The place Patuk’s family had sought out, because of an already large community from the old homeland and a few distant relatives there, had just been voted the most depressing city in England for the first time. Abandoned factories, abandoned lives, but—Patuk didn’t notice it as they drove down the faded streets on the bus that had brought them from London. A few ill-tempered locals stood on the street and looked at Patuk’s family without any particular indication of welcome. What was he supposed to do with these unattractive people, was Patuk’s first thought. Then first contact with the paved street. With no potholes. The rolling suitcases glided over it like weasels, inside the things that you take with you when you leave your homeland. Photo albums, table mats …

So this is England. A bit dark, the houses, but not leaning the way buildings did at home. It was cold. But the family had gotten used to that in transit, which, compared to the conditions refugees would face in coming years, had been relatively drafty, sure, but not dangerous. Family consolidation, forged documents, the whole routine. The closer they got to the home of their relatives, the more people they encountered on the street from their old home. Everything would be fine. The family had hopes.

How sweet.