The Memoirs of Vidouq—which "theatrical" event I was witness to whilst conducting myself as a "book editor" (in the employ of the house of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the corporate "body" known as Random House) and thus comporting myself as a participant, on behalf of the foregoing, in or at the Frankfurt Book Fair of 1991—there appears a character called "the abbess." Need I say more? I think not. The piece was shown — or exhibited — at — mark you, please — the Prater Nonstop. The credits, offered for one and all at the finito of things — a black-and-white affair mounted, one gathered, sometime during, or just previous to, the hostilities so famously prosecuted across Europe by the "powers that be," or "powers that were" — declare one Sissy Mangan as the performer playing the part of "the abbess." I ask that you offer sensitive study to the name Sissy Mangan. You are, or are not, conversant, are you not, with the curious sentence "It is well for you"? You can, if interrogated on such a score, indicate the speaker of this sentence — the distinguished text wherein the sentence is "spoken"? Let me, as a poseur, or posturer, or postulant, hurry to proclaim that I hope so. I cannot overstate the breadth of what I shall, in this "scription," expect of you — nor the finesse or vitesse or depth of it. I beg you to realize I "sign" my death warrant when I "sign" this writing. It must therefore not be in vain that I do so. Bear in mind, dearest, the sons of Uncle Henry are at large, absence of hyphen aforethought. Nevertheless, insofar as the existence of the commission treating of the resolution of relations between the Deutsches and the "Lishes" is at stake, there remain, or remains, the Chinese to contend with, do there, or does there, not? Am I losing you? Alas, what is it but regrettable that the tale to be told cannot be told elsewise? Yet told it must be. Yet go forward, as teller, I must and I will. Adele is dead—"presumably" of cancer. A carcinoma of the bones, which probably hurts like the dickens. Like Regina — Reggie — Adele busied herself with covering various of her "garments" with sequins and beads. Or spangles. One such spangle — another detail it would "be well" for you to keep "in mind" — was known as the bugle, or bugler. But we must not abandon touch with the truth that these ornaments were obtained by Adele — and by Reggie — in great number, or supply — and without cost to themselves — by their exploiting their ties with the "Lish" side of the family, which "side" was reputedly, or reportedly, or putatively, in the hat business — and was therefore in the practice of buying trim in bulk. Dad — my father — would fetch such "material" home to Mother, who, for her part, would, in turn, fetch a lesser portion of same along to her sister Adele. Helen, meanwhile, was "in" Laurel Park (Maryland), where, as of this writing, a certain Freedom Fighter and his spouse continue to sustain their matrimony in (protected) residence. Helen, meanwhile — we are "talking about" the years 1937 and 1938—was "one of many" or was "one among many," which many — the plant at Fort George Meade was still to become fully operational — devoted itself, or themselves, to the round-the-clock collective expression of their singular gifts in an assault on the stubborn fascia, or raffia, of certain enemy codes, or of the codes of certain enemies. By 1954, or in the year of 1954, Helen Deutsch, then Helen Deutsch Siegel, stood forth, among her kind, as the premier cryptoanalyst in Government service. She was "retired" from that service in the year 1962, this in possession of a lozenge-configured medal. Listen, she kept upon her person two pistols — a sidearm and chest set. What other implements of the kind she might have borne herself about with, one can only, even now, wonder at. Well, we are both, she and myself, bound — to this day — by the War Secrets Act. It scarcely matters, it appears, that Aunt Helen is ninety-four or better and that I was never, at any point in my career, since the impanelment I underwent in 1952—I ask your indulgence for my quite plainly having erred by a factor of two years when I earlier rehearsed for you the date I did — at, or in, Miami Retreat. It owes, or is owing, this small error, one must insist, to the "medication" that, disabling as its effects may sometimes seem to be, enables, or facilitates, or makes composable, the composition of these sentences. Listen, I could get killed for writing this. May it not be that I will be killed for writing this. It is not, for that matter, inconceivable that certain persons in the "publishing biz" might make themselves the instrument of my disconcertion. Does one know? Can one know? One does not know. One cannot know. I went in — in 1952—as a Deutsch against "the Lishes." I did not "go in" as a citizen against whomsoever — as Helen had, as Adele, until her death, did. I complain not. I submit no complaint. It has been a great adventure. It has been one thrill after another. What a happiness, my stint! One cannot claim too lavishly for its part! May God keep this language safe! I, Gordon — Gordon! — speak, shriek, from White Plains, from experience, as a patriot.