As a child on Sunday afternoons I would often sit on a small stool in front of my father and play chess with him. He was a kind, humble man who worked long hard hours as a baker to provide for his family. As an adult, he seemed stoic, enduring difficult times during the Nazi Occupation of Holland, and when I was young yearned for his only day off, Sunday, to spend with his family. He enjoyed teaching me chess, one of few past-times remaining from his youth, and how to drink black coffee. I liked learning how to play chess from him and eventually how to beat him.

Upstairs in his wardrobe were a few old cameras which he brought to Australia with him. A box Brownie, and a folder, both of which he complained didn’t work, possibly considered as foibles from younger days, and beyond his being able…