The engine stopped to take on water and Lena gazed at the countryside through the window. It was the first time she had seen farm animals, or fields and woods. They prompted questions that she knew Carina wouldn’t want to answer. It was better to let her eyes linger on a cart with a dozen churns of milk, a dray horse tethered to a gatepost, a path running up into the hills past smoking cottages. She turned to her mother, her face alight with what she’d seen, but saw Carina staring at the man a few seats away from them.

At one point, as they were crossing into Italy, the guard asked to see their papers. The train didn’t stop at the border; and when Carina told him she had no papers, he only shrugged his shoulders.

They ate some bread and sausage while the red-tile roofs of Udine were vanishing behind them; Lena fell asleep against Carina’s shoulder and didn’t wake until they were alongside the Bay of Trieste, which was sometimes open to their view, sometimes cut off by trees or by a high-sided motor lorry on the road.

For an hour, until they drew into the station, Lena’s eyes never left the water, which glistened, catching the light at a thousand different points, then grew darker as the sun went down, still heaving against the shore.

On the platform, Carina held her hand tightly as they went through the crowd and out into the square. At six years old, Lena was strong and used to walking; she turned her head to watch the lights coming on in the buildings on either side. She smiled at the Italians, hearing occasional words of their language that made her want to laugh; she had to stop her feet from running on ahead.

They went into a bar, somewhere Carina thought she knew. They gave her a glass of water for Lena, while someone told her the way to the via dei Fabbri. A church bell was sounding seven when Carina finally recognised what she was looking for.

‘This is it,’ she said, stepping up into a dark porch where she rang a bell.

There was no answer and no sound in the tight little street except for a seagull’s cry. She rang again.

‘I don’t think he’ll be at sea,’ said Carina. ‘Perhaps he’s gone to the bar. Or gone out somewhere to eat.’

They stood silently, waiting. A doubt entered Lena’s mind. Her mother had invented the story. Or she had taken them to the wrong place.

Above their heads there was the sound of a window being pushed up, and then a man’s voice.

‘Is someone there?’

‘Stefan? It’s Carina. Do you remember me?’

‘Carina? Of course I remember! Good God. Wait there. I’ll come down.’

The door opened and they went inside, up stone steps to a landing and into a lighted room.

The man wore a white shirt with no collar, dirty old trousers and a waistcoat. He had no beard or eyeglasses; he was neither young nor old. His dark hair was curly and his face was lined.