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We share a lot of things, Renata and I. One of the things we share is a photograph, taken just before the Second World War on a balcony in Przemyśl, where she lived with our father and her mother, his first wife, who died after three and a half years of slave labour in Auschwitz. That photograph of a little girl being held by her mother on a balcony in Przemyśl is the only memory she has of her mother. She does not remember anything else that happened between her and her mother because she was only 23 months old when the Second World War started. Eventually, when we started to come to terms with our family history together, we made a little shrine of that photograph in my sister’s home.