I bit back a gulp. ‘Until recently, nothing.’ I still hadn’t had the courage to read the fingerprint analysis from the lab. So much depended on the results. ‘Mum’s struggled . . . and never wanted to talk about it.’ Talking to Rosa felt different from the nosey questions of peers and strangers. ‘We’ve never been able to find out what prompted it. One moment he was there and then he’d gone.’ I remembered opening the door that evening when the flat bell rang, expecting Dad to be there. But he hadn’t been. Just the . . . ‘Oh my God. The smell.’ I stared at Rosa. ‘I hadn’t registered the tobacco smell on the landing that night. Someone left candles and four bagels in a bag at the front door. My sister and I always thought it was Dad – but we’ve never known for certain. If the landing smelled of his tobacco, it must’ve been him.’ I felt elated. Seeing the picture of him, and talking to someone who knew him, must’ve loosened the memories. It made me hungry for more information. For the stuff I didn’t know. ‘Did Józef see much of Dad?’ Recollections were stirring at the edges of my consciousness.

‘Oh, yes. They were great friends for many years. They belonged to a few of the same clubs and would spend hours discussing politics and religion.’ A warm laugh bounced around the room. It was heartening to see a smile on her aching features. ‘Your father was interested in finding out about Judaism and Józef had never met a Sufi before. They both found each other—’

‘Was Dad a Sufi?’ It was a minor detail and only bothered me because it was something else I’d forgotten about him.

She looked puzzled. ‘I’m sure that’s what Józef said.’ She paused to review what she knew. ‘I don’t want to talk out of turn.’ Her fingers were pulling at her lip. ‘Yes, he did.’ She frowned. ‘I suppose you must’ve been young when he left.’

‘I was twelve.’ I still remembered it vividly. The tense atmosphere when he came home from work. The sharp words between Mum and Dad, and then him leaving. The candles and bagels. ‘It was a long time ago.’ I was walking up and down Rosa’s bedroom, scouring my memory for any hints or mentions of Dad having been a Sufi.

Rosa was still looking thoughtful. ‘Józef had a nickname for your dad because he was always reading verse.’ She smiled. ‘What was it now?’ She tapped her lips gently.

I was eager for this new piece of information.

‘Ba . . .’ She broke off. Looked at the photograph again. ‘Baba. That was it. He called him Baba.’