Black Marks came to the house, looking for Ma. I was just a kid when it happened, maybe Babet’s age, but the memories are sharp in my head. Had a neighbour denounced her as an enemy of the Director? We’ll never know. It wasn’t long after Papa was taken away to the wild camp.

The Black Marks came through the building like a storm, scattering old people and making the women scream: we heard them before they burst into our place. I was sitting at the table, drawing with a crayon on a sheet of brown paper. My mother was washing a basin of dishes. One of them grabbed her by the wrist and started dragging her through the building. A plate smashed on the floor. My mother was shouting.

Where was Jorzy? Where was Nanna? I don’t remember that. Maybe it was only me and Ma at the time.

I threw myself after them, latching onto Ma’s skirt. The Black Marks didn’t seem to notice – just a no-name Cerel kid, like a bit of rubbish in the street. So I ended up being bundled into the truck with my mother. Terrifying in itself, being inside one of those awful trucks used to round up people and take them away. And there we were, being taken away.

My mother’s eyes were big in the dark interior of the truck. Normally deep blue like a summer sky, they suddenly looked black. She was wringing her hands. Later, when I was older, I realised she must have been beside herself with fear, because it was only then that she noticed me.

“Leho,” she gasped, “what are you doing here?” She pressed me to her chest, fingers in my hair. “You must try to get away,” she whispered urgently, “the very first chance you get. Don’t think – don’t worry about me – just run!” Holding me away by the shoulders, so she could look at me properly, her eyes were pleading. “Promise me!”

Ages later, maybe two years afterwards, Ma admitted something to me: I was certain I was going to die. I saw only her resolve.

Little did I know at the time, but there had been weeks of rumours about a Cerel uprising. Perhaps my mother had been involved. I was sure Papa had been. There were meetings at odd hours. Whispered discussions in the house with people like the Hern person I’ve never met because Ma sees hardly anybody. Either way, somebody gave up her name.

They didn’t torture her for information. Didn’t need to. Once the officer in charge – Mr White, as they called him – saw me, it must have been an obvious tactic to use her own child against her.

All of these things I pieced together later, the way Nanna works on her rag quilts, adding one patch at a time, until she builds up the whole picture.