Beyond the Storm. Diana Finley

      ‘Where do I come from? That’s a hard question. Originally, I come from Vienna, as I just said. Then the Nazis came to power and things got very difficult. We could not stay in Austria. So I escaped to Palestine with my first husband, Jakob.’ Anna pauses, picturing their arrival at Haifa for a moment. She looks back to Simon. He is staring at her, his pencil frozen above his notebook.

      ‘Ja, poor Jakob. That was a hard time, a bad time. Then later I met my second husband, Sam. Sam was an Englishman. An Englishman through and through.’ Anna smiles and then sighs deeply. She feels Eve tapping her arm. Her eyes settle back on Simon.

      ‘What did you say your name is? I didn’t hear.’

      ‘It’s Simon.’

      ‘Simon. Simon, it’s a good name. I called my son Shimon just like you – my first son.’ Anna focuses steadily on a spot on the wall beside her, as though an image of her son might suddenly appear there.

      ‘Shimon was born long, long ago. But he was taken away. I could not keep him. I did not see him for many years. It is a terrible thing to be separated from your own child, terrible. As if a vital part of your own body is torn from you. I should never have agreed to be parted from him, but I had no choice, you see. So many years ago, so many years.’ She leans forward towards Simon. ‘It is strange to see your children grow old. That is one of the curses of being a hundred. No, it is not all wonderful, you know.’

      Simon swallows audibly and shifts his position. Anna pauses and glances at Eve, who strokes her mother’s hand and nods encouragingly at her.

      ‘Much later, after Shimon, came Ben. He was Sam and my first child together. He was born in England during the last months of the war. At the end of the war Sam was posted to Berlin, so then Ben and I moved to join him in Germany. To Germany! Just imagine – into the arms of the enemy! That’s where Eve was born,’ she says, looking at Eve again. ‘We were in Germany for many years. We came to England when my husband retired.’

      ‘You’ve had quite a disrupted life then, Mrs Lawrence.’

      ‘Yes, you could certainly call it disrupted.’

      Doreen appears with a glass of sherry for Anna, a drink she dislikes.

      ‘I think that’s quite enough questions!’ Doreen says, patting Simon’s shoulder. ‘People are waiting. The mayor’s arrived. We should move Anna into the main part of the lounge. We have to get on with the ceremonies – and everyone’s dying for a slice of Anna’s cake!’

      Simon leaps to his feet. He bends over Anna’s chair and gently shakes her hand.

      ‘Thank you very much for talking so openly to me, Mrs Lawrence. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you. I’m sure people will be fascinated to read about your story.’

      ‘Hah! For you it may be a story, Simon. For me, it’s my life.’

      He nods and backs towards the edge of the room. Anna is wheeled out of the alcove. Eve’s brother Ben has been hovering near the doorway of the large residents’ lounge with his wife, Nadia, and their three adult children, Charlie, Guy and Alma. Eve’s husband Richard stands talking to their two sons, Mark and Adam. Milling around the adults’ feet is a variously sized army of children and toddlers. Anna’s beloved daughter-in-law crouches low, admiring a bead bracelet held up by one of the little girls. She turns and smiles warmly as Anna is pushed in, bringing a lump to Anna’s throat. Alma holds the baby in her arms – Anna’s latest great-grandchild.

      ‘You look fantastic, Mum,’ Ben says. ‘Happy birthday!’

      ‘Thank you, my darlings. It’s lovely to see you all.’

      She beams at her large family gathered around her. She searches the room anxiously. Are they all here? Not quite all, someone is missing. Where is he?

      The children are ushered forward. Each child is embraced in turn, and each gives Anna his or her small present and card, watching intently as she struggles to unwrap it. She exclaims dutifully over every bar of soap and handkerchief, every photo frame and box of chocolates. Alma deposits the baby on Anna’s lap. He looks round uncertainly at his great-grandmother, his lip quivering. Anna smiles at him and strokes his soft curls. The baby notices a piece of shiny wrapping paper on Anna’s lap. He grabs it and becomes absorbed in crumpling it. The threatened tears are held at bay. Anna admires the baby’s eyes and marvels at how advanced he is for four months. She allows Simon to photograph her for the paper, surrounded by her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He promises copies for the family to keep.

      A large platter is brought in with the cake, shaped as the figures of 100. A murmur of approval and anticipation rises from those residents who are sufficiently aware of the proceedings to notice. The cakes are ablaze with a hundred lit candles. A discordant rendering of ‘Happy birthday to you’ is sung while Anna blows out the candles, eagerly helped by the children. Small pieces of cake are distributed to all the residents and visitors. The children sit on the floor at Anna’s feet, with their paper plates and exhortations not to make a mess. Every now and then she smiles at one of them or pats a head. How sweet they are, so innocent. She struggles with remembering exactly which child is which.

      The voices murmur on and on. She watches her children and grandchildren talking to one another. Every now and then one of them catches her eye and smiles or gives her a little wave. Anna is unsettled. She scans the family, knowing it is incomplete, waiting. The young people have gathered in a group at one side of the room and are laughing together uproariously. Anna smiles to see them. Then she sighs. Sam should be here. If only he could have seen his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. How he would have loved them. Sam always loved to grow things, but he never knew what a wonderful family he had grown.

      Glancing out of the tall Edwardian window, Anna notices the sweep of a rainbow glowing against the pale wet sky of late afternoon. It makes her think of her mother suddenly, her poor mother, so long gone. ‘Find the rainbow, Anna,’ she used to say, ‘and then run towards it.’ Just a feeling, like a dream, an echo, from all those years ago. As the light fades from the sky outside, so too does the rainbow, leaving Anna with a strange emptiness, a sadness. Many of the residents are nodding in their chairs, if not actually sleeping. The smaller children are growing restless. Anna is ready for the peace of her own room.

       Chapter 2

      1945

      Sam and Anna arrive in England in March 1945. After nearly six years of war, the country is in a dreary and depressed state. The first thing Anna notices is the greyness, the dark and gloom. They spend a few nights in London, where Sam takes pleasure in pointing out the sights to her: St Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. They avoid the worst of the bombed areas. Almost constant rain gives the blackened buildings an oily gloss.

      Anna is thrilled to visit some of the famous places she has read about, but never dreamt of experiencing. Yet it’s a relief to move out of London to Sam’s brother and sister-in-law’s home in Surrey. At least there are green fields and trees, and towering skies. After the intense light of the Middle East, the brilliance of the sunshine, everything here looks washed out and monochrome. Even on sunny days the sky appears hazy and milky rather than blue.

      ‘If only we could go to Berlin together, Sam. Surely you could put in a request, in the circumstances? Why do we have to be apart, now of all times?’ She strokes the solid curve of her belly. Even as she says it, Anna has doubts. Could she really live in Germany? It’s a ridiculous, horrible idea. Yet, how could she possibly not live wherever Sam is?

      Ten days later, Sam goes ahead with the first waves of Allied troops to Berlin. Over the coming months he sends Anna long accounts of the devastation and hardship he encounters there:

       … the scene greeting us was one of utter desolation and despair. Berlin is totally destroyed. I know you feel little sympathy for the Germans, and why should you? Yet one cannot help but feel compassion