Hana's Suitcase (3 page)

But by New Year’s Eve 1938, there was a new and menacing feeling in the air. There was talk of war. Adolf Hitler and his Nazis were in power in Germany. Earlier that year, Hitler had taken over Austria. Then he had marched his armies into parts of Czechoslovakia. Refugees — people trying to escape the Nazis — started appearing at the Bradys’ door, asking for money, food and shelter. They always found a warm welcome from Mother and Father. But the children were mystified. Who are these people? Hana wondered. Why are they coming here? Why don’t they want to stay in their own homes?

In the evenings, after Hana and George had been sent to bed, Mother and Father would sit by the radio and listen to the news. Often friends came and joined them, and they would talk long into the night about the news they had heard. “We’ll keep our voices down,” they would say, “so as not to wake the children.”

The conversation of the adults was so intense, the discussions so heated, that they rarely heard the squeak of floorboards in the darkened hall, as Hana and George tiptoed to their secret listening post just outside the living room. The children heard the talk about the new anti-Jewish laws in Austria. They heard about
Kristallnacht
in Germany, when gangs of Nazi thugs roamed through Jewish neighborhoods, breaking windows in homes and stores, burning synagogues, and beating people in the streets.

“It couldn’t happen here, could it?” Hana whispered to her brother.

“Shhhh,” said George. “If we talk now, they’ll hear us and we’ll be sent back to bed.”

One night, their neighbor Mr. Rott presented a shocking idea to the adults. “We can all feel that a war is coming,” he began. “It’s not safe for Jews to be here. We should all leave Nové Město na Moravě, leave Czechoslovakia, for America, for Palestine, for Canada. For anywhere. Leave now, before it’s too late.”

The rest of the group was taken aback. “Are you crazy, Mr. Rott?” one asked. “This is our home. This is where we belong.” And that settled that.

Despite the bad times, the Bradys were determined to celebrate the coming of 1939. On New Year’s Eve, after a feast of turkey, sausage, salami and pudding, the children got ready to play the traditional game of predicting the future. Hana, George, and their young cousins from nearby towns were given half a walnut into which they each wedged a small candle. A large basin of water was dragged into the middle of the room. Each child launched a little walnut boat into it. Eleven-year-old George’s boat wobbled in the water, turned round and round, and finally came to a stop, lopsided. His candle kept burning. Eight-year-old Hana launched hers and, for a moment, it glided along without a quiver. Then it shook, turned on its side, and the candle hit the water and went out.

Tokyo, March 2000

FROM THE DAY THE SUITCASE
arrived in Tokyo, Fumiko and the children were drawn to it. Ten-year-old Akira, who usually loved to joke and tease, wondered aloud what it would be like to be an orphan. Maiko, who was older, loved to party and was an accomplished synchronized swimmer. She always became very quiet in the presence of the suitcase. It made her think about being sent away from her own friends.

The suitcase was the only object they had at the Center that was linked to a name. From the date on the suitcase, Fumiko and the children figured out that Hana would have been thirteen years old when she was sent to Auschwitz. A year younger than me, said one girl. Just as old as my big sister, said Akira.

Fumiko wrote back to the Auschwitz Museum. Could they help her find out anything about the girl who owned the suitcase? No, they replied. They knew no more than she did. Fumiko reported back to the children. “Try somewhere else,” Maiko urged. “Don’t give up,” said Akira. The kids chanted encouragement like a chorus: “Keep on looking.” Fumiko promised to do just that.

Fumiko wrote to Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum. No, we have never heard of a girl named Hana Brady, the director wrote. Have you tried the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC? Fumiko rushed a letter off to Washington, but the reply was the same. We have no information about a girl named Hana Brady. How discouraging it was!

Then, out of the blue, Fumiko received a note from the museum at Auschwitz. They had discovered something. They had found Hana’s name on a list. It showed that Hana had come to Auschwitz from a place called Theresienstadt.

Nové Město na Moravě, 1939

ON MARCH
15, 1939, Hitler’s Nazi troops marched into the rest of Czechoslovakia and the Brady family’s life was changed forever. The Nazis declared that Jews were evil, a bad influence, dangerous. From now on, the Brady family and the other Jews in Nové Město na Moravě would have to live by different rules.

Jews could only leave their houses at certain hours of the day. They could only shop in certain stores and only at certain times. Jews weren’t allowed to travel, so there were no more visits to beloved aunts, uncles, and grandmothers in nearby towns. The Bradys were forced to tell the Nazis about everything they owned — art, jewellery, cutlery, bank books. They hurriedly stashed their most precious papers under the shingles in the attic. Father’s stamp collection and Mother’s silver were hidden with Gentile, non-Jewish friends. But the family radio had to be taken to a central office and surrendered to a Nazi official.

One day, Hana and George lined up at the movie theater to see “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” When they got to the ticket box they saw a sign that read “No Jews Allowed.” Their faces red, their eyes burning, Hana and George turned on their heels and headed for home. When Hana walked in the door, she was furious and very upset. “What is happening to us? Why can’t I go to the movies? Why can’t I just ignore the sign?” Mother and Father looked grimly at each other. There were no easy answers.

Every week seemed to bring a new restriction. No Jews in the playground. No Jews on the sports fields. No Jews in the parks. Soon Hana could no longer go to the gym. Even the skating pond was declared off limits. Her friends — all of them Gentiles — at first were as mystified by the rules as Hana. They sat together in school as they always had, and still had good times making mischief in the classroom and in private backyards. “We’ll be together forever, no matter what,” promised Hana’s best friend Maria. “We’re not going to let anyone tell us who we can play with!”

But gradually, as the months dragged on, all Hana’s playmates, even Maria, stopped coming over after school and on the weekends. Maria’s parents had ordered her to stay away from Hana. They were afraid the Nazis would punish their whole family for allowing Maria to be friends with a Jewish child. Hana was terribly lonely.

With each loss of friendship and with each new restriction, Hana and George felt their world grow a little smaller. They were angry. They were sad. And they were frustrated. “What can we do?” they asked their parents. “Where can we go now?”

Mother and Father tried their best to distract the children, to help them find new ways to have fun. “We are lucky,” Mother told them, “because we have such a big garden. You can play hide-and-seek. You can swing from the trees. You can invent games. You can play detective in the storerooms. You can explore the secret tunnel. You can play charades. Be grateful that you have each other!”

Hana and George were grateful to have each other and they did play together, but it didn’t make them feel any better about all the things they couldn’t do anymore, all the places they couldn’t go. On a fine spring day, when the sun was shining, the two of them sat in the meadow, bored, fiddling with the grass. Suddenly Hana burst into tears. “It’s not fair,” she cried. “I hate this. I want it to be like it was before.” She yanked a fistful of grass out of the ground and threw it in the air. She looked at her brother. She knew he was as miserable as she was. “Wait here,” he said. “I have an idea.” In minutes he was back, carrying a pad of paper, a pen, an empty bottle and a shovel.

“What’s all that for?” Hana asked.

“Maybe if we write down all the things that are bothering us,” he said, “it’ll help us feel better.”

“That’s stupid,” Hana replied. “It won’t bring back the park or the playground. It won’t bring back Maria.”

But George insisted. He was, after all, the big brother, and Hana didn’t have a better idea. And so for the next several hours, the children poured their unhappiness onto paper, with George doing most of the writing and Hana doing much of the talking. They made lists of things they missed, lists of things they were angry about. Then they made lists of all the things they would do, all the things they would have, and all the places they would go when these dark times were over.

When they were done, George took the sheets of paper, rolled them into a tube, stuffed them into the bottle and popped in the cork. Then the two of them walked back toward the house, stopping at the double swing. There, Hana dug a big hole. This would be a hiding place for some of their sadness and frustration. George placed the bottle at the bottom of the hole and Hana filled the space back up with earth. And when it was all over the world seemed a little lighter and brighter, at least for the day.

It was hard to make sense of everything that was happening. Especially now that the family radio was gone. Father and Mother had depended on hearing the eight o’clock news every night from London, England to keep them informed of Hitler’s latest evil act. But Jews had been ordered inside their houses by eight. Listening to the radio was absolutely forbidden and the penalty for breaking any law was very severe. Everyone was afraid of being arrested.

Father hatched a plan, an ingenious way to get around the Nazi rules. He asked his old friend, the keeper of the big church clock, to do him a favor. Would he mind, Father asked, turning the clock back fifteen minutes in the early evenings? That way Father could rush to the neighbor’s house, hear the news, and be safely home when the bell rang at eight (which was actually eight-fifteen). The Nazi guard who patrolled the town square didn’t have a clue. And Father was thrilled that his scheme had worked. Unfortunately, the news he was able to hear on the radio was bad. Very bad. The Nazis were winning every battle, advancing on every front.