Hana's Suitcase (8 page)

Ella slipped her a tiny piece of bread she had hidden in her coat. “Eat this, Hana,” she quietly implored. “You will feel better.” But Hana’s tears kept coming. The big girl then turned to her. “Listen carefully to me,” she whispered. “You are unhappy and scared. That’s just how the Nazis want to see us, all of us. You can’t give them the satisfaction, Hana. You can’t give them what they want. We are stronger and better than that. You must dry up those tears, Hana, and put on a brave face.” Miraculously, Hana did.

The Nazi commander began shouting out names. Everyone had to be accounted for. Finally, after eight hours of standing in a bitter wind, everyone was ordered to march back to the barracks.

It was September, 1944. When the Nazis began to realize that they were losing the war they announced that more people would be leaving Theresienstadt. The transports were sped up. Now a new list of names went up every day.

Each morning, her heart pounding, Hana ran down to the main entrance of the building where the list was posted. And one day there it was — the name she dreaded finding — George Brady. Hana’s knees buckled. She sat down on the ground and cried. George, her beloved brother, her protector, was being sent away to the east. That wiry boy, now a young man, was told to report to the trains along with 2,000 other able-bodied men.

At their last meeting, on the dirt path between the Boys’ House and Kinderheim L410, George asked Hana to listen carefully. “I leave tomorrow,” he said. “Now, more than ever, you must eat as much as you can. You must breathe fresh air at every opportunity. You must take care of your health. Be strong. Here is my last ration. Eat every last crumb.”

George gave Hana a huge bear hug and gently pushed the hair out of her eyes. “I promised Mother and Father that I would take care of you and bring you home safely so that we can all be together as a family again. I don’t want to break that promise.” Then the curfew whistle screamed and George was gone.

Hana became despondent. She couldn’t bear the separation from her brother. First her parents, and now George. She felt so terribly alone in the world. Sometimes, when the other girls tried to cheer her up, Hana turned her face away or even snapped at them, “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Only gentle Ella could convince her to eat her meager rations. “Remember what your brother told you. You need to take care of yourself and stay strong — for him.”

Four weeks later, Hana learned that she, too, was going east. A reunion! “I’ll see George again,” she told everyone. “He’s waiting for me.”

She sought out Ella. “Can you help me?” she asked. “I want to look nice when I see my brother. I want to show him how well I’ve taken care of myself.” Despite her own fears, Ella wanted to nourish the hopes of her young friend. She smiled at Hana and set to work. She got water at the pump and used her last little square of soap to wash Hana’s face and to clean her knotted, dirty hair. With a piece of rag she tied Hana’s hair into a ponytail. She pinched Hana’s cheeks to bring up a little red. Ella stood back and looked at the results of her efforts. Hana’s face shone with hope. “Thank you Ella,” Hana said, hugging the bigger girl. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” For the first time since George had been sent away, she looked happy.

That night, Hana packed her suitcase. There wasn’t much to put into it: a few pieces of pretty worn out clothing, one of her favorite drawings from Friedl’s art class, a book of stories that Ella had given her. When she was done, Hana got into her bunk and slept her last night in Theresienstadt.

The next morning, she and many of the other girls from Kinderheim L410 were marched out to the railroad track. Nazi guards barked orders and their dogs bared their teeth and growled. No one stepped out of line.

“Where do you think we are going?” Hana whispered to Ella. No one really knew. The girls boarded the darkened rail car one by one, until there was not an inch of room left in the train. The air turned sour. And the wheels began to turn.

The train chugged on for a day and a night. There was no food. There was no water. There was no toilet. The girls had no idea how long the journey would be. Their throats were parched, their bones ached, their stomachs twitched with hunger.

They tried to comfort each other, singing songs of home. “Lean on me,” Ella said softly, “and listen, Hana.”

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.

The girls held hands. They closed their eyes and tried to imagine being somewhere else. Each girl imagined something different. When Hana closed her eyes, she saw the strong, smiling face of her brother.

And then suddenly, in the middle of the night on October 23, 1944, the wheels of the train ground to a screeching halt. The doors were opened. The girls were ordered out of the boxcar. This was Auschwitz.

An angry guard ordered them to stand straight and silent on the platform. He held tight the leash of a large dog straining to pounce. The guard looked the group up and down quickly. He cracked his whip in the direction of one girl who had always been embarrassed by how tall she was. “You,” he said, “over there, to the right!” He cracked his whip one more time at another of the older girls. “You, there too.” Then he called over to a group of young soldiers who stood at the edge of the platform. “Take them, now!” he ordered, pointing to Hana and the rest of her group. Huge searchlights almost blinded the girls. “Leave your suitcases on the platform,” the soldiers commanded.

Through a wrought iron gate and under the watchful eyes of the surly dogs and uniformed men, Hana and her old roommates were marched off. Hana held on tight to Ella’s hand. They passed huge barracks, saw the skeleton-like faces of prisoners in their striped uniforms peeking out the doors. They were ordered to enter a large building. The door closed behind them with a frightening bang.

Terezin, July 2000

“WHAT DOES THE CHECK MARK MEAN?”
asked Fumiko, as she looked at the page listing Hana Brady and George Brady.

Ludmila hesitated and then spoke carefully. “The check mark means that the person didn’t survive.”

Fumiko lowered her eyes to the paper again. Hana’s name had a check mark beside it. Like almost all the 15,000 children who passed through Theresienstadt, Hana had died at Auschwitz.

Fumiko bowed her head and closed her eyes. She had already guessed the awful truth. But hearing it spoken, seeing it on paper was still a blow. Fumiko sat silently for a few minutes, trying to take it all in.

And then she gathered herself together and looked up. Hana’s story was not over. Now, more than ever, Fumiko wanted to know everything about her — for herself, for the children waiting for her back in Japan, and for Hana’s memory. She was absolutely determined that this life, ended so unjustly, at such a young age, would not be forgotten. It had become her mission to make sure of this. The quest was not over.

“There is no check mark beside George’s name,” Fumiko said. “Is there any way,” she stammered, “that we can find out about him? What happened to him? Where did he go? Is he still alive?” If she could only find him, he might help her discover more about Hana. Fumiko began to tremble with excitement.

Ludmila looked sadly across the desk at Fumiko. She could see how badly Fumiko wanted to know. “I have no idea what happened to him,” she said softly. “The war was such a long time ago, you know. He could have gone anywhere in the world. He could even have changed his name. Or he could have died, long after the war.”

“Please,” Fumiko pleaded, “you have to help me find him.”

The woman sighed and turned back to the bookshelves crammed with bound volumes of names on lists. “We can keep looking for clues in here,” she said. For an hour, Fumiko and Ludmila sorted through books filled with names, looking for another mention of George Brady. And finally, they found one.

He was on the list of inmates of Kinderheim L417, the Boys’ House at Theresienstadt. The names were clumped in groups of six, since two boys shared each mattress in the three-tiered bunks. When Ludmila checked the names listed with George Brady, she looked up at Fumiko with a start.

“Kurt Kotouc,” she said. “Kurt Kotouc,” she repeated. “I know that name. He’s alive. I think George Brady’s bunkmate used to live in Prague, but I have no idea where. If we can locate him, maybe he can tell you what happened to Hana’s brother. Unfortunately, there’s nothing more I can do for you here. Try the Jewish Museum in Prague. Maybe someone there can help.”

Fumiko thanked Ludmila over and over again for all she had done. She hugged her and promised to let her know about the results of her sleuthing. Ludmila wished Fumiko luck. Then Fumiko picked up her briefcase and ran out of the office into the town square. The bus for Prague was due at any moment.

Prague, July 2000

FUMIKO HAD ONLY A FEW HOURS OF DAYTIME
remaining before her plane left for Japan early the next morning. As soon as she got off the bus in Prague, she hailed a taxi. “The Jewish Museum, please,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

She arrived at the Prague Jewish Museum just before closing time. The guard told her to come back the next day. “But I can’t,” pleaded Fumiko. “I have to go back to Japan tomorrow morning. I’m here to see Michaela Hajek. She helped me find some very important drawings.” When nothing else seemed to convince the guard, Fumiko bent the truth a little. “She’s expecting me,” Fumiko told the man confidently. And he let her in.

This time, luck was on Fumiko’s side. The woman was in her office and remembered the story of Hana. She listened carefully as Fumiko explained what she had found out.

“I have heard of Kurt Kotouc,” Michaela said quietly. Fumiko could barely believe it. “I will try and help you find him,” Michaela promised. She understood that Fumiko had no time to lose.

Fumiko sat quietly as Michaela made phone call after phone call. Each person Michaela spoke to gave her another number to try and wished her well in the search. Finally she reached an office where Mr. Kotouc worked as an art historian. She handed the phone to Fumiko who tried to explain what she was looking for. The secretary wanted to help, but told her Mr. Kotouc was leaving on an overseas trip that evening. “I’m sorry,” she said to Fumiko, “a meeting will be impossible.” No, he didn’t even have time for a phone call.

Michaela watched as Fumiko’s face fell. She got back on the phone herself and pleaded with the secretary. “You have no idea how desperate this young woman is. She has to go back to Japan in the morning. This is her only chance.” The secretary finally relented.

Two hours later, the sky was dark and the Museum was officially closed. All the staff had gone home. But one office was still brightly lit. There, Fumiko and Michaela awaited the arrival of Mr. Kotouc.

Finally he came. The heavyset man with bright eyes had much to tell. “I only have half an hour,” he said, “before I leave for the airport. Of course, I remember George Brady. We shared a bunk in Theresienstadt and much more. You never forget the connections you make with people in a place like Theresienstadt. Not only that,” he said, “we are still friends. He lives in Toronto, Canada.”

Mr. Kotouc pulled out a small leather book. “Here’s what you’re looking for,” he said with a smile.

He wrote down George Brady’s address and gave it to Fumiko. “Oh, Mr. Kotouc, I can’t thank you enough,” Fumiko said.

“Good luck,” he told Fumiko. “I’m so happy that children in Japan want to understand the lessons of the Holocaust.” And then Mr. Kotouc practically flew out of the office, baggage in hand.

Fumiko beamed from ear to ear. All her persistence had paid off. She told Michaela how grateful she was for her help.

The next morning Fumiko settled in her seat for the long flight to Japan. She was still tingling with excitement. She tried to recall all the news she had for the children at the Center. When she thought about Hana having a big brother, Fumiko couldn’t help picturing her own little sister, three years younger. Fumiko had always been her protector and she tried to imagine what she would do if her little sister were in danger. The very thought made her shudder. She looked out the window as the story repeated itself over and over in her mind. After an hour, she fell into a deep sleep, the first one she’d had in a long time.

Tokyo, August 2000

BACK IN TOKYO
, Fumiko called a special meeting of Small Wings. She shared every detail of her adventure with the members. The sad news came first. With the children around her in a circle, Fumiko told them, in a quiet voice, what they had already imagined. Hana had died at Auschwitz.

“But I have a wonderful surprise,” Fumiko said. The faces of the children brightened. “Hana had a brother named George — and he survived!”

The questions started flying at once. “Where is he?” asked Maiko. “How old is he?” one boy wanted to know. “Does he know that we have Hana’s suitcase?” asked Akira. Fumiko told them everything she knew. And she said she would work late that very night so that she could write George a letter.