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Beyond the Storm
Diana Finley
‘Phenomenal… Beautifully written and emotionally charged. I cried… Outstanding. ’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars An epic tale of love, war, and the secrets we keep… Anna Feldman is born in Vienna just as war breaks out; war will come to shape her entire life. But as Anna moves from Austria to Palestine, England to Germany, one thing will remain a constant: the weight of the secret she keeps. This is the story of Anna, the people she loved and the people she lost – and a heartbreaking choice which changed the course of her life forever. For fans of Dinah Jefferies and Heather Morris, Beyond the Storm captures the bravery and strength of a life lived through a century of conflict, and our unending capacity for hope and love. Previously published as The Loneliness of Survival. This edition contains editorial revisions. Readers LOVE Beyond the Storm! ‘Amazingly written… Highly recommend!’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars ‘Excellent read… Didn’t want it to end. ’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars ‘So beautifully written. An excellent book… An emotional read… Perfect. ’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars ‘A lovely story that draws you in… Highly recommend this book. ’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars
About the Author (#u805016d8-7033-5b43-b5eb-87bb05104e00)
Diana Finley was an ‘army child’, the youngest child of her British officer father and Jewish Viennese mother, who met in Palestine during World War 2. Diana was born in Germany, where her father was posted after the war. The family moved to London during the Sixties. At eighteen, Diana spent nearly a year living with nomadic people in a remote part of Afghanistan – a life-changing experience.
Back in England, Diana got a job for Macdonald Educational, writing and editing information books for children. On their honeymoon, she and her husband found a small house high in the hills of Northumberland, and decided to move their lives there from London. The north east of England has been their home ever since.
Diana trained as a Speech and Language Therapist at Newcastle University, and worked for many years in Northumberland, specialising in supporting autistic children and their families. In 2009 she published a professional book on autism.
In 2011 Diana completed an MA in Creative Writing with distinction, which helped to forge her decision to return to her first love of writing, and become a full-time writer. The Loneliness of Survival, her first book, drew loosely on the experiences of her parents, but it is written as a novel and not a memoir. It was published in 2014 by Indigo Dreams, a small independent publisher. Her second book, Finding Lucy was published by HQ at HarperCollins in 2018. HarperCollins are currently re-publishing The Loneliness of Survival under the new title of Beyond The Storm.
For more about Diana’s work visit www.dianafinley.com or find her on Facebook (@DianaFinleyAuthor (http://www.Facebook.com/DianaFinleyAuthor)) and Twitter (@diana_finley (http://www.Twitter.com/diana_finley)).
Praise for Diana Finley from readers: (#u805016d8-7033-5b43-b5eb-87bb05104e00)
‘A thought provoking read’
‘Couldn’t put this book down’
‘I found myself eagerly turning the pages’
‘An enthralling tale of love, hatred, secrets and joy’
‘I absolutely drank it all in and wished there was more’
‘Captivating from beginning to end … the characters were beautifully drawn’
‘Diana Finley is perceptive in her character building and of domestic and everyday situations’
Beyond The Storm
DIANA FINLEY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published as The Loneliness of Survival,
This edition published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Diana Finley 2019
Diana Finley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008348335
Version: 2019-07-31
Table of Contents
Cover (#udd570e51-2cdc-5bf8-8e3c-0dd183f5461c)
About the Author
Praise for Diana Finley from readers:
Title Page (#ua05703e0-1fc9-5192-bd7e-a2449d63eea0)
Copyright (#ucaf418be-a88b-5f0b-acd1-3afe95e8e1d0)
Dedication (#u683ded9a-b3e3-5152-88e4-1b78a4afffa1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader … (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
To my parents
Chapter 1 (#ulink_5a5a42d8-1acd-5761-bd0b-4e686a63ddcb)
2014
She squeezes her eyes tight shut and then opens them wide. As on other mornings, she wonders if perhaps she is dead, and exactly how she would know. The sun has not fully penetrated the maroon silk curtains, but creates a rosy pinkness in the gloom of the bedroom, which could be taken as heaven. A moment later the clatter of the drinks trolley in the corridor convinces Anna that it is not heaven, and that she is still alive. She remembers that today is her hundredth birthday.
The continuous preparations have become more than a little irritating, but she’s tried to keep quiet, to accept it in good humour. Tomorrow is the great day, they kept reminding her, making a ridiculous fuss about it. As though one day makes such a difference, even this day. Doreen had done her usual ‘popping in’ and asking if Anna was excited. She said yes she was, just to please her.
‘But don’t make too many advance preparations. After all, I might die in the night.’
‘Anna! Honestly, shame on you!’
‘There’s no shame in death. What a waste of effort it would be, and such a disappointment for the other residents.’
Doreen didn’t like that.
‘You’re a terrible pessimist, Anna.’
Such a fool. Did she think optimism would ensure eternal life?
‘Not at all. I’m not a pessimist – just a realist. We all have to die. In fact, at one day before my hundredth birthday, the chances must be quite high.’
‘Oh, Anna, do try to be more cheerful. We’ll all have a lovely day tomorrow.’
Well, she has survived the night and ‘the great day’ has arrived. Eve appears soon after morning coffee. She settles Anna in the wheelchair in a quiet alcove off the main lounge, making sure the maroon cushion (matching the curtains) at her back is plumped up, her shawl symmetrical, and her skirt smoothed over her knees. On the wall opposite is a large mirror with a gilt frame, slightly chipped in places. Anna rarely examines herself in a mirror these days, but in this position she has little choice. The mirror is barely a metre away and shows her entire body, in cruel detail.
She stares at her reflection. How tired she looks. And old – so very old, she realises with shock. Her face is small, almost childlike. The flesh, now pale and sallow, has loosened around the jaw, forming two soft jowls. The skin around her eyes has darkened, as if perpetually shadowed by fatigue. Yet, Anna notes with satisfaction, she remains scarcely lined. Always small, she seems to have shrunk into an almost gnome-like form, her body engulfed by the wheelchair. Her legs, discoloured and blotchy from poor circulation, dangle above the floor like a child’s. Her hair has been set in neat waves. Anna is very particular about it – very particular about physical appearance in general. People these days seem happy to look totally ungroomed. Anna tuts out loud to herself at the thought.
‘Mmm?’ says Eve. Anna shakes her head. The hairdresser comes every Thursday and Anna rarely misses an appointment. Her thick, dark curls were once admired by all. Even now, she notices, much black hair shows through the white. She turns her head from one side to the other and looks round to Eve with a soft sigh.
‘I’m getting so grey now.’
Eve laughs. ‘Don’t you think you’re entitled to have some grey hair at a hundred?’
The only image of herself Anna allows to be displayed in her room is a studio photograph arranged as a present for Sam, soon after they first married. In it, Anna looks film-star beautiful; her hair is sculpted in Forties’ style, her skin pale and smooth as milk. She gazes aslant at the camera from darkly sultry eyes, a faint, enigmatic smile on her lips. Even now, over seventy years later, it is how she likes to picture herself.
The staff fuss around Anna. Eve crouches by her mother’s chair, always ready to be her interpreter. Anna knows she’s on show, expected to be the life and soul of the party, but she can’t hear, can’t make out what people are asking her.
Doreen looms over Anna, stroking her hand.
‘Are you having a nice time, Anna dear?’ she shouts.
Anna smiles uncertainly up at her, glancing at Eve for reassurance, working out what response is needed.
‘Very nice party, thank you,’ she says. Or rather, ‘sank you’. She’s never lost her accent, even after all these years.
Doreen grins and nods. Behind her a nervous-looking young man is shifting from one foot to the other. Doreen stands up and grabs him by the arm. She pulls him down to the level of Anna’s chair.
‘Anna, this is Simon. He’s a reporter with the local newspaper. They’re doing an article about very old age.’ She speaks slowly and enunciates every word clearly. Anna grits her teeth. As though talking to a half-wit. She frowns at Doreen.
‘Simon would like to ask you a few questions, for the paper!’
Anna shrugs and turns to the young man.
He squats in front of Anna, notebook in hand. His knees crackle. Even she can hear them. From beside Anna’s chair, Doreen gesticulates to remind him to speak loudly.
‘Hello, Mrs Lawrence. How does it feel to be a hundred years old?’ he bellows.
Anna searches his face and considers the question.
‘Well …’ she says, ‘I do feel very old. A hundred is very old, but so is ninety-nine, and ninety-eight. I’m not sure I feel much different just by being a hundred. In fact, it does not feel real to me. Of course I know I am a hundred, but it’s as if it is happening to someone else.’
Simon scribbles furiously, then glances at her eagerly.
‘Do you have any secrets of long life you would like to share with our readers?’
‘It’s no secret. One minute you are young – like you. You think you will always be young. Of course, young people cannot imagine ever being old. But time goes on and on. Suddenly you are not so young, and you come to realise you will be old one day too, if you are lucky enough to live. And now … well, to be a hundred is extraordinary, for me too. Really it is too long to live.’
Anna slumps back in her chair, breathing fast after this lengthy speech, as if exhausted. Simon has been writing with concentration. He looks up.
‘So … so you don’t have any health tips for others, who might want to … er … live as long as you?’
Anna stares at him.
‘I used to walk a lot. I never learned to drive. My husband wanted to teach me, but I didn’t want to learn. Maybe that helped. I walked everywhere – well into my eighties. But people didn’t think so much about healthy eating when I was young. We ate anything we could and were glad of it. After the First World War, when the Allied Forces occupied Vienna, they allowed one child from each family to come to a soup kitchen to be fed. Of my sisters, I was the skinniest, so they sent me. I was only four or five years old. My sisters were so jealous! T’ja, we were all hungry. But I was terribly ashamed, even at that age, to have to stand in line with all the poor children and accept charity – charity from the enemy! I hated that soup kitchen. Vah!’ She pulls a face and shudders in horror, as if finding a disgusting, wriggling creature crawling on her body.
