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stick-thin, the skin surprisingly smooth and white on the forearm, a stark contrast to the liver-spotted wrinkled hands. He turned the palm upward. The nails were yellow and curved, the knuckles gnarled with rheumatoid arthritis. Solomon swabbed her ring finger with the preparation pad. He nodded at a black-and-white photograph on the wall: a stunningly pretty girl with shoulder-length wavy hair on the arm of a tall, good-looking man in evening dress.
    “Is that you, Nana? And your husband?”
    The old woman looked across at the picture.
    “Handsome, isn't he? All the girls in the village said I was lucky to have him, but they didn't know what he was like. Not really.”
    As she talked, Solomon pricked her finger with the lancet. A small drop of blood blossomed at the tip. He put the lancet on the table.
    “He had a temper and he was a big man.” She smiled at the photograph.
    “The things you put up with when you are in love.” She looked down at her finger.
    “You've started already?”
    “It's done, Nana. I said it wouldn't hurt. We've almost finished.”
    He took her hand and gently pressed the finger against each of the four printed circles, then stuck the plaster over the tiny wound.
    “That's it,” he said, putting the card on the table to dry.
    “When will you know?” she asked.
    “A few days.”
    “Where were they found?”
    Solomon swallowed.
    She saw his hesitation.
    “It was bad?” She looked across at Kimete.
    “It was bad?” she repeated.
    “It's always bad, Nana,” said Kimete.
    “They were cruel times.” She reached over and held the old woman's hand.
    “But we don't think there's much doubt. We have to be sure before we say anything officially, but I think you must prepare yourself for the worst.”
    “What happened to them?” she asked.
    Solomon sighed “Nana .. .”
    The old woman spoke to Kimete.
    “I have a right to know. I might be a silly old woman who's no use to anyone, but I have a right to know.” She leaned forward so that her wrinkled face was only inches from Kimete's.
    “I know they're dead. I accepted that long ago. If any of them was alive they would have been in touch. But I have a right to know how they died. Don't I?” She looked across at Solomon, her hand still in Kimete's.
    “Don't I?” she repeated.
    Solomon took a deep breath.
    “They were put into a truck, Nana,” he said, in Bosnian.
    “A refrigerator truck used to carry meat. Some of the men fought back and they were shot. The doors were locked and the truck was driven into a lake.”
    She frowned.
    “They drowned?”
    “The back of the truck was airtight so they suffocated.”
    Kimete translated.
    “Posto?” asked the old woman. How many?
    “Twenty-six.”
    “Twenty-six,” repeated the old woman.
    “There were children?”
    “Four boys. And three girls. One was a toddler. Two years old, maybe.”
    Kimete translated.
    “A baby girl?”
    “Yes.”
    “Shpresa,” whispered the old woman.
    “My great granddaughter.” Tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks but she made no move to brush them away.
    Shpresa. Now the child had a name. The image of the little girl, clutching her teddy to her chest, cradled in the arms of her mother, flashed into Solomon's mind and he felt tears at the back of his eyes. But he was damned if he'd cry.
    “It would be a help, Nana, if you could give me the names of the people at the farm,” he said.
    The old woman groped for her stick and pushed herself to her feet.
    “What's wrong?” he asked.
    “I have photographs,” she said.
    Solomon stood up.
    “Let me get them for you,” he said.
    “Where are they?”
    The woman sighed and lowered herself back into her chair. She gestured with her walking-stick at a low wooden sideboard.
    “The top drawer,” she said.
    Solomon went over to it and pulled open the drawer. Inside there was a large album with thick cardboard covers. He moved his chair so that he could sit down next to Mrs. Berisha, and placed the album on