‘I think you do, Uncle. You understand very well. My father knew about all of this. It all came out after the change of system in 1990. The dark secrets from the war, what we did to the Bergers, how we betrayed them, sat on their wealth and assets, built our economic empire on their ashes.’

She swallowed for a moment, looked down. ‘Dad wanted to release the information. Make a clean start. A new company for a new regime, Reka, that’s what he told me. Let it all out, then start again with a clean slate. That’s why you arranged that accident for him. A specialist team came in from Moscow. My father was a superb skier, but he never went off-piste and he never drank while he was on the slopes. I found the papers in the Librarian’s records. It’s all recorded. Your request, the dates, the result. How you killed your brother. My father.’ Her face crumpled for a moment. ‘How could you do that? Your own brother. I was just a child.’

Karoly’s face twisted in guilt and anger. ‘My brother was a fool. He would have wrecked everything, just because he had a fit of conscience,’ he said, almost shouting now. ‘I told him, leave it for now, we’ll deal with it later. Let’s focus on the business, history can wait. But no, no, he would not listen. After all these years, he discovered his conscience. He told me that he had found the Bergers’ daughter, that she was alive. That we could compensate her.’

‘He found her? He found Eva?’

‘Yes. He found her as well. He was going to tell you. But I knew once we paid her, it would never end. The reporters would be all over us. The Jewish organisations, the Americans. We would have lost the house, the company, everything.’

‘So you admit it? You, Karoly Bardossy, arranged the murder of my father, your brother Hunor, because he wanted to reveal the truth about how Tamas Bardossy, your father, denounced Miklos and Rahel Berger in 1944 to the Gestapo so he could steal their assets and wealth?’

‘Yes. It’s true. I did that,’ said Karoly, his voice dull.

Reka glanced at Antal, moved her head slightly to the side. He stepped closer to Karoly. Reka said, ‘I can’t hear you, Uncle.’

Karoly looked skywards, as though help might come from the heavens, his face twisted in anguish. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, his voice shrill. ‘I did all that. I had my brother killed because he wanted to tell the world how we set the Gestapo onto our family’s Jewish friends so we could steal everything they had. In March 1944.’ He stood back, panting, his breath white plumes in the air. ‘That’s it, Reka. My confession. After all these years. Happy now? Did I say enough? You got what you wanted?’

‘Yes.’ Reka wiped her eyes. ‘You will resign all your positions in the company by the end of the day. You will give up the house. You will turn over all your assets. You will never work again. If you do that, I will arrange a pension for you of 300,000 forints a month.’

‘Three hundred thousand forints a month? That’s not even a thousand euros. How can I manage on that?’ he asked, his voice incredulous.

‘It’s three times what Eva Hegyi gets. You’ll get by.’

‘No,’ said Karoly. ‘I won’t do it.’

Reka looked at Antal. He stepped forward, took out a small digital recorder, pressed play.

Karoly’s voice sounded, small and tinny, but clear: Yes, yes. I did all that. I had my brother killed because he wanted to tell the world how we set the Gestapo onto our family’s Jewish friends so we could steal everything they had. In March 1944.

FORTY-THREE

Klauzal Square, 3 p.m.

The baker’s round, jolly face stared out from a large black-and-white photograph as he weaved plaits of dough for the Sabbath challah bread. Next to him was a portrait of a woman in her thirties, her long hair pinned up as she modelled a black evening gown in an old-fashioned studio, and next to her one of Samu bacsi in his repair shop, bent over a desk covered with knobs, bolts and bits of wire, smiling at the camera as he fixed an ancient radio.

Eva neni clutched Balthazar’s arm in delight as she looked at the pictures, one by one. ‘And there is Rothman’s, the best cake shop we ever had,’ she said excitedly, pointing at a photograph of a 1970s patisserie on the other side of the square, now a falafel restaurant. ‘Look at these, Tazi, I’m so pleased to see them, all the places I grew up with.’

There were six white exhibition stands, arranged in a corner of the square. Smaller lettering on each announced that the exhibition on District VII’s Jewish heritage was supported by the government and the local municipality.

Balthazar read the caption on the photograph of the lady in the dress. Rosa Hartmann, modelling one of her designs, 1974.

He turned to Eva neni. ‘Is she…?’

‘His wife. She died just a couple of years ago. She was very elegant.’

It was a tasteful, stylish exhibition, he thought. Both locals and passers-by were stopping to look at the photographs and to read the captions. The old District VII might have mostly vanished, but at least here it was preserved.

Eva neni said, ‘Now come, let’s sit down.’

They walked over to a nearby bench. The sun was still shining but the brief warmth of the day was fading as dusk approached. ‘I have something for you, Tazi,’ said Eva neni, reaching into her pocket. ‘A present.’

Balthazar smiled. ‘There’s no need for presents, Eva neni. Having you in my life is a gift every day.’

She laughed, hit his arm lightly. ‘Save that stuff for your girlfriends. I almost believe you.’

‘You should. It’s true.’

She looked at Balthazar, her deep affection for him written on her face. ‘Now stop with your nonsense.’

Balthazar looked across to the playground, where Alex was clambering on a climbing frame. Balthazar smiled as he watched his son. His carefree joy at being with his dad was was a pleasure to behold. Sarah had also seen the footage on newsline.hu of Balthazar being abducted on Wesselenyi Street – as had Alex, of course. For once Sarah did not argue or play power games: she had brought Alex over on Sunday morning and even agreed to let him stay overnight. Balthazar felt wrung out, exhausted, but also strangely relaxed. Elad was safe. So was Eva neni. Alex was with him, playing happily.

Eva neni was also watching Alex, smiling with approval. ‘That’s a fine young man you have there. You must be very proud of him. It can’t be easy for him, bouncing back and forth between his mum and his dad.’

She glanced at Balthazar, shook her head, took a tissue from her bag, and dabbed the plaster over the cut on Balthazar’s forehead. He looked at her questioningly. ‘Is it bleeding again?’

Eva neni showed him the paper, dotted with red. ‘A bit. How much longer are you going to do this, Tazi?’

‘Do what?’ he replied, although he understood the question perfectly. It was the same one he had been asking himself.

‘Guns, shooting, fighting, getting kidnapped, gassed, beaten up. They knocked you out last year at Keleti. Now look at you. All bashed around again.’

‘That’s what the doctor said. She told me to get a desk job.’

‘She’s right and you should listen. Don’t be such an okos tojas.’ The phrase translated as ‘clever egg’ but meant a know-all who did not listen to others. Eva neni looked at him, her voice softening. ‘Tazi, it’s not your fault what your father and brother do. You didn’t take that path. You did something else. If you have something to prove, that a Gypsy is as good as any other Hungarian, you have done. You have a son, Tazi. He needs his dad – and in one piece. You can stop now. You’ve done enough.’

He gave her a wry smile, wincing as he tried to sit comfortably. First the doctor and now Eva neni. Perhaps she was right. She usually was. Maybe it really was that simple. ‘Have I?’

Eva neni nodded. ‘Yes. And you can focus on something much more important,’ she said, nodding towards Alex, then rummaging in her bag. ‘Now, end of lecture. I told you I had a present. Open your right hand and close your eyes.’

Balthazar did as she asked. He felt a cold, metallic weight on his palm. He opened his eyes to see a heavy gold ring with a large black stone mounted in the middle. ‘It’s beautiful, Eva neni. But you don’t need to give me presents. I hope you haven’t spent a lot of money on this.’

‘I know I don’t need to, Tazi, but I want to. And I didn’t spend anything. This was my father’s. I want you to have it. You know I have one daughter, Klara, and she’s in London, and she has two daughters. There are no more men in my line of the family.’ She grasped Balthazar’s hand in hers and curled his fingers over the ring, her eyes glistening now. ‘That’s it, Tazi. No more arguing.’

‘Your father’s? But how?’ he asked, his voice surprised.

Eva neni had never told him much about her parents, only that they had died in the Holocaust, and he had never pressed her. Eva neni looked over at Alex, who was now sitting down on the edge of the sandpit, playing with his iPhone. ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. And one day, hopefully not for many years, you will pass it on to Alex.’

She let go of his hand. ‘Now try it for size.’

Balthazar slipped the ring onto his middle finger. It fit perfectly. He held his hand up and looked at the black stone from different angles. It was a beautiful piece of jewellery, finely crafted, masculine, but not ostentatious. The ring felt completely natural on his finger.

‘Thank you. It’s an honour. I’m very touched.’ He glanced at her enquiringly. ‘This is all tied up with what happened on Friday, at Reka’s house, isn’t it?’

Eva nodded. She spoke for some time, told Balthazar the story of her family, of the Bergers and the Bardossys, of the house, the paintings, the box in the garden, how she lost her parents, somehow managed to survive the ghetto. She wiped her eyes as she spoke, then smiled at him. ‘So now you know.’

Balthazar sat back for a moment, looked at Miklos’s ring once more. ‘So all this time, you knew that the Bardossys had your house and everything else? Didn’t you want to get it back?’

‘Of course. Or something, some acknowledgement at least. But under communism it was impossible, Tazi. The state took ownership. There was no compensation. Nobody wanted to draw attention to themselves, show that they were part of the old capitalist elite. That would just bring trouble. And after the change of system, the Bardossys were still really influential and important. What do you think would happen if an elderly widow in a little flat in Dob Street without much money or any political connections took on one of the most important dynasties in the country?’