A few years ago, at my parents’ house I found a photo of my paternal grandfather surrounded by the members of his family who stayed behind in Poland. It is the only thing my grandfather kept of them in Argentina. Today, no one in the family knows their names.

I painted a picture starting from that photo, and wrote their supposed names, and the names of members of so many other families; and those of Polish cities, their own towns, that saw them die at the hands of their neighbours.