But as we are sitting here at this table, two desperately, desperately lonely people, what I keep thinking is this: It is its own kind of miracle. For the boy who found my muslin letter, years ago, to have managed to keep it all this time. And for him to then come and look for me, after the war. And for him to then hear about another letter that I wrote, three years later and hundreds of miles away, that I pinned on a board in the middle of a camp where all the children were looking for something. For me to have met the nun in a convent who happened to be in charge that day, who happened to
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