The sound of seagulls circling above her brings her from a light sleep. She lifts her head from the rough cushion of the canvas bag she’d been using as a pillow for the last three weeks.

That is how long she has been aboard the ship that has taken her from her home. The journey had been an arduous one. From Moscow she had taken ship to a small port south of Liverpool. She had stayed there for more than a month before being able to board another steamship bound for America. The tickets she held were like gold. Whenever she presented them it was as if there was an unspoken agreement. No questions. Just go on through. Other than to take note of the dates of transport and marvel at the деньги in the packet she had not studied the other information it contained.

The ship from England to her final destination of New York was the RMS Mauretania. The “Blue Ribbon Ship of the Atlantic”.  An ocean liner boasting speeds upwards to 24 knots. She arrived in port on a beautiful day in May. The skyline was blue. The water was bluer still. The city was alive.

When she finally gets through the bottleneck holding up the passengers she finds the nearest wall and leans heavily against it breathing deeply. The bricks of the building are cool and rough. The buzz of voices, the sound of horses clip clopping by and of children yelling consumes her. She waits there at the wall for a long time. She has made it. She is so far away from it all it seems like a different world.

Only the dimming of the sunlight and the rumbling of her stomach propel into motion. She sets about down the nearest busy street in search of food. She is feeling so old yet she is all of twenty-two in a foreign country. Alone.  

Next Chapter: Anne, Los Angeles, August 1964