, their tikkun; their on-the-ground living moshiach, you may say, though that is blasphemy for our people. But the Soviets, later on, knew what they were doing when they took him away and kept him locked up, in isolation; their vengeance was Stalinist anti-Semitism. But he tricked them, even then.” Her smile was filled with furtive pleasures.
“How do you mean?”
“Never mind, Professor, never mind. And please, it is late, I must do my errands.”
Had she somehow gone too far? In any case, he was escorted out and returned to the busy streets and his hotel room and his swirling thoughts. He took notes. What did she mean by that last remark about tricking the Soviets after all? More tantalizing but fraudulent leads? He felt annoyed with himself for putting up with the charade for so long and not getting tougher with Madame Frank. Oh, well, that was not really needed. Let her be. A cultish nut? A self-styled mystic? A would-be astrologer? Whatever. The main point was, after two hours plus in that dark room of her strange fantasy, he was delighted to be out and connected again to the real world.
Should he leave early for Moscow? he pondered. And rid himself, for now anyway, of that haunted lady? That would be best, he thought, glancing at CNN and packing. After a bit, he went for a walk, hit up a travel agent, and boarded Trolley 64, bumping along and remembering the old electric trolleys at Ralph Avenue in Brooklyn. He headed over to Margaret Island, a recreation park situated on the Danube between Pest and Buda, a ten-minute ride away. Presently he was wandering in that wonderful park, opened in May for the season, enjoying the warm sunshine and the parade of citizens out walking, bicycling, sunbathing, picnicking. What a relief after that room of dark memories and Madame’s fantasies! He decided to rent a motorized golf cart and ride leisurely through the strip of island, a few miles in length.
He was feeling at loose ends; what was he doing here now? What was this mad lady’s relation to Raoul? Was there one, in some bizarre way? In Moscow would he be able to dig up some hard facts, a counter to this mystical adventure? Who could have imagined such a scene? Here in the broad sunshine, in his little cart, he felt himself driven, heading somewhere. But where? Toward further mystery, further illusion, or toward real explanation, a surprising truth? …
And should he not try for a pit stop in Stockholm—he thought, darting around and heading back—and try to meet with the living Wallenbergs? To ask some hard questions about the dead one, and their family’s role in Raoul’s ordeal? What did those rich uncles and powerful cousins know, or remember and lock away? And how in the world might Detective Gellerman pursue those secrets? Clearly, whatever “scenes” the professor/scriptwriter had invented, or would invent, were to be equaled or eclipsed by the dark actualities, if they could be unearthed … Just consider the fantastical Zsuzsanna Wallenberg here in Budapest, and go from there …
Before heading back, he stopped for an ice cream at a stall, and
“Well, I know the word, but not really the meaning.”
“It is a word that means healing, restoration. That is what my father brought to the Hungarian Jews in 1944. The sense of healing, recovery, in the middle of catastrophe; that is very special. And for that they loved him, you see. Not merely admired him, but loved him.” Her face grew luminous. “Wanted to touch him like touching the Torah itself, you understand? Others may have helped Jews, but from afar, and with letters and papers; my father stood with them bodily on the ground, at the railway stations, on the streets, at warehouses or on the forced marches, always.” She stared at, scrutinized, him, to see if he was understanding the depth of her words. He followed her eyes closely. “I would not call him their zaddik, you know; he wasn’t quite that; he was their mentor, their tikkun; their on-the-ground living moshiach, you may say, though that is blasphemy for our people. But the Soviets, later on, knew what they were doing when they took him away and kept him locked up, in isolation; their vengeance was Stalinist anti-Semitism. But he tricked them, even then.” Her smile was filled with furtive pleasures.
“How do you mean?”
“Never mind, Professor, never mind. And please, it is late, I must do my errands.”
Had she somehow gone too far? In any case, he was escorted out and returned to the busy streets and his hotel room and his swirling thoughts. He took notes. What did she mean by that last remark about tricking the Soviets after all? More tantalizing but fraudulent leads? He felt annoyed with himself for putting up with the charade for so long and not getting tougher with Madame Frank. Oh, well, that was not really needed. Let her be. A cultish nut? A self-styled mystic? A would-be astrologer? Whatever. The main point was, after two hours plus in that dark room of her strange fantasy, he was delighted to be out and connected again to the real world.
Should he leave early for Moscow? he pondered. And rid himself, for now anyway, of that haunted lady? That would be best, he thought, glancing at CNN and packing. After a bit, he went for a walk, hit up a travel agent, and boarded Trolley 64, bumping along and remembering the old electric trolleys at Ralph Avenue in Brooklyn. He headed over to Margaret Island, a recreation park situated on the Danube between Pest and Buda, a ten-minute ride away. Presently he was wandering in that wonderful park, opened in May for the season, enjoying the warm sunshine and the parade of citizens out walking, bicycling, sunbathing, picnicking. What a relief after that room of dark memories and Madame’s fantasies! He decided to rent a motorized golf cart and ride leisurely through the strip of island, a few miles in length.
He was feeling at loose ends; what was he doing here now? What was this mad lady’s relation to Raoul? Was there one, in some bizarre way? In Moscow would he be able to dig up some hard facts, a counter to this mystical adventure? Who could have imagined such a scene? Here in the broad sunshine, in his little cart, he felt himself driven, heading somewhere. But where? Toward further mystery, further illusion, or toward real explanation, a surprising truth? …
And should he not try for a pit stop in Stockholm—he thought, darting around and heading back—and try to meet with the living Wallenbergs? To ask some hard questions about the dead one, and their family’s role in Raoul’s ordeal? What did those rich uncles and powerful cousins know, or remember and lock away? And how in the world might Detective Gellerman pursue those secrets? Clearly, whatever “scenes” the professor/scriptwriter had invented, or would invent, were to be equaled or eclipsed by the dark actualities, if they could be unearthed … Just consider the fantastical Zsuzsanna Wallenberg here in Budapest, and go from there …
Before heading back, he stopped for an ice cream at a stall, and
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