Papa stood up as soon as we came in the room and smiled his beautiful Papa-smile at Annie. Mama must have told him about her while I was out.

‘So you are the person who has made my son a happy man,’ he said. He opened his arms out wide and Annie threw herself into them.

‘I can’t believe I am meeting you at last, Mr Grunberg,’ Annie said.

He held her at arm’s length and tutted. ‘I am not Mr Grunberg to you,’ he said sternly. ‘You are part of my family now. Let’s not waste any more time. Please, call me Papa.’

And then Annie was crying, and Papa was holding out his other arm for me, and Mama had wrapped an arm around Annie’s waist, and the four of us clung to each other: a circle of love in front of the fire.

It was going to be okay. We would get there.

Later, after we’d eaten, Papa leaned towards me. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said. He reached into his pocket and handed me a photograph.

No. Not a photograph. The photograph. It was torn and faded and stained. But the three smiles still shone brightly beneath all of that. The smiles that said everything.

I took the photograph from him. I wanted to ask how he’d got it, where he found it, why he had it. But his face was closed and I knew he didn’t want me to ask any questions. Not yet.

‘Did you see them?’ I asked instead. I held my breath while I waited for him to reply. I wanted to know the answer, but I was scared as well.

Papa swallowed hard, then nodded. ‘I saw them both,’ he said. He paused for a long time, and then in a voice that sounded as if it were filled with gravel, he added, ‘They were together at the end.’

His words landed on my heart with a dull pain. Not a surprise. Not shock. But the deepest sadness in the world. Sadness for my dearest friends who I would never see again. Sadness for all the children, all the lives, all the families, the losses – it was too much to contain and I wanted to bend over and keen like a wounded animal.

Mama closed her hand over Papa’s. Annie reached out to put a hand on my arm. I stared and stared at the photograph until it blurred from my tears. My dearest friends. One day I knew I would need to ask my papa more, but not now.

‘Let’s say Kaddish for them,’ Mama said softly. She got up to bring a candle and matches to the table. ‘Here, you light it,’ she said to me.

I struck a match, lit the candle and put the photograph beside it. And then, together, we said the words of mourning for my friends.

Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba