He leads the way to a stone marker that has several names etched on it. Because the cemetery is running out of room, they put several bodies in each grave. I shiver, thinking of them all crammed in together. Bit points at the bottom name, freshly etched into the stone.

“Marek Rudd,” he says. It’s the name of a fish, a country name. “My father,” adds Bit, frowning at the grave.

I stare at the marker, stuck for words. Me and Bit have known each other for ages – ever since he first came to Ursa and I rescued him from a gang of big boys who were snowballing him – yet Bit has never mentioned this. A father buried.

“You sure it’s him?” I ask. “Your father?”

Not that I doubt his word, except how would you know your father was in there? Most fathers have been taken away and put into wild camps: that’s a given. It’s rare for a father to be returned to his family, either dead or alive.

Bit, tight-lipped, nods. “Yes. I saw him. We brought him here.”

I look at my friend, the dark orange mop of his hair that means he’s only half Cerel, is picked on by the bullies, and I can’t help myself, I have to know. “Where was he?”

Bit scuffs his boot in the gravel. “Outside our house, on the street.” His voice rustles like dead leaves under the trees.

I frown at the grave, imagining the bodies wrapped in cloth, lying beneath the dark earth at our feet. I don’t even think to ask why Bit hasn’t mentioned this before; we all avoid talking about fathers. Nanna might have known – she would definitely have known, she knows everything that goes on in the ghetto – but she also said nothing. Sombre now, I wonder if that’s how we’ll get our own Papa back: dumped on the cobbles in the dead of night, like a message from the authorities.

“Come on,” shudders Bit, “let’s get on.”

We continue through the cemetery until we reach the back wall. The stone wall is high along most of its length, taller than Jorzy, except for an area that’s hidden behind a large stand of scrappy trees, where part of the wall has been dismantled by busy kids. We climb over the rubble, the dog following nimbly along, and over the other side.