It occurs to me it is unlikely this shabby building that has leaned against St. Mary’s Convent in Holborn for so many years has ever before attracted such interest. A queue three people thick and easily threescore long winds back from the front steps down the drizzle-rinsed street. Those standing in line might have been chosen for the uniform drabness of their clothes. Watching them now through the grubby window of the makeshift kitchen it is as though I am witnessing all the color in the world dissolving in the rain, to be replaced with the browns and grays of misery and struggle. And surely there can be no better picture of both. Women, old people, and children, compelled to stand for hours waiting for the charity of the convent to provide them with the only hot meal they will see today. And while their bodies are starved of food, their hearts ache for absent loved ones, longing for the day they will return, dreading the knock on the door that brings a telegram to mark the end of hope.

“Lilith, dear, have you finished those pots? Sister Agnes is about to open the doors,” Sister Bernadette tells me as she passes, puffing slightly under the weight of the basket of bread she is carrying.

“Goodness,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron and hastening after her, “where did all those wonderful loaves come from?” Shortages have affected all manner of food, but none more so that wheat, now that the U-boat campaign has a stranglehold on the supply ships from America. The sight of a whole baker’s tray of fresh, white bread is rare indeed.

“Diverted from their journey to the Ritz.” Sister Bernadette grins.

“You must have friends in high places indeed.”

She laughs at this. “Surely the very highest of all!”

In the room that now stands in for a canteen, all is ready. Three enormous containers of steaming broth stand on sturdy tables, two nuns or volunteers behind each.

“Ladles at the ready, Sisters,” Bernadette instructs, glancing at the clock on the wall. One o’clock precisely. It amazes me every day that this small miracle of punctuality is brought about. We are woefully understaffed, and the queues grow longer with each passing meal. So many hungry people. So many weeks, months, years of gritted teeth and hardened hearts.