Hana's Suitcase (7 page)

Torn from their families, crammed into small spaces, with barely enough to eat, the girls set about trying to make the best of a very bad situation. The ones over fifteen worked in the garden, where fruits, vegetables and flowers were grown for the Nazi soldiers. Once in a while, Mr. Schwartzbart, who ran the garden, allowed Hana to come out with the working group and enjoy the fresh air and sun. Hana loved the chance to work in the garden with the older girls. And there was an added bonus. A green bean here, and a strawberry there, always managed to find its way into a hungry girl’s mouth.

But for the most part, Hana had to stay with girls her own age or younger, and obey the supervisor assigned to her room. Every day, they dusted, cleaned and swept under the bunks. Dishes, as well as faces, were washed under a pump. And every day there were secret classes held in the attic of Kinderheim L410.

In music classes, the girls learned new songs. They sang softly so they wouldn’t be heard by the guards. At the end of each class, one child was chosen to sing a favorite song from home. When it was Hana’s turn, she always sang a song called “Stonozka,” the centipede song.

Her life is not a piece of cake.

Imagine how she suffers when

She walks until her tootsies ache.

She’s got good reason to complain.

So when I want to cry the blues

I just recall the centipede.

Consider walking in her shoes

And then my life seems sweet indeed.

There were sewing classes, too. Hana had never sewn a stitch in her life, and she had a hard time with the needle. The teacher often had to ask Hana to stop giggling when she made a silly mistake. Nonetheless she managed to finish a blue blouse of which she was very proud.

But Hana’s favorite class was her art class. Painting and drawing supplies were hard to come by. Some people had smuggled them into the ghetto in suitcases. Paper had been stolen, sometimes at great risk, from the Nazi storerooms. Plain wrapping paper was used when nothing else could be found. One way or another, in the early days, there were always crayons and colored pencils.

The art teacher, Friedl Dicker-Brandeis, had been a famous painter and was now a fellow prisoner at Theresienstadt. Friedl taught her students about serious things like perspective and texture. And sometimes the girls drew pictures of serious subjects: the ghetto walls, people waiting in line for food, inmates being beaten by Nazi soldiers.

But, more than anything, Friedl wanted her classes to help the children forget their brutal surroundings, at least for a while. “Think of space,” she told Hana and the others. “Think of freedom. Let your imagination run wild. Tell me what is in your hearts. Put it down on paper.”

For a treat, she would take them to the roof of the building, so they could be closer to the sky. From there, they could look beyond the walls of the camp and see the surrounding mountains in the distance. The girls could dream of birds and butterflies, of ponds and swings. And, using their crayons and pencils, they could bring them to life.

When classes were over and all the chores were done, they played a board game called
Smelina
, which had been invented right there in the ghetto. It was based on Monopoly, created for the children by an engineer named Oswald Pock who had been deported to Terezin. The players would land on properties like
Entwesung
, the de-lousing station where clothes were disinfected, and the guards’ barracks. Instead of building a hotel, players built a
kumbal
, an attic hideaway above the barracks. For money, players used the ghetto paper bills called ghetto
kronen
.

But no matter what the distractions, Hana always ended up feeling hungry and lonely. She missed George terribly. Then one day there was an announcement that the ghetto rules were changing. The girls were allowed to go out once a week for two hours.

Hana immediately raced across the square to the Boys’ House. “George, George Brady!” she called. “Where is my brother? Have you seen my brother?” She ran from room to room, asking every boy she came across. So anxious was Hana to find her brother that she even opened the door to a bathroom. And there was George, working away at his new job as a plumber. What a joyous reunion it was! George threw down his tools and Hana rushed into his arms. They laughed. They cried. Questions tumbled from their mouths. “Are you well? Have you heard anything about Mother and Father? Are you getting enough to eat?” From then on, they took advantage of every opportunity to be together.

George took his responsibility as a big brother seriously. He felt it was his job to protect Hana and to make sure she didn’t get into trouble. He wanted to keep her as happy and healthy as possible until they could be with their parents again.

And Hana was equally devoted to George. In Terezin, where there was never enough to eat, residents received a small
buchta,
a plain doughnut, once a week. Hana never ate hers. She brought it to George so he could be strong and stay sweet.

In Theresienstadt, it seemed to Hana that more people arrived every day. Men, women and children came from all over Czechoslovakia at first, and then from other European countries. Every time a new group of people got off the trains, Hana would look for familiar faces. And sometimes, when she was feeling strong, she would approach strangers and ask, “Do you know my mother and father? Have you been to a place called Ravensbruck? My mother is there! Do you have any news of Karel and Marketa Brady?” The answer was always the same, but delivered with kindness and a barely concealed pity. “No dear, we don’t know your mother and father. But if we hear anything — anything at all — we will find you and tell you.”

Then one day, a familiar face did appear — an old friend of her parents who had no children of her own. At first, Hana was thrilled to see her. Anything that reminded Hana of home, that brought her a tiny step closer to her mother and father, was a comfort. But suddenly it seemed that wherever Hana went, the woman was waiting for her. Every time Hana turned a corner, she was there. She pinched Hana’s cheek, gave her kisses. And then one day, she went too far.

“Come here, little one,” she said, holding her hand out. “Remember all our good times together. Don’t be shy. Don’t be lonely. You can come and see me every day. You can call me ‘mother.’ ”

“I have a mother,” Hana spat out. “Go away! Leave me alone.” Hana refused to see the woman again. She missed her own mother. No one could take her place.

Terezin, July 2000

AT THE TEREZIN GHETTO MUSEUM
, Ludmila sat down behind her desk and stared at the young Japanese woman perched on the edge of the seat across from her. Fumiko’s strong determination was written all over her face. She liked Fumiko and wanted to help her find out more about this girl, this Hana Brady.

She pulled a big book off the shelves. Inside were the names of the almost 90,000 men, women and children who had been imprisoned at Theresienstadt and transported to the east. They turned to the B’s: Brachova, Hermina. Brachova, Zusana. Brada, Tomas. Bradacova, Marta. Bradleova, Zdenka.

“Here she is,” cried Ludmila. And there she was: Hana Brady, May 16, 1931. “How can I find out more about her?” Fumiko asked.

“I wish I knew,” Ludmila replied.

“But look,” said Fumiko, pointing to another line in the book. There was another Brady, listed right over Hana. “Could this be her family?” Fumiko wondered aloud. Ludmila looked at the birth dates. Three years apart. “Yes,” she said, “chances are very good that this was a brother. The Nazis listed families together.”

There was something else that Fumiko noticed. Beside Hana’s name was a check mark. In fact, there was a check mark beside every name on the page — except one. Beside the other Brady, George Brady, there was nothing. What did this mean?

Theresienstadt, 1943–44

AS THE DAYS AND MONTHS PASSED
, Theresienstadt became more crowded and cramped. New trainloads of people arrived all the time. This meant that there was less food for everyone and people became weak and sick. The oldest and youngest people were most at risk.

One day, after she had been in the ghetto for a year, Hana received an urgent message from her brother: Meet me at the Boys’ House at six in the evening. I have a wonderful surprise for you.

George couldn’t wait to share the good news. “Grandmother is here! She arrived last night!”

The children were overjoyed at the thought of seeing their grandmother. They were also worried. George and Hana’s grandmother had been a refined woman who lived a cultured, comfortable life in the capital city of Prague. It was this generous grandmother who had given them their scooters. When they visited her in the big city, she always gave them bananas and oranges. But in recent years, she had been quite ill. How would she manage in this awful place? Not well, it turned out.

The children found her in an overcrowded attic, with only straw to sleep on, one of many old, sick people. It was the middle of July and the attic was boiling hot. They were horrified by what they saw. Their gentle, elegant grandmother looked terrible. Her beautiful white hair, always so perfectly combed in the past, was a mess. Her clothes were torn and soiled. “I’ve brought you one of my paintings,” Hana exclaimed, thinking it might put a smile on the old woman’s face. But her grandmother could barely turn her head. Instead Hana folded the coarse paper and made her painting into a fan. “Rest,” she told her grandmother as she tried to create a cooling breeze. Hana felt proud to be in charge of trying to help her grandmother feel better.

Hana soon learned that old people in Theresienstadt were given the smallest and worst rations. The food her grandmother got just wasn’t enough and was often crawling with bugs. And there was no medicine. The children visited as often as they could and tried to cheer her up, bringing crafts they’d made and singing songs they’d learned. “This bad time will all be over soon,” George told her. “Mother and Father are counting on us all to stay strong,” Hana said.

But in three months time, their grandmother was dead. Beyond Hana and George, few people took much notice. Death was all around them. In fact, so many people were dying so fast, the cemetery was full. Clinging to each other, Hana and George tried to remember the happy times with their grandmother, and cried together.

As more people poured into Terezin, thousands more poured out. They were crammed into boxcars and sent eastward to an unknown fate. Rumors about the transports spread inside the walls of Theresienstadt. Some tried to convince themselves and others that a better life awaited the people who were sent away on the trains. But as time went on, stories of death camps, brutality and mass murder circulated widely. When people spoke of these things, Hana covered her ears.

Every few weeks, the dreaded lists would be posted in each building. People whose names were on them had to report to an assembly hall close to the railway station within two days.

Lists. Everywhere there were lists. The Nazis were systematic record keepers and they wanted all their prisoners to know it. Through the constant counting and listing of people, the Nazis reminded the inmates who was in charge. Everyone knew that being counted, being noticed, could mean a transport and another separation from family and friends.

One morning, as Hana was doing her chores, everyone in the camp was ordered to stop what they were doing and assemble on a huge field outside the town. Everyone — old and young. They were marched out by Nazi guards carrying machine guns, and ordered to stand there with no food, no water, and a sense that something terrible was about to happen. Hana and the other girls didn’t even dare to whisper among themselves.

Hana couldn’t bear the thought that she might be separated from George. Or from the girls in Kinderheim L410, who had become almost like sisters. Wasn’t it enough that her parents had been taken away from her? Ella stood beside her and tried to cheer her up with smiles and winks. But after four hours of standing, Hana could no longer contain her despair. She began to cry.