by Han Nolan
"She's still a bit confused, but don't worry, Mrs. Burke, it's very normal."
A finger is placed in front of my face.
"Do you see my finger?" the nurse asks.
"Yes."
"Good. Now I want you to follow it with your eyes."
I follow her finger back and forth, up and down, all the while watching the back of her long nail.
"That was very good. Do you feel this?"
"Ouch!"
"Very good! I think your daughter's going to be just fine. We'll get Dr. Bernstein in here."
"Can I talk to her now?"
"Go right ahead, but she may not remember what you say. She's still pretty groggy."
Mama leans into the bed. All I can see are her eyes, round and blue, with pieces of old mascara clinging to her lashes.
"Hilary—all I—thank God."
"Mama?"
"Yes."
"You're here."
"Yes. I couldn't leave you. That's what I wanted to say. I wanted to say—to say, well, baby, I—I love you."
"I know."
"You do?"
"You stayed with me—through the fire."
"How did you know? How could you know? That happened yesterday."
"Brad's fire."
"How can you know that?"
"They kept trying to make you leave—a real fire."
"It's a wonder the whole building didn't burn down. They even had to evacuate the other wing."
"But—you stayed."
"Yes, but how do you know all this? And what about Brad?"
"I—don't—Simon."
"Yes, baby. Simon's missing."
"How long?"
"Three days. You've been out three days."
"You stayed."
"Yes."
I close my eyes and sleep. I dream that I'm trapped in the room above the ceiling with Simon. It's so hot we're suffocating. We scream but no one hears.
Mama is staring at me when I open my eyes.
"It's okay, baby, you just had a bad dream."
"Simon. I know—where."
"Shh."
"I know where he is."
"Hilary, what do you mean? You know where Simon is?"
"The hole."
"A hole? He's in a hole?"
"Yes."
"Good Lord! Nurse, nurse! We need you! Where is this hole? Hilary, can you remember? We need to find him. The nurse can call the police. Just tell us where he is, baby."
"The ghetto."
"Oh, nurse, that missing child, she knows where he is. Hilary, what's the ghetto? Is that a hangout? A restaurant? Oh, the police will know. Please, nurse, could somebody call them? Tell them the missing boy's in a hole at the ghetto.
"You sleep now, baby. Sleep now."
"Simon—I must find..."
"Shh, sleep now. We'll find him."
"He's in a hole. No! No, he's—he's in a locker."
"Hilary, think. Is he in a hole or in a locker?"
"Mrs. Burke, let her rest. It's still too soon."
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I just thought she knew. It seemed like she knew."
"I know where."
"Shh—it's okay, baby."
"Listen to me!"
"Now, look, she's all upset. Mrs. Burke—"
"The gym locker! Simon is there."
"Hilary, are you sure?"
"Mrs. Burke!"
"Brad, and Chucky, and Billy."
"Okay, baby. You sleep. Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. Sleep now."
I close my eyes. I hear Mama's voice whispering to me again and again, "Everything will be all right." I feel her hand on my head, her breath on my cheek. I drift off to sleep and dream of baby Simon playing patty-cake with my father.
When I open my eyes, I see that I'm wrapped in white. My left leg is in a cast suspended from a stirrup. Mama is still here sitting beside me. Her face is pale and small, too small for all her hair. She is frowning at her hands, studying them. Her Bible is about to slide off her lap.
"Mama, what is it? Is Simon...?"
"Oh, Hilary." She catches her Bible. "Yes, they found him. It's all over."
"Tell me, I want to know."
"Another time."
"I want to know. It's all right, Mama."
"No, it can wait. Let's get you well."
"Please!"
"It's not good."
"I know. The police, they'll want to talk to me. I'll tell them."
"Baby, Brad and the others, they're in jail."
"Where is Simon? Is he—is he dead?"
"The police found him in back of the school."
"But how..."
"It was Brad, baby. Brad hung him up by his suspenders. In a tree. He told the poor kid if his suspender buttons broke, he'd shoot him. Chucky and Billy were there, too, teasing him, threatening him."
"He's dead! He's dead! I remember. They shot him hanging in the tree!"
"No. No, Hilary. He's all right. He's here. Down on the second floor. It's okay. The kid did okay. He's alive. He found a water bottle in that locker, three-quarters full, and some orange peels. He's okay. He'll be okay."
"He's really..."
I promise.
"And you. You stayed with me."
"Yes, baby, I'm here. Things are going to be better. I promise, things will be better."
"I know, Mama."
She moves closer. I feel her lips on my forehead.
I close my eyes and sleep, and dream about a grown man hanging in a tree and a woman named Chana.
***
People bustle in and out of my room at all hours of the day and night wanting to run tests, to take me to therapy, to feed me, to medicate me, and even to visit me, but never does a gray old woman named Chana come to see me.
I begin to wonder, Who is this woman who haunts my sleep, who tells me incredible things, expects incredible things of me? Why do I know her so well? Why do I feel this pull on me from somewhere else? Why do I want to be with her so much, when I don't even know where she is?
The days pass. My memories of Chana grow more vivid. I'm remembering everything—the ghetto, jail, Auschwitz—and yet I still have one question I cannot answer: Is Chana real or just someone my guilty conscience has created?
She has to exist, I tell myself.
I pray for courage. I pray that when the time comes for me to speak, for me to tell the story, I'll know what to say.
I want to go home, I'm ready. I want to speak to Simon. He's already home. I want to tell him I understand and ask him to understand me. I'm afraid of what he will say, of what's going to happen to me. I'm afraid of what I have to do.
I ask Mama if she's sure there has been no one, besides her, staying with me in the hospital room while I was in the coma.
"No, no one else," she says. "Now come on, let's see how you sit in your wheelchair."
I know she's worried about me. I know she doesn't like my questions. She has sensed the sadness growing in me as the days pass and I remember more of this other life, my life as Chana.
I try to joke with her. "This is ridiculous. I don't need a wheelchair. I'm a pro with these crutches." I whirl around on one foot.
"Hey now, watch out. If you trip while on your way out of the hospital, you could end up back in bed, so just get in the chair, Hilly. Just do it."
"Yes, Mama." I hobble over to the chair and fall back into it.
"Such grace."
"Of course. I trained with the Royal Ballet."
"More like the Royal Air Force."
"Very funny, ha ha."
"Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt, but are you Hilary Burke?" A woman wearing a blue hat and coat and looking strangely familiar stands in the doorway.
"Yes, I'm Hilary." I wheel around to face her.
"I know this is a bit unusual. I'm Nadia Berg man. My sister was in the intensive care unit with you." She looks at my mother. "Perhaps you remember seeing me, Mrs. Burke."
"No, I'm sorr
y, I..."
"You're Nadzia! You're Chana's baby sister!" I say.
"Thank goodness you know me. I didn't know how I was going to explain myself. Maybe Chana knew what she was talking about after all."
"Chana? Is she here?"
"Hilary, who is Chana? I'm afraid, Mrs. Bergman, I don't understand."
"I don't understand much myself. My sister told me to give this to you, Hilary. She died. Of cancer."
"Yes, she—I remember—I mean, I'm sorry, too." I look down at the book she has placed in my lap.
"This is—it's the photo album!"
"Hilary, I've never seen that book in all my life. Who are all those people?"
"They're my family, Mrs. Burke."
"Then why are you giving this to Hilary? This is crazy."
"I have saved some photos, but I never knew any of them—except Chana. I was sent away from them when I was just an infant. They all died in the war. Chana was the only survivor. She came to the States to live near me. I'm sorry, I don't really understand myself, but it is Chana's last request that Hilary have it."
"No—Hilary, we must give the book back, don't you think? How could these people have anything to do with you?"
"I'm sorry to upset you. Chana said Hilary would understand."
"Hilary?"
"Yes, I understand. I remember." I look back up at Nadzia. "There's this notation in the front of the book—Jeremiah 1:4–10."
"Yes, Chana told me to put that there. Again, she said you would understand."
"Well, Mama, you have your Bible. What does it say?"
"Oh—okay, let me see now." She fumbles with the book. "Yes, here we go...
"Now the word of the Lord came to me saying,
'Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
and before you were born I consecrated you;
I appointed you a prophet to the nations.'
Then I said, 'Ah Lord God! Behold,
I do not know how to speak,
for I am only a youth.'
But the Lord said to me,
'Do not say, "I am only a youth;"
for to all to whom I send you you shall go,
and whatever I command you you shall speak.
Be not afraid of them,
For I am with you to deliver you,' says the Lord.
Then the Lord put forth his hand
and touched my mouth; and the Lord said to me,
'Behold, I have put my words in your mouth.
See, I have set you this day over nations and over kingdoms,
to pluck up and to break down,
to destroy and to overthrow,
to build and to plant.'"
Chat Page
1. Why is Hilary angry and full of hate? What are her reasons for turning her anger on her mother and on Jews?
2. Why does Hilary feel like she fits in with the Great Aryan Warriors?
3. Bubbe tells Chana that she must remember everything. Why is this important?
4. How can everyone share the same past and the same future yet see it differently? How does her experience with Chana change the way Hilary sees things?
5. Why does caring for Matel in Auschwitz save Chana? How might taking action, as Chana or Jakub or Bubbe does, affect one's chances of survival? What are the risks of taking action?
6. Hilary wonders if she's wicked How would you answer her?
Chatting with Han Nolan
Question: How long have you been writing?
Han Nolan: I started writing stories as soon as I could write, or so my mother says. What I remember is reading Nancy Drew mysteries and wanting to write some of my own mysteries. I was about nine years old at the time. Harriet the Spy also influenced me back then. I started spying and keeping a journal. I soon realized that I didn't make a very good spy (I kept getting caught), and that I wanted to write more about my own thoughts than about the people I spied on. Still, that was the beginning of keeping a journal, and I've kept one ever since. I wrote my first novel-length story in the hopes of getting it published back in 1988.
Q: What is your writing process? Do you work certain hours or days?
HN: I use a computer to write, and I try to write from about five or six o'clock in the morning until about four o'clock in the afternoon. When my children were living at home, I wrote during the hours they were at school and stopped when they came home.
Q: Are your characters inspired by people you know?
HN: I guess they would have to be in some way—but not really. I never sit down to write and think I'm going to write a story based on this person I know. The characters evolve as I'm writing and they act and react to the situations I've created. I never know who I'm going to meet when I write.
Q: How do you come up with story ideas?
HN: I write about things I care about—those things closest to my heart or things that scare me the most. My ideas come from inside me, but they are stimulated by conversations I've had, things I've read, and stories I've heard.
Q: Do personal experiences or details ever end up in your books?
HN: Yes. All the interiors of the houses in my stories come from houses I've been in before. They never come out just the way they are in real life, but in my mind's eye I am picturing a certain familiar house. Casper, Alabama, in the book Send Me Down a Miracle, was based on a street in Dothan, Alabama, where many of my relatives have lived. The street is named after my great-uncle. I created a small town based on that one street.
Q: Your characters often face a life without one or both parents. What do you hope readers will take away from your exploration of this situation?
HN: Every reader comes to a book with their own history and will respond to the book according to that history. I would want my readers to take away from this exploration whatever they need. I don't create a story to teach a certain lesson to my readers. I create a story to explore a certain truth about life.
Q: Why did you decide to use time travel to tell Chana and Hilary's stories?
HN: Time travel was the best way for me to tell the story I wanted to tell. I wanted to literally put Hilary in another person's shoes and let her walk around in them for awhile.
Q: Why did you want to write about the Holocaust?
HN: I feel strongly that we all need to take responsibility for what happened back then and what is happening today. As long as we keep saying that the Holocaust is the Jews problem, the Jews history—instead of understanding it is humanity's problem—we will never learn to be tolerant, or to love one another, or to live in peace.
Q: Chana saved her own life by taking care of Matel. Why did you choose to make your main character survive by giving away her food and emotional energies to someone else?
HN: In my research through journals, personal accounts, and newspaper accounts, I read about people who gave away their last piece of bread even though they themselves were starving. I was deeply touched, and I wondered if I could have been so selfless if I were in that situation. I thought about it a lot. I know from my own experiences that stepping out of myself to care about others and to give what I can to others is life enhancing, life-giving. Our survival depends not just on what we can get in life but on what we can give. Many people don't realize this. Studying the Holocaust really brought that home to me, and it was important for me to include it in my story.
Q: Memories are important to your characters. How have memories played a part in your own life? In your writing?
HN: I think writers in general have very good memories and even remember their dreams better than most. Memories are part of our subconscious mind, and when I'm really into writing a story, I know it is coming from that same place, the subconscious. Memory is a crucial part of any story.
Q: What do you hope readers will take away from Hilary's experience with Chana?
HN: Hopefully, as Hilary comes to understand and care about the Holocaust and what happened to Chana and her family, so too will the reader.
Also by Han Nolan
NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER
Dancing on the Edge
A girl teeters on the edge of insanity.
Miracle McCloy has always known that there is something different about her. Gigi, her clairvoyant grandmother, won't let her forget that she had been pulled from the womb of a dead woman—a "miracle" birth—and that she expects Miracle to be a prodigy, much like Dane, the girl's brooding novelist father.
Having been raised according to a set of mystical rules and beliefs, Miracle is unable to cope in the real world. Lost in a desperate dance among lit candles, Miracle sets herself afire and is hospitalized. There, she undertakes a painful struggle to take charge of her life.
An ALA Best Book for Young Adults
A Booklist Editors' Choice
A School Library Journal
Best Book of the Year
A New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age
*"Masterful."
—School Library Journal (starred review)
*"Intense, exceptionally well-written."
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
*"Compelling."
—Booklist (starred review)
NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST
Send Me Down a Miracle
Visions from heaven make all hell break loose.
Things used to be normal in Casper, Alabama. Charily Pittman was a regular fourteen-year-old, the perfect daughter, destined to follow in her preacher fathers footsteps. But then Adrienne arrived, with her big-city ways and artsy ideas. Reverend Pittman thinks she's the devil incarnate. Charity thinks she's amazing.
