They will not see each other again, she and the Weiszes. A relief. They know too much about her. Yet what does it amount to, what they know? That she had an affair with a man? It happens every day. That the man was left heartbroken and wrote poems about her? That too happens, though not every day. No, the shame is that Clara Weisz, who is no one to her and no one to Witold, has had access to what was going on in Witold’s soul, clearer access than she, for whom the poems were written, will ever have, given that there must be tones, echoes, nuances, subtleties in the Polish that no translation
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