Every Saturday evening, unless he is travelling, Professor Kiraly arrives at my flat at six o’clock and rings the bell. When I open the door, a kind of… play acting begins. He is my gentleman caller and I am his… lady friend. He calls me Maggie and I call him Vida (his childhood nickname). We eat the dinner I make and drink a bottle of wine and then we climb the stairs to my bedroom, where we undress and have… I blush to tell you, but a smart man like you will know what I mean.

Afterwards, he likes me to sing or read to him. Sometimes, after he falls asleep, he says things in his language, sometimes shouting. Maybe nonsense, who knows? One or maybe two times he has shouted something that sounded like ‘Abby’. Perhaps a sister’s name, or an old lover? I do not think he has ever married. One time I wake in the night to find him gone, poof! But he’d left his shoes behind. Another time, I find him stumbling around the front garden, and I must lead him back to bed. Poor man was sobbing like a child. Sunday mornings, he is early riser and leaves the flat before I go downstairs.

When I next see him at his home, I am again his housekeeper, Mrs Bartosz and he is Professor Kiraly. I have never told anyone about this before. The first time he suggested we have dinner at my flat, I did not know what would happen. But I am not a girl, or a dimwit either, so I do not think he is interested only in my pierogi, or my conversation. It is maybe not nice for his privacy to write this, but you seem like a nice man, so I tell you.

When Professor Kiraly is at my home on Saturday evening, he is like a different man, not Professor Kiraly at all. Sometimes he is sad and scared. Almost like a child. I know not much about his life, only that he and his family flee the troubles in Hungary and settle in Paris. I hope it is not wrong for me to write to you. I am very fond of Professor Kiraly and wish you good luck in helping him to feel better soon.

Sincerely yours,

Mrs Magdalena Bartosz

Gessen swivelled in the chair to face the mountains as he digested this not insignificant addition to the meagre storehouse of what he knew about Vidor. Though he hadn’t expected to receive the letter, Mrs Bartosz’s confession wasn’t a complete surprise. During his visit to Vidor’s home, it was clear she was holding something back. Perhaps out of loyalty to her employer. Or an immigrant’s fear of being ousted from the country.