She nods and a wide smile spreads across her face. ‘Absolument. It was a fantastic movement. With fantastic people.’ She pauses. ‘Fantastic women.’

It takes little prompting for her to go on, and even though she struggles for the English words at times, I get the idea, not least from her animated expression as she talks, that this was one of the best times of her life. Women coming together, newly enfranchised, to fight for further rights, to shout for revolution and demand they be heard. Salary equality, childcare provision, reproductive rights… all causes they championed through rallies across Switzerland, joining other women from around the country. For a time, Nina lived in an all-women commune, she tells me, and she once spent a night in a police cell for participating in an illegal protest outside a government building – there’s a definite sense of pride in her face when she tells me that. Having read Mum’s article, I knew something of Switzerland’s history of women’s rights before coming here, but until now, hearing Nina talk, I hadn’t known quite how late some rights came to women here. It took until 2002 for the abortion law to be liberalised, she tells me, while statutory maternity pay was agreed two years later.

‘Women in the canton of Appenzell Rhodes-Intérieures, they could not vote in cantonal elections until mille neuf cent nonante et un,’ she says, adding slowly in careful English: ‘Nineteen ninety-one.’ She laughs at my shock. ‘Yes, we fought a long battle. Now you understand!’

I take a sip of tea. ‘I wanted to ask you about someone in the organisation. Did you know Evelyne Buchs?’

My heart leaps when Nina claps her hands. ‘Oui, bien sûr. Evelyne was so passionate about our cause. And she was a good friend.’

‘Was?’

Nina nods. ‘She died many years ago, after an illness.’

My stomach plunges and I’m embarrassed to feel my eyes prick with tears that I fight back. I didn’t even know Evelyne, but I suddenly realise how much I wanted to meet her, not only because she might have known something about what happened to my mother in 1976, but to hear someone who knew and liked Mum speak of her once again.

I drain the teacup. It rattles as I put it back in the saucer. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

Nina shrugs. ‘C’est la vie.’

‘How about Brigitte Mela, does that name mean anything to you?’

Nina frowns. ‘In the movement? No, I don’t remember anyone by that name.’

My hopes sink, but I try not to show it. ‘Were any men involved?’ I change tack.