Beyond the Storm

by Diana Finley

  There’s a loud knock at the door. Sofija, the young care assistant from Latvia – or was it Poland? – comes in, smiling. A pretty girl, always neat.

  ‘Hello, Anna, how are you? Happy birthday! Would you like cup of tea, or some cocoa?’

  ‘Tea, thank you.’ She pushes the album towards the back of the table to make room for the cup. Sofija disappears into the corridor and comes back with a cup of tea, a bit too milky.

  ‘Have you had a nice day, Anna? I’m sorry I wasn’t here for your party. A big day for you today.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sofija.’

  ‘Oh, you have photographs, Anna?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll show you some of them one day, if you like.’

  ‘Yes please. I love to see photos. You want biscuit?’

  ‘No, thank you. Are you working tomorrow, Sofija?’

  ‘I’ll be here. Day off Saturday – I go see film with Jacek .’

  ‘Good. You should enjoy yourself.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Anna.’

  * * *

  Where to start? So many people to choose from, to think about. The pictures are organised in chronological order. She opens the first page and looks first at her mother and father, Artur and Matilde. Her mother sits rigid in her chair, her back ramrod straight – this is before her illness – voluminous skirts spread over the seat, her waist drawn tightly into a tiny, narrow isthmus. Artur, stiff in a dark suit, stands behind, one hand resting on her shoulder, the other on the back of the chair. They stare at the camera with sombre concentration, unsmiling, in the style typical of photographs of the period.

  Anna strokes their faces gently with the back of one finger. Images caught in a moment in time. Accurate enough as facial likenesses, yet telling little of their personalities. Her father, a simple, down-to-earth man. Such an apt phrase for him, quite literally a man of the soil. A man of wisdom and honesty, without guile or graces, a robust, brave and passionate man. Matilde, more refined than her husband, was the artistic and creative force in the business and the marriage. Forced by circumstances to spend the years of his prime caring for a sick wife, Artur had applied himself to the task with affection, devotion and without complaint.

  Only much later, after reconnecting with her sister Esther, does Anna learn that for many years some of his regular expeditions to ‘clients’ were in fact visits to his mistress in a country village, with whom he had two sons.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked,’ Esther had said, laughing at Anna’s astounded face. ‘He adored Mamma, but she was an invalid. What do you expect a healthy young man to do?’

  Anna nods in silent agreement, as she recalls the conversation and pictures Esther, her red hair swirling as she stands with her hands on her hips and flicks her head to one side. How can it be that Esther, always so alive, so vibrant, is gone, like Artur and Matilde? Yet gone she is, dead these last twelve years, and even little Margaret, the baby of the family, dead for two years. She turns on a few pages and studies photos of Esther and Reuben, and their children, Marta and Leila, and of course, Shimon.

  Next Jakob, who has always come to be referred to as ‘poor Jakob’ in the family. It was started by Sam in his mischievous way; ‘poor old Jakob,’ he would say, ‘poor old chap.’ But Jakob never was old. How young he looks in the few photographs she has of him. Young and handsome and full of misplaced hope. He deserved better. She thinks of their journey together, which took them so far from the lives and the people that had been a part of their growing up. So many periods of loss, sadness and trauma.

  Yet compared to the lives of many others, she has been lucky. At least the bad times have been balanced with times of joy and love. At least she was old enough to have some choices when she and Jakob left Vienna. Not like the poor children sent abroad by desperate parents in order to save their lives, knowing they might never see them again. Yet, like for those children perhaps, her life has been a constant search, a yearning for home, security and love. Almost half her life has been an unspoken, unacknowledged search for her son, her Shimon.

  The loss of homeland and loved ones is so crucially painful to human beings, Anna feels, but those who have not experienced it cannot fully understand the depth of longing and need. It is a longing so fundamental to the Jews, Yael would say, bred into them by their long suffering, a longing that is not diluted by time. No, on the contrary, it grows in strength, even passing from one generation to another.

  Here is Yael in the early days in Haifa, sturdy in the kibbutznik uniform of khaki trousers and shirt, squinting into the bright sun, her limbs brown and strong. Next, one of their days at the beach together, Anna and Yael, sunburned arms intertwined with little Rachel. More pictures, more time. Yael the proud mother, arm in arm with Rachel at her graduation in America – and again, locked in embrace with Hal, both grinning broadly, following their marriage in Boston. Yael was always so generous with her love, always ready with affection.

  Her dear, dear friend. How she misses her. How she misses her all-enveloping hugs, her deep, unrestrained laugh. Such a cruel irony. Yael was so happy with Hal those last few years. The only thing she truly missed after moving to North America was the heat and sunshine of a Middle Eastern summer. Yet in the cool of New England, it was the sun that killed her; an aggressive melanoma sending its outriders all around her body, finally to multiply in her liver.

  A few pages on and Della, another precious friend and helpmate, is cradling toddler Ben in one arm and infant Eve in the other, sitting in the dappled shade of a mature cherry tree, around which Herr Eisen had constructed a rustic wooden seat. Della, who tolerated all Anna’s early suspicions and reserve, and patiently, gently, won her trust. Della, who accepted her initial role as servant and performed it with warmth, loyalty and sensitivity, until all in the family knew she was much, much more than that. Three times she visited England, the first time in 1963, the year after Anna and Sam moved there.

  There is a picture of Della and Anna taken by Sam in the garden. They are sitting on the low wall together, a climbing yellow rose – Eve’s favourite – cascading all around them. Further on, another picture shows Della a few years later, formally dressed in her best coat, after Sam’s funeral. She is leaning on Ben’s arm, Sam’s memorial tree in the background, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. She must be about seventy-five there, Anna thinks. That same year she returned to England again to spend time with Anna and support her through her loss. Two years later she died peacefully in her sleep, in bed in her little flat in Berlin. Her life had not been easy, Anna knows, but she appreciated every simple pleasure; she had the gift of a joyful heart.

  The next pages show herself and several pictures of Ben and Eve at various ages and sizes. One photograph is taken around the time of her stay at Ellwangen; how anguished she looks – and Eve, so small and pinched and sorrowful. If only she had been able to protect her from suffering. Whoever said suffering is good for the soul? Anna cannot recall where or when she has read or heard those words. Has her suffering made her a better person, more sympathetic, insightful, caring, tolerant? Probably not. She has battled with insecurities all her life, and passed them on to her children, even her grandchildren. All in their way have felt ‘different’, outsiders. That has created obstacles and hardships for them, but perhaps at the same time given them strengths – self-possession, stamina, resourcefulness, imagination.

  Once, long ago, Anna recalls, when Eve was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, she had accused her mother of prejudice.

  ‘You of all people! How can you stereotype people like that, after all your experiences?’

  Eve had had a boyfriend, Lester, a sweet, handsome, lonely and affectionate boy. They had met at a party and been instantly attracted to one another. It was impossible to dislike him; he was polite and appreciative of any slight kindness. He had worshipped Eve, and she had been drawn to his innocence and vulnerability. But Lester came from a children’s home, with an uncertain past and complicated parentage. Anna had not been able to ign
ore his broad Cockney accent. She had found it threatening somehow.

  Gradually she had begun to chip away at Eve’s pleasure in the relationship. He was not articulate enough for her, not educated enough. What was his future? Yes, he was kind, but she would soon be bored with him. How much more hurtful to string him along, allow him to become more deeply involved. Better to end it before things got too serious. What had been a friendship full of simple joy and affection – working on homework together, walks in the park, visits to the cinema – had become fraught with new stresses and dark predictions, awakened from elsewhere. To Eve’s later shame and remorse, she had not been able to handle the situation. It had ended in sadness and pain, for her but especially for Lester. For years she had wept at the memory of his wounded face, the hunch of his shoulders as he walked away for the last time.

  Anna too felt many regrets. She had to acknowledge that many of the boys who came to Eve’s door after that – all from richer, classier homes, all with crisper accents – had far less attractive personalities and less admirable morals than Lester.

  Anna sighs, and reflects that the distinction between good and bad people is never straightforward. Even defining good and bad has so many pitfalls. In the end, most of the people she encountered were basically good, or tried to be. Even Fritz Henkelmann, whom she had condemned and vilified for so many years, had had principles, however misguided, and had tried to demonstrate his loyalty and friendship. He had spent his life tortured by guilt, and bequeathed the suffering of his soul on to his unfortunate and innocent son Maxim. So many people have passed through her life, each leaving behind their particular influences.

  With a leap of excitement and pleasure, Anna turns to the pages of Sam pictures, as though she had been waiting for this moment all along. First, one of him leaning nonchalantly against a palm tree in Palestine not long after they first met, looking very tall and handsome in his army uniform. Then, a smaller album version of the studio photograph of Sam she arranged after he had requested one of her.

  Anna glances over to her chest of drawers. Both framed pictures stand at an angle, she looking young and glamorous and, beside her, Sam with his characteristic twinkle, his slightly lopsided smile and Clark Gable moustache. Beautiful Sam. She bends slowly towards the album on her lap and kisses the photograph of him. Here too, the two of them in the garden of the lovely house in Chislehurst. Anna could never find her yearned-for peace and security in a place alone. It was what her mother had once called ‘running towards the rainbow’, that search for what feels right, for what you need and desperately want, a place you can put down roots. Only with Sam could she find it, only through his generous and unquestioning love.

  Now Sam has gone. He has been gone for so many years, more years even than they had together. Has the peace gone with him? Is the rainbow unattainable once more? His legacy must be here with her, in what they built together. Their three wonderful children – for Shimon is as much his son as hers – and their many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, whom Sam never met.

  Anna is exhausted. Why is she still here when all have gone, all these loved ones? Of all her generation, why is only she left alive, the last survivor? She feels so alone – the loneliness of survival. How easy it would be to give up, to sink into desperation. She knows what Yael would tell her, and Esther, and Della, and Sam too. She closes her eyes and for a moment hears a cacophony of voices. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Have you learned nothing? Think positive – you are the lucky one.

  Yes, she decides; she is not alone. She has her children, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. She has her memories. She is greatly blessed.

  Acknowledgements

  Without my father Jim Darley and my mother Trude Darley, this book would never have been conceived. I give thanks for the richness of experiences to which they exposed me, and for their many anecdotes and stories which enriched my childhood, and which somehow remained in the depths of my memory, to be reproduced in various forms in my writing. For every story told, there were enigmas and secrets hinted at or left untold. Some of these were researched; others had to be composed from my imagination, to fit what might have happened. Sadly, neither my father nor my mother lived to see the completed book.

  My thanks too to my brothers Peter Darley and James Darley – both writers too – who gave positive support at every stage of the book.

  Thanks to Ann Coburn, my mentor during the first writing of this book, for her wisdom and insight. While this story is a work of fiction, it is based on real experiences, and recounts and alludes to many real events. It has been important therefore, to ensure it tallies with historical truth. My appreciation to Brigadier John Sharland, who helped keep me right on military matters.

  Special loving thanks to my family – Luke, Jo, Thomas and Rose – for their interest, and pertinent comments, and especially to my husband Terence, for his unfailing encouragement and support.

  Turn the page for and extract from Finding Lucy by Diana Finley

  CHAPTER ONE

  1984

  Alison

  It was after seeing the grave that I finally decided to take a child. There was nothing special about it – the grave, that is. Not one of those ghastly, over-sentimentalised affairs sprouting angels’ wings or teddy bears. Quite plain. A simple stone and a concise message:

  In memory of our dearly loved little girl

  Lucy Sarah Brown aged 2 years

  Born 20-9-1982 – Died 16-10-1984

  Safe in the hands of Jesus

  Somehow, imagining little Lucy’s life – and her demise – touched me deeply, coming as it did just a month after Mother’s death. How desperately tragic. What might have killed a child so young? A car accident? Meningitis? A hole in the heart? How her parents must have suffered. How they must have grieved for their “dearly loved little girl” – still be grieving, in fact; she’d been gone only two months, after all. So very sad.

  As I thought about it, I almost wished I could share my plans with them: with Lucy’s original parents. Let them know that, in a sense, their Lucy was going to be brought back to life; I was going to bring Lucy back to life! Perhaps they would be comforted by that thought. Of course, telling them would never be possible, and anyway, she would cease to be their Lucy. She would become my Lucy. Lucy would be my secret. She would be my daughter, my secret daughter. How perfect! Lucy Brown. A fine, tasteful name – yet “normal”. Not one that stood out too vividly, just like the sad little grave.

  It wasn’t as though I had planned the whole thing beforehand, thought it through – not at that stage. The idea grew out of a medley of thoughts that had been swirling in my mind; indistinct, like miscellaneous letter-shaped noodles stirred into soup, sometimes emerging for a moment to make meaningful combinations on the surface, then breaking up and disappearing into the depths of the pot. Stumbling upon the grave that day drew the letters together, began to make order and sense of them. I had decided.

  It was a bright, crisp December day. Long shadows streaked the wet grass. Early afternoon, but already the sun was starting its descent towards the rooftops. As often before, I had been wandering through one of the city’s urban cemeteries. Not that I was attracted to such places for any macabre reasons. No, it was the quiet I yearned for, the peace, and perhaps the sense of the past. This was a particularly agreeable cemetery: serene, well maintained and cared for, with mature trees and shrubs creating a screen from the surrounding suburban streets, emphasising the separateness of the graveyard.

  At first I had been drawn to the grave simply by the fresh, bright flowers arranged in neat vases, which contrasted with the faded, bedraggled blooms nearby. But standing there in front of the grave, my attention soon moved on from the flowers. I was mesmerised by the name: Brown. It is natural to notice one’s own surname. I stood and gazed at the neat letters, the scrolled stonework marking the boundary of the pitifully small grave and containing shiny gravel of various colours: pink, brown, yellow and green. On
the headstone, carved stone hands curved beneath the words “Safe in the hands of Jesus” as though gently lifting them – or perhaps Lucy herself – upwards, heavenwards.

  All the while, as my eyes absorbed these details, my heart was beating unevenly and with great excitement. A plan started to take shape in my mind. It was so simple; Lucy Brown would become my child – indeed, my invention. Just as, years ago, Mother had created me as Alison Brown. I could hardly wait to get home and begin to put my ideas onto paper.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once back in my own house on the other side of Nottingham, I made a cup of tea, sat down at my desk and started to write a list. I love to make lists. So reassuring. Firstly, the birth certificate. Having that in my possession would make it all seem real. This first item on the list occupied me for quite some time. I worried about the application process though. Would proof of identity be required?

  As it turned out, discovering the details of Lucy Brown’s parents’ names and dates of birth was extraordinarily simple. All I had to do was to write to the General Register Office giving Lucy’s first name, surname and date of birth – and requesting a copy of her birth certificate. An address was required. I provided my own, of course. I sent the modest payment as indicated – and a week or so later the precious document was in my hands. I studied it with a trembling thrill; it was almost as though I held Lucy herself, as if she was reborn!

  Her mother’s name was given as Audrey Brown, and her father’s as Russell Brown. That would need some adjustment in time of course. I would be her mother, Alison Brown – but then people often used a different first name to the original one.

  This was just the beginning. Much needed to be done, but that did not deter me, not at all. Indeed, anticipating the tasks ahead filled me with great pleasure and excitement.