Back in his living-room, Arpad's three-year-old granddaughter, Jofie, brings me wooden elephants and antelopes to admire and stands quietly listening to our conversation.

On the table, Arpad has arranged photographs that he took on his trips east in search of the lost Hungarians.

"Maybe that one is your dad," Jofie tells him, wanting so much to be helpful and pointing to a group of men who are holding a cross on a small hill in the city of Baltsi.

"That hill," says Arpad, "is made of human bones."