Prologue

To my dear Darijan, 

This is your Hanna. Hanna Balasz. I doubt that you would ever recognize that surname because when it was revealed to you, many years ago, you immediately forgot. Along with your memory of us eating a banana for the first time, my surname was erased from your memory that one particular night you attempted to find out if I had stolen Lina Kozel's rocking horse. But if you close your eyes and feel with your heart, perhaps you would be able to peer into what is left of your memory and see a little girl with pale skin, blonde hair and big, round eyes the colour of the Pacific Ocean. She might remind you of a lone snowflake or a lost puppy. Or maybe of Bloodroots and frozen field berries. That girl would be me. 

I know that reading thus far you might think it strange of me to describe myself as such. I know that snowflakes and flowers and berries can hardly describe a person. I know that Pacific Ocean is not a colour either. But believe it or not, this is exactly how you had described me in the past. Yes, we knew each other. You were my friend and my protector. And I, I was your Hanna. 

The last time we saw each other, you seemed to have recognized me. Although, I could not really be sure. Jorg and Eva had already taken me by the hand and were leading me out of your room when I saw your demeanor change. Your eyes perked up and you tightened your grip of the bottom of your chair to which you held on to. It looked at me as if you remembered. But, like I said, I am not entirely sure as to what I saw. I would, however, like to keep believing that you did recognize me. If you had, I hope that you still remember. 

You know, I visit you every year on my birthday. I wish I could visit more often but, Jorg and Eva could only take me to you once a year. In case you do not remember who Jorg and Eva are, they are the German husband and wife who had adopted me. I know you do not like the idea of me being adopted, but you need not worry because they are kind and very patient with me. They do not understand everything, but at the very least, they accept. Anyway, tomorrow is my birthday again. I am turning thirteen. I wish I could say that I am on my way to see you. I grew an inch in the past year and I would have liked for you to see me an inch taller. But, I am afraid that this year I will be spending my birthday here in Eisenstadt. Jorg said it is too far of a train ride from here to Kyiv. Maybe next year, the trains will be better and faster and it would not matter how far apart we are. For now, I will have to do with this letter... 

I re-read the letter I wrote to Darijan three years ago. I have taken such great care of it, making sure that it does not get crumpled and become too affected by the dank climate. Still, there were tiny holes along the folds of the papers, bearing witness to the numerous times I re-opened and re-folded it. This letter was the first and the last one I had written him since we became separated many years ago. I still have it in my possession because it was sent back to me along with a short note from Mr. Pawluk, the director of the Kyiv Psychiatric Hospital saying my dearest and oldest friend had passed away just a few days before it was received. 

It was too bad he never received my letter. I still believe that had he read the entirety of it, he would have remembered me and all that he was before his memory deteriorated so much. I should have written him earlier. So many times did I grab a piece of paper and a pen and began my composition but, I would always stop halfway through and crumple up the paper. I could not go on writing about how happy I am with the life I have. How could I when I was certain he was miserable? Had I written earlier, even if it was just to say hello or send a photo of me, I might have fulfilled my promise to him of helping him to remember everything he may have forgotten.  

Oh Darijan, how I wish I had known better. How I wish I had foreseen, somehow. I would have stolen memories, happiness and even life to keep you.