In 1942 the bombs destroyed almost everything. We had been forced to a rent a room in Żebbuġ where it was safer. Four other families live in the house, which had no water facilities.

In April our home in Vittoriosa was hit. My mother cried helplessly at the news. It had been her marriage dowry. Life was just desperate. We tried to find a house of our own in Żebbug but it was the worst time to look for a home. The number of homeless people was staggering.

When Tripoli, a city of crucial importance, fell to the Allies on January 23, 1943, the joy of the Maltese was irrepressible. The governor gave the go-ahead for the churches to ring their bells and the streets to be lit.

There were band marches in the villages and I was really happy, until my neighbour told me in a cheery way that Vittoriosa would need five years to be rebuilt and refugees would have to stay in Żebbug. That night I cried. Our troubles would continue.