Hana's Suitcase (5 page)

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.