Sigmund had bequeathed the library to Nathan – his godson – and David. But no mention of the books was made in David’s will. As if, thought Nathan now, David could not bring himself to make what would have been a conciliatory gesture to me. The books had come to Nathan only because David’s daughter did not want them, and his son could not accommodate them.

It was Sigmund Moritz who had nurtured Nathan’s love of literature, encouraged him to partake of that literary feast, given him Silas Marner, the first book Nathan had ever owned. And still imprinted upon Nathan’s mind was Sigmund’s explanation, that long ago day, for selling some precious first editions: You can’t eat books.

Decades later, amid the trappings of affluence of which the Sandbergs and Moritzes could not then have dreamed, Nathan’s journey backward in time caused his throat to ache as he saw again, like figures in a distant landscape, those who had peopled his childhood.

David helping him with his homework. His father snoozing in the rocking chair beside the kitchen hearth. His sister Esther, ironing a blouse. His middle brother Sammy, patiently carving with a penknife the ornaments he had made from bits of wood. And Sigmund and Rachel Moritz arriving with their family for Sabbath tea, their daughter Miriam, who had loved David but had married Sammy, as beautiful then as she was in old age.

As for Miriam and David dying together, in a car crash… What was it but another twist in the tangled history of a clan welded ever closer by time and events? Part of which was Nathan’s daughter marrying Sigmund’s grandson. And my granddaughter marrying David’s grandson.

Bridie, whom Nathan had not noticed had left the room, returned to place a bowl of sugar on the table and surveyed his expression.

‘Oy’d be surprised, Doctor surr, if the whole family wurrn’t doin’ a bit o’ rememberin’ today. It’ll do sum o’ the young ones gud to think on whut were sacrificed for their sake!’ she added before departing.

Including my father’s health, thought Nathan, But how could today’s young Jews comprehend what it was like to work in a sweatshop? To live in a back street, in the shadow of Strangeways jail, sit shivering in winter on a lavatory in the backyard. Bridie was right. With each succeeding generation, more and more was taken for granted, as the twentieth century gallops towards its end, sweeping aside religious beliefs and family values.

Now Nathan, like Bridie, was a dying breed, the familiar figures of his humble beginnings dead and gone, and he responsible for carrying out his brother’s posthumous instruction.