Lionel and Nathaniel were as alike as any two men aged twenty years apart. Both shared broad faces and prominent foreheads, topped by luxuriant dark brown hair. Nathaniel was the taller of the two, by a good three inches, a testimony to his father’s insistence on a healthy diet denied to the older man in the hard times of his youth. Otherwise, their heritage shone through in the way they carried themselves, their choices and actions; and the quirky speech mannerisms marking them out as different to the melange of Grangetown’s habitués.

They sat in the front room of a small terraced house facing the southern edge of Cardiff, with just a broad strip of green known locally as “The Mall” between them and the Bristol Channel.

“Are you okay?” Nathaniel asked. His father looked up from his hunched posture.

“I was just thinking about her,” he said. “Bubbe Nina was a forceful woman.”

“Stronger than most,” Nathaniel nodded his head in agreement. “Didn’t she walk from Vichy France to Spain?”

“Yes, in nineteen forty-one, just after the Rafle du Vel’ d’Hiv’ in Paris,” Lionel said. “She was seventeen and alone, trusting no-one, hated by all.”

They lapsed into silence, and Lionel glanced at his watch.

“The doctor is taking his time,” he said.

“I expect he has other patients,” Nathaniel replied. He felt uncomfortable in the tiny, chintzy room with his Bubbe’s best crockery on display amongst the photographs and miniature menorah’s, their candles pointing inwards to the light of God.

A loud rap came from the front door and they both jumped to their feet. Lionel waved his hand at Nathaniel, indicating he should sit again. The senior family member always greeted doctors. It was a measure of their importance.

Doctor Llewelyn was a fat, jolly man. Seemingly unconcerned by fashion, he dressed in a drape coat which would not have been out of place in an Edwardian drama and carried an old-fashioned black medical bag. He beamed at Nathaniel as he entered the front room and held out his hand.

“Doctor,” Nathaniel acknowledged, taking his hand.

“You’ve grown, Nathaniel,” he said. “I remember you as a boy, screaming the surgery down when you came for your jabs.”

“I’m twenty now, Doctor,” Nathaniel said. “Second-year medical school”.

“Oh, really?” The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“UCH, London,” Nathaniel said.

“An excellent school. I was at Barts,” the doctor said, “played your lot at rugby. Dirty bastards.”

Nathaniel nodded, “I don’t play rugby. Music is my thing. I’m in a rock band.”

“Just as well,” said the Doctor, “I had far too much practice setting broken limbs from the bloody game. Anyway, where’s your grandmother?”

“In the backroom,” interjected Lionel asserting his rightful position as patriarch.

The passageway to the back room was narrow, just enough for two people to pass if they did not mind a moment of intimacy, so they filed one by one into the dingy room. Bubbe Nina sat in her usual chair, her body inclined slightly forward, a broken cup on the wooden floor surrounded by the remains of her last beverage soaking into the unpolished floorboards.

The doctor examined her briefly, then reached into his bag for his pad of Medical Certificates. He handed it to Lionel after writing some brief notes.

“Here, take this to the Register Office,” he said, “They’ll issue the Death Certificate.”

At that moment, Bubbe Nina fell forward and crashed into the small table in front of her chair, scattering the teapot and a plate of uneaten biscuits on it across the floor. In his twenty years, Nathaniel had only ever seen her in that chair, sat like a queen dispensing wisdom and caution, and the shock of her fall caused all three men to jump back.

“Hello, what’s this?” said Doctor Llewelyn reaching for a large envelope that lay hidden under the old woman’s cushion. He handed it to Lionel, who carefully tore the flap open.

“It’s a title deed,” said Lionel. He held up a thick sheaf of papers each bearing the crest of the French Direction Générale des Finances Publiques and bearing the title, ‘Plans Cadastraux,’

“It’s for a house in the department of Haute-Garonne,” Lionel continued, “just outside Toulouse. A bloody sizeable house by the look of things.”

“I’ve heard of things like this,” said Doctor Llewelyn, “Jewish refugees, I mean, holding on to land deeds for property all over Europe, but not doing anything with them.”

“I wonder why she said nothing,” Nathaniel mused.

“What would she have said?” Lionel said shrugging his shoulders, “We used to own a house in France? It’s ancient history now.”

“No, it’s not,” said the doctor, “there are many cases of refugees regaining their family properties. The French government offer grants and the right of return in such cases.”

Lionel paused, thought for a moment, returned the deeds to the envelope and tossed them into the empty grate, then reaching into his pocket he pulled out an old Zippo lighter, flicked it open, spun the wheel and lit the wick.

“Dad,” said Nathaniel, “That’s Bubbe Nina’s gift to us.”

“No, Nathaniel,” said Lionel firmly, “her gift to us was the wisdom to know when to let things be. She had her reasons not to pursue this. That is good enough for me.”

With that, he lit the pile of paper in the grate and watched as the past dissipated into smoke.