It was smaller than I had imagined it. Not much bigger than the one he had rescued from the rubbish tip in the late seventies, and kept in the glovebox of his various cars ever since. I turned to the back in search of my grandmother’s handwriting. There it was. The records of her six children written in her own neat, meticulous hand. Dad is referred to as Pistika, a childhood derivation of his old Hungarian name.
“She’s the only one call me Pistika,” he said.
He had been hankering after this Bible for
