‘Mr Simmonds was my boyhood companion,’ Dovidl tells her slickly. ‘We grew up together but we have lost touch over the years. We have much to catch up. Perhaps some refreshments? Thank you, Mama.’ I wonder why he does not address her by name. Then I remember that the devout reserve the use of personal names for private moments, fiercely shielding their love from prurient ears.

‘Where does Katzenberg come into it?’ I demand, once his wife has left the room.

‘A criminal alias,’ grins Dovidl. ‘Actually, the married name of a cousin of mine who was murdered in Majdanek. As you know, we remember the dead by giving their names to the newborn. I lost thirty-nine members of my immediate family to Hitler – that’s parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins. I have been blessed, thank God, with eleven children. I gave each one three forenames, but was left with six relatives who remained unnamed – my cousin Fayge, her husband Chaim Katzenberg and four children. By chance when I came here and had to forge a new identity, I unthinkingly took Fayge’s married surname, as if by divine will. So everything has worked out for the best, no name has been forgotten.’

‘Except Rapoport,’ I nudge.

He shrugs, expressionlessly. ‘A surname is meaningless,’ he rationalises, unwittingly contradicting himself. ‘We only took the wretched things in the eighteenth century because the goyim needed to tell us apart from one another for the purpose of collecting taxes. It’s Hebrew names that matter. Each one is home to a soul.’

A lissom girl of sixteen or so – long black hair to her shoulders, long black skirt to the floor – knocks at the door and enters with a tray of coffee, biscuits, liqueurs and dried fruits. ‘My daughter Basya-Beyla,’ introduces Dovidl. ‘Named after my baby sister, the one I never saw.’

The girl, Peter’s unattainable beloved, smiles at me shyly and steals a fig from under her father’s arm, giggling as she runs from the room. Dovidl pours coffee and Cognac for us both, murmuring a benediction before he sips. I, bareheaded, murmur amen. ‘Technically speaking,’ he reflects, ‘I should have taken something to eat first and said a blessing over it before I had a drink, but I was gasping for a Cognac and I wanted to toast your arrival with a lechayim. It has been a long time. Tell me, do you have children? Grandchildren? Have you brought pictures? It is so good to see you, it has been too long.’

He is taking charge again, denying my right to outrage. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ I expostulate, ‘there are more important things we need to clarify.’

‘Not tonight,’ says Dovidl quietly. ‘All in God’s good time. Tonight we will go back to being brothers, enjoying each other’s good fortune. Tomorrow, I will tell you everything.’

‘How do I know you will be here tomorrow?’ I snap.