My grandfather was a great story-teller.
His stories were a mystery.
An enigma we'd never be able to solve.
Trying to guess what had really happened was a fascinating game
we used to play. But getting to the bottom of it was impossible - his stories were unsolvable.
I remember him telling us that all of that strange stuff
was his life's story, and that of our father.
They were immigrants, living in a hostile city.
A place where help was hard to come by.
Grandpa used to say no matter how lonely they were...
they always had company.
It was difficult to grasp the hardships they were going through,
- we were just kids.
Grandpa used to say they were invisible.
In a city, people only see what they want to see.
But he saw things.
"What was it, Grandpa? What did you see?"