Hanna Braun: The Girl Who Escaped the Nazis

I inhaled as the cold sea breezes blew against my face. I felt peace for the first time since my parents told me I was to board a train out of the country. I blocked out all of the memories of the past week and closed my eyes, imagining that I was gliding in the wind without a worry in the world. The December gusts began to bite at my skin, but I barely noticed it was there.

I opened my eyes and gazed at the ever-nearing town of Harwich. The second I stepped onto English soil, my life would never be the same. I turned away from the silhouette of Harwich on the horizon and bit my lip as tears pooled in my eyes. Without a glance back, I hurried into the hull to collect the few belongings I’d brought from my former house in Nuremberg, Germany.

***

“Weitergehen! Weitergehen!” Several crewmen ushered children off the old ship and onto the docks of Harwich. Everyone was frantic, looking about, lost in the madness. The assigned numbers of the “lucky” children were called by Captain Clarke, who then pointed them to their sponsors. I was one of the lucky ones. You see, some of us had sponsors. We were sent to live with temporary families- or foster homes- until we got adopted. The children with no sponsors were put into orphanages, with virtually no family or support. It may not seem right to call us “lucky,” but perhaps it is the only understandable way.

“Müller, Luis! Number Twelve!” The captain’s voice boomed from a microphone they’d hooked up to who knows were. Everyone quieted down for a moment, but soon they erupted in nervous chatter once again. “Braun, Hanna! Number 23!” I froze as I heard my name echo throughout the docks. Had I heard that right? I shook myself out of the trance and worked my way through the overwhelming crowd, elbows prodding into my sides and feet trampling my own with every step.

A broad hand grabbed my shoulder, and I flipped around, almost tripping over my suitcase. “Who are-.”

“Miss Braun?” The man asked. He was a short man, with black, well-combed hair and baby blue eyes. He wore a brown suit with a tie, making my simple white collared shirt and skirt look highly casual. The star of David pinned to my blouse was a constant reminder of my purpose here.

“Y-yes? I asked. I’d brushed up on some English basics through books in Nuremberg, but everywhere around me, I heard what sounded like gibberish mixed with a few familiar words.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, reaching out his hand, “You may call me Mr. Patel.” He took my hand with a firm grip, his eyes boring into mine. “I will be taking you to your new home.” His smile radiated with pride and arrogance. A rich man, this one is. Helping refugees for his prestige. I nodded and he dropped his hand down to his side. “Well then, a few papers to fill out and we’ll be on our way.”

Mr. Patel led me farther down the docks to a small building with a slanted roof. I had only a vague idea of what he said, but I soon found out. There is one thing I remember from that office visit: a “few papers” was a drastic understatement.

I gazed, or rather inspected, the fields as we drove across the barren countryside. As I sat in the back of Mr. Patel’s automobile, I couldn’t help but wonder how my new “family” would treat me. What if they were terrible, wicked people in search of someone to do slave work? Would they starve me if I made a mistake? I shook all of the negative thoughts out of my head and transfixed my mind on the different shapes of the clouds, something less troubling. I noticed a small, light blue farmhouse with a red barn not far off, and before I knew it we were driving into the gravel driveway lined with pear trees.

A short, petite, old woman sat on a rocking chair on the porch. When she saw the automobile stop in the driveway, she leaped up faster than I thought possible for a woman of her age. “Henry! They’re here!” She called into the screen door. Seconds later a tall man of about the same age clambered out the squeaky screen door. The old woman clutched his arm.

I took a deep breath and made sure my blonde braid was in place. Were they going to be my foster family? I opened the automobile door and stepped onto the gravel driveway, collecting my small suitcase from the seat next to mine. Mr. Patel was already on the porch before I’d gotten myself together.

I slowly made my way to the porch where the three of them were in conversation. How was I supposed to act and speak? All thoughts were erased when I stepped onto the creaking porch. The old woman’s face was creased with wrinkles of joy, and her grey hair was held in a loose bun atop her head. Her face spread into a wide grin when she saw me.

“Oh, dear, welcome home!” She kissed my cheek and gave me a tight hug. I refrained from flinching back. “Oh, Chaim! Chaim! Come meet Hanna!” For a woman of her age, she sure had strong vocal cords.

Moments later a boy about my age came out the door. Messy black hair topped his dark face with fierce, almond-shaped eyes. The lady’s smile grew. “Chaim, dear, this is Hanna Braun. Will you show her to her room?”

He nodded. “Uh, follow me.” He turned to leave and noticed I wasn’t following. “Folge mir.” He led me down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. Faded yellow wallpaper coated the walls, and pictures of people of all ages, who I assumed were their family, hung everywhere. I noticed that none of them looked anything like Chaim and that no ordinary English boy would know German.

“Have you always lived here?” I asked. He didn’t look back and continued to walk down the hallway.

“No.”

“Are you from Germany?" I asked. "Are you like me?"

“Yes.” He paused and motioned for me to stop. He reached up to the ceiling, which wasn’t very high in the first place, and pulled down a hatch-door ladder; the creaking of the hinges were shrill enough to deafen.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“No.” He smiled, the first form of emotion he’d shone since I met him. I smiled back, but before I knew it he disappeared into the attic. I climbed up after him, hefting my small case behind me. When I reached the top my chest was heaving, and I dropped the case onto the floor.

The room wasn’t very big—diminutive if anything—and had a slanted roof. A bed with what looked like a hand-woven blanket covering it was settled in front of a circular window at the far side of the room. A bureau stood to my right, the drawers slightly opened and painted white. A small kerosene lamp sat atop it. Finally, a desk with a makeshift stool sat against the wall on the left. Without looking at Chaim, I moved to the bed and sat down. The mattress was soft beneath me. It was more than I’d ever hoped for. A smile spread across my face. I began to feel foolish and looked away from Chaim.

“You’ll like it here. Mrs. Davis is wonderful, and Mr. Davis is a very knowledgeable man. He’s teaching me woodwork if you’d like to join us someday.” Chaim said. My eyebrows raised at his sudden burst of discussion.

A sheepish smile appeared on my face. “That would be nice.”

My life would never be the same. That statement was true. Whether it was for the better or the worse, I’ll always long for Nuremberg, Germany. I was part of something that many children didn’t have the chance to experience, and for that I am thankful. I was able to live my life because of the Kindertransport, because of people like Henry and Eleanor Davis.

I gazed out across the yard from a rocking chair on the porch. I watched as two small children of my own sang and danced around gaily, their screeches of laughter filling my ears. It was all worth it, the pain, the hopelessness, the despair. It was worth it because I made it worth it.