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home. Some of them weren't quite all there, but they were harmless. The one I liked best used to knock on our doors and shyly ask to enter. Once inside, his sweet expression was abruptly transformed, and from his mouth came a stream of the foulest curses you can imagine – that is, if you speak Yiddish. Then he would take his leave politely and go on his way. When he lacked the time for a proper visit, he tapped on our windows and hurled an obscene gesture or two. Another old guy was obsessed with Bolivian soccer and was always looking to regale someone about his favourite team. He once came out of his room at one in the morning, asked us to help him put on his best suit, tie his tie, and lace his shoes. Once dressed, he kindly thanked us and went back to bed.

Grandma was the boss of the house. She must have been about eighty years old, with frizzy white hair. She had an apartment on the ground floor and was in charge of seeing that the rules were kept. She was the one who checked your passport and papers from the Israeli embassy in La Paz and gave you permission to stay. She showed you where you'd sleep and where the bathroom was. She made sure you didn't make a lot of noise and didn't waste water or electricity. God help anyone who crossed her. She knew how to yell loud enough that no one could ignore her, but underneath her tough demeanour was a fabulous woman, adored by everyone. She spoke broken