But that’s silly of me. Why on earth would they? The war was half a century ago. The couple by the window are too young to know anything of it. Perhaps the man does, though. I stare at his profile as he reads, engrossed in something. I certainly still flinch if I hear a Russian accent. Try as I might, it isn’t possible to block all they subjected us to from my memory. People might wonder why I let those soldiers do what they did to me, why I never bothered to put up a fight. But it was survival. You did whatever you had to for a piece of bread.

London is like a different planet. Foreign, full of wonder and terrifying, all at the same time. I’ve been locked behind the iron curtain for over forty years. Once the worst years were passed, we settled into a day-to-day life that was pleasant enough. As long as we had food, and a roof over our heads, that was enough. It lacked luxury, but it was certain, cohesive and everyone was the same. Here, life feels precarious and chaotic. I can imagine all this speed and freedom is exciting for the young, but for my generation, the crumbling socialist blocks are safe and familiar, like comfortable old shoes. Yesterday, I walked for miles around London, staring up at the shiny towers of metal and glass, the smart houses and shops full of stuff. So many big, expensive cars. So much noise and bustle. It’s frenetic. Bewildering.

While I wait, I sip my coffee and will myself to eat the sweet pastry and its almond filling slowly. I take tiny bites to make it last longer, savouring each mouthful. I watch my own hands tremble at the thought of what is to come.

I open my handbag and there, tucked between my purse and the folded, off-white square of Walter’s handkerchief, which, after all these years I still carry with me as though it is a lucky charm, is the envelope containing the response to that first letter I sent to England over a year ago. I needn’t take it out. I’ve memorised its contents. Instead, I find my lipstick and mirror. I reapply the pink sheen to my lips, snap the mirror shut and place both back in the bag.

The café door swings open and the room fills with newcomers. An elderly woman with grey hair tightly wound into a bun on the top of her head comes in first. She is slight, with bright brown eyes and a long, narrow face. Instantly, I know it’s her. Anna.

Tucked beneath her arm is a book, the colours of its textured cover in faded, geometric patterns. It’s as much as I can do not to cry out at the sight of it. I swallow down the lump in my throat.

Behind her is a slightly built, middle-aged man. His face is open and pleasant, and his light brown hair is flecked with grey at the temples and cut short. He glances around and I catch the light blue eyes and high cheekbones. My heart skips.