She shivered violently, as if hearing the cries of the tortured. ‘Flats were a bit more expensive in this quartier, but part of this street had been damaged in the fighting, and in this building the upper-floor flats were empty. We took this one because it had the best light. My husband was a talented artist and he had the idea of taking up his painting again, but he never managed it.’ She lifted her teacup to her lips and set it down again. ‘The poor man fell into a paralysing depression. At one point, things were so bad I suggested we emigrate to Canada, or even New Zealand, to start over. But he didn’t believe in running away. So we stayed. But the seeds of flight were sown in the next generation. All three of our children live overseas. Two in Montreal, one in London.’

She shook herself from her reverie. ‘I’m so sorry. Kiraly, did you say? What kind of name is that, Russian?’

‘Hungarian.’

As she turned to look out the window, a shadow crossed her face. ‘If I recall correctly, a Hungarian family did live on the first floor. But I don’t believe their name was Kiraly. Something that started with an S, if memory serves. I didn’t know them well, only to nod to in the vestibule.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘S… something. Soros, perhaps?’ She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Once or twice a piece of their mail was delivered to me by mistake. I can just about see the name on the envelope. Sov… something.’ Her eyes snapped open. ‘Sovàny. C’est ça. A Jewish family, I believe. One of the few who escaped the camps.’ Her lids fluttered and she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘One time, when I took one of the letters down to her, Mrs Sovàny invited me in for tea. I declined, however, as I could hear a heated argument going on at the back of the flat. It sounded like two of the children were quarrelling, a boy and a girl.’

‘So, there was a boy?’ Gessen’s ears pricked up.

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

She shook her head. ‘A slight boy, if I’m not mistaken. Hair the colour of horse chestnuts.’ She fiddled with the chameleon brooch. ‘I’m sorry I’m not much help to you.’ Her eyes filmed over. ‘It was so long ago.’

He assured her she’d been a great help, indeed, and thanked her for her time. To show his appreciation for inviting him into her home, he forced himself to approach the terrarium to admire Tristan and Isolde, though the creatures’ warty skin and oddly intelligent eyes gave him gooseflesh. Ever since he was a child, following a nasty incident with a garden snake, he’d been wary of reptiles, even the supposedly benign ones.