‘We were taken first to Sverdlovsk – big town in middle of country, with steel works. The Russians wanted my father – they came for us soon after the war started. They were arming against the Germans, of course. My father, he lived for ten years in America and he learned about making steel.’ Katie listened, fascinated. She had never heard any of this before. ‘The Russians took him to work and they took us. They did not treat us too bad in this place – they want his work. All the young ones, we were taken to a barracks – a kind of orphanage – me, my brother and sister and my mother worked there in the kitchen. I was in school. At Christmas time they put up two pictures, one each side of the room: one of Jesus Christ and one of Papa Stalin. They say to children, “Which one you want to pray to? You can go to either one.” But the children soon learn – if they choose to go to Papa Stalin, he has a box of sweets – sweets falling into your hand. But Jesus? He has no sweets. You go to Jesus, you come away with hands empty. So’ – Piotr raised his glass – ‘this is religion-teaching in Russia!’

They all laughed. ‘Goodness,’ Sybil said. ‘And did you stay in this place for a long time?’

Piotr shook his head. Without emotion, as if all feeling had been sucked from him, he went on, ‘My father did not come home one day. No one told us anything. Then they put the rest of us on the transports – we went across Urals Mountains, to Siberia, for work camp. It took us eight weeks.’

‘Work?’ Katie asked. The whole thing was unimaginable.

‘Digging railway – my sister, digging, at age thirteen. In snow.’

‘Oh dear – that doesn’t sound very nice,’ Susan said.

Then there was a silence around the table that grew, in which no one wanted to ask about his little sister.

‘Now . . .’ Piotr said, changing the tone. ‘Enough of Russia. Let us drink to this young man here. To little Michael!’

And gladly they all joined in.