‘I didn’t die,’ says Jeanmaire proudly. ‘They wanted me to, but I wouldn’t do them the favour.’

It is evening. We are alone in his tiny flat on the eastern outskirts of Bern. He is cooking cheese fondue for the two of us. On a shelf in the kitchen stand the steel eating bowls he used in prison. Why does he keep them?

‘For memory,’ he replies.

Of Bankers and Soldiers