The clerk bowed his head, his frosty manner beginning to melt; evidently he was unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of a young woman’s charms. “Certainly. But I am not hopeful, and neither should you be.”

Three hours later, the clerk called the number. His pessimism, he confessed to Jessie, had perhaps been premature. He explained that he had sensed that this was a matter of particular importance to her, and thus made a special effort to ascertain that the records had indeed been lost. Given the vastness of the National Archives, after all, a certain amount of misfiling was inevitable.

Jessie listened to the long-winded clerk with mounting excitement. “You mean to say you’ve turned them up? We can get access to them?”

“Well, not exactly,” the clerk said. “A curious thing. For some reason, the records were removed to a special section. The locked section. I’m afraid access to these files is strictly regulated. It would simply be impossible for a member of the public to be allowed to see this material. All sorts of high-level ministerial certifications and documents of exception would be required.”

“But that’s plain silly,” Jessie said.

“I understand. Your interests are genealogical—it seems absurd that such records are treated like state secrets. I myself believe it to be another instance of misfiling—or miscategorization, anyway.”

“Because it would just break me up, having come all this way,” Jessie began. “You know, I can’t tell you how grateful I’d be if you could see a way to help.” She pronounced the word grateful with infinite promise.

“I think I am too softhearted,” the clerk said with a sigh. “Everyone says so. It is my great weakness.”

“I could just tell,” Jessie said in a sugary tone.

“An American woman alone in this strange city—it must all be very bewildering.”

“If only there was somebody who could show me the sights. A real native. A real Magyar man.”

“For me, helping others isn’t just a job.” His voice had a warm glow. “It’s—well, it’s who I am.”

“I knew it as soon as I met you … .”

“Call me Istvan,” said the clerk. “Now, let’s see. What would be simplest? You have a car, yes?”

“Sure do.”

“Parked where?”

“At the garage across the street from the Archives building,” Jessie lied. The five-story garage complex was a massive structure of poured concrete, its ugliness compounded by the contrast with the splendors of the Archives building.

“Which level?”

“Fourth.”

“Say I meet you there in an hour. I’ll have copies of these records in my briefcase. If you like, we might even go for a drive afterward. Budapest is a very special city. You’ll see how special.”

“You’re special,” said Jessie.