Hana's Suitcase Page 3

  Jews were ordered to wear yellow cloth stars whenever they went out in public.

  From that day on, Hana went outside less often. She would do almost anything to avoid wearing the yellow badge in public. She hated the star. It was so humiliating. It was so embarrassing. Wasn’t it enough, the children wondered, that they’d lost their park, their pond, their school and their friends? But now, when they left the house, the star was pinned to their clothing.

  One Jewish man in town was not willing to obey. He’d had enough of all the rules and restrictions. So on a late September day in 1941, he left his house feeling a little brazen. He did not cut out the star and pinned the entire cloth to his coat. This tiny act of rebellion was immediately noticed by the Nazi officer in charge in Nové Město na Moravě. He was furious. He declared that Nové Město na Moravě must be made judenfrei, free of Jews, immediately.

  The very next morning, a big black car driven by a Nazi officer drew up in front of the Bradys’ house. Four frightened Jewish men were already huddled inside it. There was a knock on the door. Father opened it. Hana and George hung behind him. The Gestapo officer barked at Father to come out immediately. Hana and George couldn’t believe their ears. They stood there, stunned, terrified and silent. Father hugged the children, implored them to be brave. And then he, too, was gone.

  Tokyo, Spring 2000

  FUMIKO WAS ENCHANTED BY HANA’S DRAWINGS. She knew they would help children better imagine what kind of person Hana had been. It would be easier for them to put themselves in her shoes. Fumiko was right.

  Another of Hana’s drawings from Theresienstadt.

  More than ever, the children who volunteered at the Center focused their attention on Hana. Led by Maiko, some of them formed a group with a mission to let other kids know about what they were learning. They called their club “Small Wings.” Once a month, they met to plan their newsletter. Everyone had a role. The older kids wrote articles. The youngest were encouraged to draw pictures. Others wrote poems. With Fumiko’s help, they sent their newsletter to schools far and wide, so others could find out about the history of the Holocaust and the search for Hana.

  More than anything, they wanted to know what Hana looked like. They wanted to see the face of this little girl whose story they yearned to know. Fumiko realized that if she could find a photograph of Hana, she would be even more alive to the children as a real human being. Fumiko was determined that the search would continue.

  Now that she had the drawings, a sock, the shoe, the sweater, and, of course, Hana’s suitcase, Fumiko felt it was time to open the exhibit she had been working towards, “The Holocaust Seen Through Children’s Eyes.”

  The Small Wings

  Nové Město na Moravě,

  Winter 1941–1942

  NOW THERE WERE ONLY TWO CHILDREN. No parents. George put an arm around his ten-year-old sister and promised to take care of her. Boshka, the housekeeper, tried to distract them with special treats and lighthearted talk. It didn’t work. The children were sad and they were very scared.

  Hours after their father’s arrest there was another knock at the door. Hana’s heart pounded. George swallowed hard. Who have they come for now? But when the children opened the door, they found Uncle Ludvik, their beloved Uncle Ludvik. “I’ve just heard the bad news,” he said, hugging Hana with one arm, George with the other. “You are both coming with me. You belong with family, with people who love you.”

  Uncle Ludvik was a Christian who had married Father’s sister. Because he wasn’t Jewish, he was not an obvious target for the Nazis. But he was a brave man to take in George and Hana. The Gestapo had warned that terrible harm could come to anyone who helped the Jews.

  Uncle Ludvik told the children to gather up their most treasured things. Hana took her life-sized doll named Nana whom she had had since she was five. George put together all the family photographs. Each of them filled a suitcase with clothes. Hana chose a large brown suitcase that she had taken before on family trips. She loved the polka-dot lining. When everything was packed, they turned out the light and closed the door behind them.

  A younger Hana with George and her doll,

  Nana, that was almost as big as Hana herself.

  That night, her aunt and uncle tucked Hana into a big bed with a feather-filled comforter. “We will care for you until your parents come back, Hana,” they promised. “And we’ll be just down the hall, if you wake up in the night.”

  But long after lights out, Hana lay awake, blinking into the unfamiliar darkness. It was a strange bed. And the world — now full of danger — seemed to have turned upside down. What will come next? Hana wondered with fear. Finally, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Hana awoke the next morning to urgent barking outside her window. Her heart pounded. What could be wrong? Then she recognized the sounds. It was Sylva, their loyal wolfhound. She had found her way across town to be with Hana and George. At least some friends, Hana thought, stay true. It was a small comfort.

  Hana, George and their wolfhound, Sylva.

  Aunt Hedda and Uncle Ludvik’s house was small but comfortable, with a pretty little garden in the back. It was very close to the neighborhood school, and every day George and Hana watched the other children with their book bags, laughing, playing, on their way to their classes. “I want to go too!” Hana stamped her foot in hurt and frustration. But there was nothing anyone could do.

  Hana and her loving and brave Uncle Ludvik.

  In the months that followed, Uncle Ludvik and Aunt Hedda did their best to keep the children busy. George chopped wood for hours on end. Hana read books and played games. She was well liked by her cousins Vera and Jiri. Sometimes she even went to church with them.

  Hana and George helping out in the fields.

  Later, at Theresienstadt, Hana drew this picture of people working in the fields.

  And every day at lunchtime, Hana and George went back to their old home to eat a familiar meal with their housekeeper, Boshka, who pampered them, hugged and kissed them, and reminded them that she had promised their parents that she would keep them healthy by feeding them well.

  Every few weeks a letter would arrive from Father, who was imprisoned in the Iglau Gestapo prison. George would read only the cheerful part to his sister. George thought Hana was too young to know the whole truth about the harsh conditions in prison and how desperate Father was to be free. She was not too young, though, to be deported by the Nazis.

  Nové Město na Moravě,

  May 1942

  ONE DAY, A NOTICE WAS DELIVERED to Aunt Hedda and Uncle Ludvik’s house. Hana and George Brady were ordered to report to a deportation center at Trebic, fifty kilometers away from Nové Město na Moravě, on May 14, 1942. This was what Uncle Ludvik had feared. He called Hana and George into his study and read them the letter. Then he tried to put the bad news in the best possible light. “You’re going on a trip,” he told them. “Together! You’ll be going to a place where there are lots of other Jews, lots of other children to play with. Maybe there you won’t have to wear the star!” George and Hana said very little. They were both unhappy about being uprooted again and leaving their aunt and uncle.

  This document orders Hana to be deported from her uncle’s home on April 30, 1942. In fact, she was sent to Theresienstadt on May 14.

  Hana was scared. When Boshka came to help them prepare for this strange trip, Hana peppered her with questions. “Where are our parents? When will we see them again? Where will we end up? What can we take with us?” Boshka didn’t have any answers. The housekeeper told Hana that she, too, would be leaving Nové Město na Moravě to stay with a brother who lived on a farm.

  Hana took out the large brown suitcase with the polka-dot paper lining from under her bed. She packed a sleeping bag that she hoped would give her the smell of home, no matter how far away they were sent. So did George. There was salami and sugar to tuck in amongst the clothes, as well as a few keepsakes.

  Uncle Ludvik was heartbroken
about sending his young niece and nephew away. He asked a driver to take them to the deportation center. Uncle Ludvik just couldn’t face it himself. He and his wife did their best to hide their tears as they said goodbye to Hana and George. They promised to wait for their return to Nové Město na Moravě after the war was over. When the driver rang his bells, and the horses pulled away from the house, no one spoke a word.

  A few hours later, the driver dropped Hana and George off in front of a huge warehouse. They joined the lineup near the entrance. When they reached the registration desk, they gave their names to a frowning soldier. He waved them into the dark, airless building.

  The floor inside the building was covered with mats. Hana and George found two mats together in a corner and sat down. When they looked around, they realized there were hardly any other children. But there were hundreds of Jewish men and women, waiting to be sent to a place called Theresienstadt. They were all being deported.

  For four days and four nights, Hana and George stayed in the warehouse, eating the food from their suitcases, sleeping on the mats. Though some of the adults tried to be kind to the children, Hana and George were not in a mood for company. They had each other and they passed the time reading, talking, napping and thinking of home. It was in this warehouse on May 16, 1942, with a few candies and a stub of a candle, that Hana Brady celebrated her eleventh birthday.

  Tokyo, June 2000

  THE EXHIBITION “THE HOLOCAUST SEEN THROUGH CHILDREN’S EYES” drew more visitors, adults and children alike, than Fumiko had dreamed possible. The story of the Holocaust was new to many of the people who came to the Museum. As Fumiko had hoped, its tragedy was made real for them by the objects she had gathered and the story they told.

  Though they were interested in the shoe, the can of Zyklon B gas, and the little sweater, it was the suitcase that became a magnet. Children and their parents constantly gathered around it and examined the writing: Hana Brady, May 16, 1931, Waisenkind — orphan. They read the poems written by the members of Small Wings. And they admired the drawings Hana had made in Theresienstadt. “Do you know any more about her?” they asked. “What happened to her? What did she look like?” Fumiko decided to re-double her efforts to find a picture of Hana. Somewhere, someone had to be able to help them. Fumiko wrote back to the Terezin Ghetto Museum. No, came the answer. We already told you. We know nothing about a girl named Hana Brady.

  Fumiko just couldn’t accept this. She decided to go to Terezin herself.

  Deportation Center, May 1942

  ON THE MORNING OF THE FOURTH DAY, a loud whistle blew, and a Nazi soldier marched into the warehouse. Hana and George huddled in their corner as he barked out the orders.

  “Everyone is to appear at the train tracks in one hour. Each person is allowed one suitcase. Twenty-five kilos. Not a gram more. Form straight lines. No talking. Do as you are told.”

  The voice was so harsh, so scary. Hana and George quickly got their things together. Adults tried to help them, making sure the children were ready. Poor little ones, they thought. Such a hard journey and alone, with no parents.

  Under the threatening eyes of the soldiers, they all left the warehouse in single file and lined up at the tracks. From the brilliant sunlight of the morning, Hana and George stepped into the dark train, carrying their suitcases. More people piled in after them, until it was full. Then the doors slammed shut and the train began to move.

  Terezin, July 2000

  THERESIENSTADT. The name the Nazis gave the Czech town of Terezin. Fumiko knew that to solve the mystery of Hana’s suitcase, she had to get there. But how? The Czech Republic was thousands of miles from Japan and a plane ticket would cost a lot of money that Fumiko didn’t have.

  But this time luck was on her side. Fumiko was invited to attend a conference on the Holocaust in England. From there, it would only be a short plane trip to Prague, capital of the Czech Republic. From Prague it was just a two-hour drive to Terezin. Fumiko couldn’t wait to leave.

  On the morning of July 11, 2000, Fumiko got off the bus in the main square of Terezin. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary pretty town. There were wide streets lined with trees and well-kept three-story houses with flowered window boxes. But Fumiko hardly noticed. She had exactly one day to accomplish her mission. That night she would have to go back to Prague. Her plane for Japan was leaving the next morning.

  Fumiko went to modern-day Terezin.

  What has happened? Fumiko wondered. Could it be that everyone is out at lunch? No, it’s only ten o’clock in the morning. Fumiko went back out into the square and tapped the shoulder of a friendly looking man on a park bench. “Can you help me?” she asked. “I’m looking for someone to help me in the Museum.”

  “Oh, you won’t find anyone there today, young lady. It’s a holiday and all the people who work there are away celebrating,” the man replied. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

  Theresienstadt, May 1942

  THE TRAIN TRIP WAS QUIET, UNEVENTFUL. People seemed to keep to themselves, lost in their own thoughts and fears about the future. After a few hours, the train came to an abrupt halt. The doors were flung open and the frightened passengers standing nearest to the doors could see the sign reading “Bohusovic Station.” Hana squinted in the sunlight as she and George lugged their suitcases off the train. There, at the station, they were instructed to walk the rest of the way to the Theresienstadt fortress.

  It was only a few kilometers, but their suitcases were cumbersome and heavy. Should we leave some things here, Hana and George wondered, to lighten our load? No, everything in their suitcases was precious, the only reminders of the life they used to have. George carried one suitcase. The other one they put on a moving cart, pushed by prisoners.

  Hana and George approached the entrance to the walled fortress and joined a lineup. Everyone was wearing a yellow star, just like them.

  Hana drew this picture of people getting off a train while she was at Theresienstadt.

  At the front of the line, a soldier asked people for their name, age and place of birth. Boys and men were being sent in one direction, girls and women in another. “Where are they going?” Hana asked George. More than anything else, she was afraid of being separated from her brother. “Can I stay with you?” she pleaded.

  “Be quiet, Hana!” George told his sister. “Don’t make a fuss.”

  When they reached the front of the line, the soldier stared at them. “Where are your parents?” he demanded.

  “They are, uh, in another, uh, camp,” George stammered. “We hope that here we might be reunited.”

  The soldier wasn’t interested in conversation. He wrote down their names on index cards and searched their suitcases for money and jewellery. Then he slammed the bags shut. “To the left!” he ordered George. “To the right!” he ordered Hana.

  “Please can I stay with my brother?” Hana asked.

  “Move! Now!” the soldier ordered. What Hana feared most was about to happen. George gave her a quick hug. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll find you as soon as I can.” Holding back tears, Hana picked up her suitcase and followed the other girls to Kinderheim (children’s home) L410, a large barrack for girls that was to be Hana’s home for the next two years.

  Terezin, July 2000

  FUMIKO COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. She was very upset — with herself and with her bad luck. I’ve come all this way and everyone who might be able to help me is on holiday. How did I manage to pick such a bad time to come to the Terezin Museum? How could I be so stupid? she thought. What do I do now?

  As the hot sun beat down on her, a tear of frustration rolled down Fumiko’s cheek. She decided to go back inside the Museum to try and collect her thoughts. Maybe she could come up with a different plan.

  As she sat on a bench in the foyer, she heard a rustling sound. It appeared to be coming from one of the offices at the end of the hall. Fumiko tiptoed in the direction of the sound. There, in the last office on the right, she found a woma
n with glasses perched on the end of her nose, sorting through a huge stack of papers.

  Startled, the woman almost jumped out of her chair when she saw Fumiko. “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here? The Museum is closed.”

  “My name is Fumiko Ishioka,” she replied. “I have come a long way from Japan to find out about a little girl who was here in Theresienstadt. We have her suitcase in our museum in Tokyo.”

  “Come back another day,” the woman replied politely, “and someone will try and help you.”

  “But I don’t have another day,” exclaimed Fumiko. “My plane to Japan leaves tomorrow morning. Please,” she pleaded. “Help me find Hana Brady.”

  The woman removed her glasses. She stared at the young Japanese woman and saw how anxious and determined she was. The Czech woman heaved a sigh. “All right,” she said. “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try and help you. My name is Ludmila.”

  Theresienstadt, 1942–43

  KINDERHEIM L410 WAS A LARGE PLAIN BUILDING with about ten dormitory rooms. Twenty girls slept in each room, on burlap mattresses filled with straw in three-tiered bunk beds. Before the war, the town had been home to 5,000 people. The Nazis crammed ten times that number of prisoners into the same space.

  There was never enough room, never enough food, never a chance for a private moment. There were too many people, too many bugs and rats, and too many Nazis who patrolled the camp with cruel discipline.

  In the beginning, Hana, as a younger child, was not allowed to leave the building. That meant she couldn’t see George. He lived in Kinderheim L417, which was just for boys, a few blocks away. Hana missed him terribly, and constantly asked the older girls, who were allowed outside, for news of him. They took Hana under their wing. They felt sorry for her, alone in the world, without her mother and father, away from her brother.