October 9, 2016
Walked to the Dohanyi Synagogue, to which young fathers in skullcaps were leading their children. It was Yom Kipper. It was a day of blazing light. I tried not to think of Hungarian Jewry, the tragic tears one must shed now beyond any help. Returned to my obscure garden, and the street café where I had coffee when I had to spend hours a day at the state radio, and the museum with the tank in the yard. Ate at Callas, where providence was pleased for me to encounter Allen and Jelena again. Allen told me the long history of himself and H and Mr Smith and TG, a story I knew in fragments and innuendos but never any part of the full fabric. I am grateful that I never put so much of my trust in anyone as to have been betrayed by them in a way that tore my life asunder. Betrayal is the theme of that story, and Allen seemed to need to tell it. Jelena listened with patient attentiveness. The 6 PM bells ring out over Budapest.