George Brady and Gabby.
On a warm fall day in 2007, my nine-year-old daughter and I went to the Beaches Public Library in Toronto. My goal, as any keen mother with her first born, was to encourage and promote the joy of reading. I told Gabby to choose any book she wanted, because giving her instruction was not a winning approach when it came to my headstrong, precocious child. As our good fortune would have it, she chose Hana’s Suitcase. Little did we know what impact her simple choice would have on our lives.
Later that night, much to Gabby’s dismay at having to sit still, we read the book together. Two hours later, we were finished. Gabby was silent and thoughtful. She had barely budged. We discussed Japanese educator Fumiko Ishioka’s request for a suitcase when she visited Auschwitz in 1999, and how the single suitcase represented a story about the millions of children who were sent to concentration camps during this time, how her students were intrigued with the name scrawled on the front of it, Hana Brady, and how this name sent Fumiko on her journey to find out more. In pursuit of Hana, Fumiko travelled all over Europe looking for evidence of her survival only to find out she had perished at Auschwitz in 1944. Fumiko’s journey was not in vain however, and eventually led to finding Hana’s only surviving brother, George.
We also talked about the book’s message; the horrors of a time when children, just like herself, were taken from their families. We talked of survival and death and the nature of evil. Questions poured out of her and for days afterward I would catch Gabby rereading parts of the book and coming to me with more questions. At the end of the story was an acknowledgment to Hana’s brother, George Brady, who, according to the information provided, was alive and well and living in Toronto, not far from us in fact.
Gabby discovered this a few days after our first reading and insisted that we visit George and that she wanted to meet him. When Gabby got something in her head, there was no changing her mind. My tepid and cautious response to her was “Well, Gabby, that would be great but we don’t know if George is still alive or if he is willing to share his past with strangers.” Gabby insisted. I didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t just show up at his house? Could we?
A few months went by and Gabby eased off on the possibility of becoming George’s newfound friend. We had written him a letter but had gotten no response. I wasn’t at all sure he’d received it. The immediate impact of Hana’s story began to wear off and life went on as usual. I was simply grateful that this lovely book had not only taught Gabby about a pivotal time in history but that it had also inspired her to start reading on her own. Soon, Gabby was devouring novels including Harry Potter, the Percy Jackson series and much more.
Every year we made a trip to my friend’s beautiful island in Georgian Bay. The next year would be no different. Gabby looked forward to going to L’Islet every summer where we enjoyed good friends, good food, and the beauty of the bay. Of course we had no idea at the time, but this was one of George Brady’s favourite places in the world, too.
As per usual at the cottage, in the late evening we adults sipped wine or a favourite aperitif under the glow of candle light at the large harvest table. Almost always, among this group, the conversation turned to books; what we had read that year, how it made us feel, what we would recommend or not recommend. Uncharacteristically, Gabby was at the table sitting quietly, wide eyed and listening. I could tell she wanted badly to interject with her own book recommendation so we gave her the stage.
“Hana’s Suitcase," she announced decisively. Gabby, who had been waiting patiently for her turn, could barely remain seated and described Fumiko’s journey with a childish enthusiasm that had us all pinned to our seats. She told the entire story of the journey right up to when Fumiko finds George in Toronto. “I wish I could meet him.” Gabby said.
Everyone at the table was absorbed in the moment of this shared book experience. We all sat back and thought fondly of the books that we had read as children, the books that had made an impact on our lives and the way we think about the world and ourselves. Ragna, my best friend’s gregarious and accomplished mother, had a saucy grin on her face and was patiently waiting for Gabby to finish. She apparently knew something we all did not.
“Gabby,” Ragna interjected.
“I know George Brady well. He is one of my patients at the dental office. He has been for years!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Gabby was amazed. It was all too surreal.
“When we are back in Toronto, I will get George to call you and I am sure he would be thrilled to meet you in person and talk about his sister.”
True to Ragna’s word, Gabby received a voicemail from George two days later. She listened to it, as did I, over and over again just to make sure it was real. George’s voicemail asked if Gabby would be available to come to his house and look at some pictures. He left his number. We called back right away.
We arrived at George’s house at the appointed hour of 4 p.m. on the dot. Gabby brought her copy of Hana’s Suitcase and we knocked on the door. A quiet, unassuming man answered, welcomed us, and ushered us into a large living room where several thick photo albums and little boxes sat carefully arranged on a coffee table. “It’s George, mama!” Gabby whispered.
George took his time explaining all of the details in the pictures that dated back to the early 1900s. Photos of Hana as a young girl in smocked dresses, her hair in perfect curls, her and her beloved brother smiling and carefree in their garden and playing on the street of their hometown in Czechoslovakia. Pictures of family holidays skiing and laughing before the war changed them forever. George explained how his parents were arrested by the Nazis in 1942. Hana was 11, not much older than Gabby, and George was only 14.
The most special moment was when George presented to Gabby a small box. Inside were tiny pale pink and cream coloured hearts that, he explained, his mother mailed to him when she had been sent to Theresienstadt, a Nazi concentration camp in Terezin. His mother had chewed small pieces of bread and formed them into the shapes of hearts. George said they were his most precious items, his most prized possessions. In these small, roughly shaped hearts we felt George’s immense loss and the power of a mother’s love.
The afternoon flew by and we were amazed at the letters and items George had received in response to the book. He showed us a large box in the corner of the room that he had not even had a chance to open yet. I wondered if Gabby’s letter was among the pile. Only a year earlier, one of the former inmates at Terezin still living overseas had sent George some drawings that Hana had done before she was sent to Auschwitz. The images were those of a typical little girl who had once lived a happy life, birds flying in a blue sky, trees lining a park, people holding hands. Exactly like the drawings I had at home, on my fridge.
George brought Hana to life that day. Gabby could feel her, relate to her, understand her. It was an experience we will never forget and will be forever grateful for.
Gabby and I read last week that George Brady had died at 90 on Jan. 11 of heart failure. We recalled that, on that day of our visit, he told us that his sister had wanted to become a teacher when she grew up. Gabby and I certainly feel that even though her life was taken at such a young age, she achieved that dream. Although Hana and George are no longer with us, they have left a great legacy in the telling of their story, to children all over the world.
Gabby is now 21 and a fourth-year philosophy student at the University of Guelph.
Again, we both thank you, George.
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