She pushes her plate away, as if in disgust, even though there are still some greens left.

“Quickly, it seemed, he went up in the ranks, and quickly the House of Law passed a special dispensation to proclaim him Director of the city. And quickly, it seemed to us back then, our city returned to normal life.”

“You didn’t suspect anything?” Jorzy asks quietly, his eyes narrowed as he lights his pipe.

Nanna takes a sip of water, considering, although I know she will have thought about this many times before. All the old folk do. As if they blame themselves for what came later.

“Not then,” says Nanna, “not until later, and by then things were changing too fast, it was too late to stop it.” She pauses, squeezing the bridge of her nose.

For a moment it looks like my tough old Nanna is going to cry, which is worrying, then the moment passes.

“The first thing I noticed was when I stopped in as usual to buy bread, and the shop was closed. It was after work, and I was tired, yet we needed bread for our meal that night, so I walked the few blocks to the next closest bakery. That shop was at the outskirts of our district, and wasn’t a shop I normally frequented. I stepped inside, and the woman behind the counter frowned at me – she was a Travester, and it was obvious that I was a Cerel from my dark features and poor clothing – and pointed at a new sign in the window. It said that Cerels were not allowed to buy bread from this shop, by order of the Director. But why? I asked in confusion. She shrugged and said it wasn’t for her to question an order from the new Director. That evening I tried two other bakeries I knew of, and it was the same story. Eventually I had to go home, empty-handed.”

It’s common knowledge what came next: the broadsheets from the Director stuck onto lampposts, pasted on walls and fences. Jobs in certain districts going only to Travesters. Then the men started to disappear, or were taken away to the new wild camps, including Papa.

Everybody around the table is silent now and Marina seems even more dejected than before. Nanna looks up, seeing the depression she has created. She claps her hands softly. “What a terrible bedtime story!” She gets up, bustling over to the bench with some plates.“Jorzy, sing us a funny song.”

“All right,” he says, “though Marina has to choose.”

My sister smiles briefly, while Babet tugs at her sleeve and whispers in her ear. “We would like the silly goose song,” she says.

“Ah, good choice.”