‘They tested us. Many tests of the blood. And the hair and the…the blood. Testing the blood.’

‘What else?’

‘There were other doctors. And then the Catholics, many priests.’ José was shivering. He was shivering like the oak leaves in the garden, pelted with cold mountain rain.

‘What did the priests do?’

‘They burned us. Some of us. Killed us.’

‘Why did they do this?’

José took one more mouthful of the cooling, greasy baby eels. And then he said, ‘They thought we were not human, they thought we deserved to be exterminated, like snakes. To die like pagans, or witches. Once they finished their blood testing…Eugen Fischer would hand some of us over to the priests and the criminals…’ José waved a hand, despairingly. ‘And they took us, and burned us. Many many people. In the swamps at the edge of the camp.’

‘But why did they torture you?’ David said. ‘Was it like the witch burnings? Zugarramurdi? The burning of the Basques?’

José gazed with a profound sadness at David. And said, ‘No.’

David’s shoulders slumped. The mystery still eluded him. He was angry now. Angry at himself for not working it out, and angry at his grandfather. And most of all David was angry at José. This old man could tell David everything, blow away the mist, trap the wild horse of the truth. José would have to confess. David had to know now.

Gripping José’s arm, once more, David pressed on.

‘José, people are dying. They’re dying right now. What happened at Gurs? Why were you called the traitor?’

The brown eyes were closed, but José was nodding, muttering.

‘Sı…you are right. It is time. Sı…’

David wasn’t letting go of José’s arm, not this time. He didn’t care if he was hurting the old man. José spoke, his words dry and croaked: ‘They did tests on us all, David. Many tests of blood types and skull sizes. The Cagots and the gypsies, the communists and the Basques, the French and Spanish too…’

José looked down at David’s hand, wrapped around his upper arm. The old man spoke again: ‘Fischer had tests from Namibia, his tests on the…Baster people. And of course the Bushmen. He told us all this…he told me this. Specially.’

‘Don’t get it. What’s this got to do with Basques? Why you?’

‘Because I became…’ A tremble shook through Garovillo. ‘I became his ally. Fischer’s friend and helper.’

‘That’s why you are ashamed? Cause you helped Fischer!’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought I was Basque.’ José was crying again. ‘I was brought up Basque, speaking Basque. Proud to be Basque…’

A bright light shone on the puzzle. David saw.

‘José, did they test you too? Test you…racially?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they tell you that you weren’t a Basque?’

The whispered reply was almost inaudible.

‘Yes.’

‘Did they tell you that you were a Cagot?’

The rain pattered on the windowsill. Then José Garovillo looked at the plate of half-eaten angulas on his lap – and he lifted the plate, and hurled it at the fire. The squidge of fried eels nearly doused the remaining flames.

José was babbling now.

‘Sı. Sı sı sı sı sı! They told me I was not Basque, that in fact my descent was from the Cagots. The cursed people. The people of the goose, the goitre. The madness. The Saracens. The web-footed untouchables. Yes!’

David suppressed his shock and pursued the question.

‘That’s why you are here? In the Cagot house? That’s why you knew where it was?’

‘Yes, David. When Fischer had the results of my tests, they moved me from the Basque barracks to the Cagot division. The Nazis were obsessed with getting these…categories right. This race over here, this race in there. The Jews over there. They were like fussy old women. The racial hierarchy. Vile! But I was so ashamed of what they did to me, so ashamed.’ José wiped another tear with the back of his liver-spotted hand, and stared at David. ‘I was raised to…to despise, no, to abjure the Cagots. We Basques knew what it was like to be pariahs, to be a minority. We sympathized with the Cagots, yes. But still in our hearts, like the French and the Spanish, we thought the Cagots were lower, like the rats and the snakes. The shit people! Something wrong with them!’

‘So Fischer told you that your blood was Cagot, not Basque. Then the Nazis put you in the Cagot section at the camp. But what happened then, José, how -’

‘In the barracks I spoke with many Cagots. They told me of this house. They told me of many things about their people. My people. I tried to make them my people, I tried to believe they were my brothers, but -’

‘You were too ashamed?’

‘Yes.’

David felt the logic of the terrible story unfolding.

‘So what did you do, José? Did you deny them?’

‘That is the good word. Deny. Yes I denied my blood. Because I wanted to live. In the camp the priests and the Nazis were especially cruel to the Cagots; the priests called them the sons of Cain and they tortured and killed them more than anyone else, so yes I wanted to be Basque again, just to save my life. And I was raised as a Basque, I still felt I was a Basque in my soul.’

‘So you went to Eugen Fischer?’

‘I went to Fischer and the other doctors. I told them that if they pretended – forgot – pretended I was not Cagot, if they gave me back my Basque identity, I would help them.’

‘How?’

The old man looked at the pitiful fire.

‘I was a very young man, in my mid-teens, but I was a well known Basque radical. I had influence with the other young Basques in the camp. The real Basques.’ He lifted his bitter gaze to David’s. ‘The Basques are a very brave nation, rebellious, indomitable. They were always brawling in the camp, fighting the Nazis, making things difficult for Fischer, trying to escape.’ José shook his head. ‘So I became a traitor to them. Yes a traitor. I told Fischer I would use my influence, make his work easier. I would persuade the Basques to cooperate. But only if he took me out of the Cagot division and gave me back my blood.’

‘And that’s what he did?’

José’s voice dwindled to a whisper, once more.

‘That is what happened. They pretended they had put me in the Cagot barracks by mistake. So I was restored, I was made a Basque once more! And then I used my influence. To…help Eugen Fischer do his terrible experiments…I persuaded other people to let Fischer test them. And so Fischer became a kind of friend to me. He told me too much. He told me of the Jews…’

‘What? What of the Jews?’

José regarded David.

‘The Holocaust. Eugen Fischer told me – why the Germans did what they did. The truth of the Holocaust. That is all I can say.’

‘What?’

José’s eyes were fluttering. Almost as if he was falling asleep. David reckoned the old man must be exhausted: confessing these murderous and long-buried secrets. He let go of José’s arm. But continued the questioning:

‘José, I need to know about Miguel. All this is the reason Miguel killed my parents. Right? He is ashamed of his Cagot blood. Yes?’

‘Yes. This is the worst mistake I ever made. I told my son the truth, when he was maybe nineteen. He never forgave me. He was so proud to be Basque up to then. The great ETA activist…’

‘So he was angry. And he thought my mother and father…were about to uncover his shame.’

‘Sı.’

‘And then he finds out I am on the same chase. And he needs to kill me, too.’

The wind rattled the dusty glass in the windows.

‘Sı sı. It is so.’ José grimaced. ‘But there is still more…Davido.’

‘My grandfather, you mean?’ David felt the question hanging in the air, like the dampness of the house. A revenant of the past. A ghost he had to exorcise. ‘Tell me, José. Was my grandfather…was he also a collaborator?’

‘No!’ The reply was fierce. ‘Do not think that! Your grandfather was a good man. No…I mean Miguel.’

‘What? What is it?’