Walter, I hope this letter hasn’t come as too much of a shock. I should dearly love to know my son, just a little. If it is only to know he is alive and well. It might be too much to ask of him, and you and your family, but I dream that one day I may be able to meet him in person. You might never, of course, have told him anything of his past, and if you would prefer for me to stay away, then of course I shall honour your wishes.

At present, I could not possibly afford a trip to England, so for now, I would be incredibly happy just to hear from you.

With love and best wishes,

Herta Roth (Heinrich)

Summer 1995

London

For the third time I check the address on the crumpled piece of paper in my hand, then look again at the number over the door of the café. This is definitely the right place.

I take a deep breath and push open the door. A little bell jangles somewhere out the back as I enter the warm, coffee-scented room. A couple sit holding hands in the corner next to the window. The only other customer is an elderly man reading a newspaper, its pages spread all over the wooden table in front of him. I read, The Sunday Times, in large letters on the discarded front page. I should have done that, brought a newspaper. It would have been something to do, something to make me look less conspicuously alone. And good practice for my English.

I’m forty minutes early. But better this way than to be late. I’d been so afraid of getting lost, or something going wrong, I barely slept last night.

A young girl appears behind the counter. She looks at me expectantly.

‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

‘A black coffee, if you please.’ I speak carefully, trying hard with my pronunciation.

‘Sure. Anything else?’ she asks.

There is a huge array of cakes and pastries arranged on display behind the glass counter. My mouth begins to salivate at the sight of them.

‘And I take one of those too.’ I smile at the waitress and point to a twisted pastry with blanched almonds on the top and something that looks deliciously sweet and creamy oozing from the middle. ‘And how much is the cost?’ I hope I’m using the correct English grammar.

‘Don’t worry. Take a seat and I’ll bring it all over. You can pay at the end, when you’ve finished.’ She nods towards the tables.

It seems very self-indulgent to eat such a thing so soon after breakfast. Even though all the years of deprivation are long gone, there is an overwhelming urge to treat myself, just in case it is all taken away again.

Besides, it will help to pass the time.

‘Thank you. You are most kind,’ I say.

The waitress gives me a warm smile. The other customers don’t even look up. No one seems bothered by my German accent.