North Pole Legacy

by S. Allen Counter

  Later that evening, I received an urgent call from Maj. Quincy Sharp, chief of operations. He told me that the base commander wanted to meet with me, but that I had to wait until seven o’clock the next morning because he would be in meetings until late that night.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

  Sharp said he was not sure, but it must be important if the commander had requested a meeting. He did, however, mention that the adventurer had visited the base. Understandably, I began to worry that some of the Peary family’s powerful friends had convinced the commander to rescind our flight orders. I knew that such a decision would devastate the Eskimo families. Unfortunately, I could not find out for sure until the next morning, just before our scheduled departure.

  I invited Major Sharp to meet Anaukaq, Kali, and their families at the residence hall where we were staying. When we entered the door, a loud cheer went up from the Eskimos, who all rushed forward to greet the major. Several crowded around him and asked that I take their photographs with him. They were thrilled to meet this impressive black American officer, and he in turn was charmed by their sincere warmth. They seemed to think that all blacks they met were in some way relatives. I sensed that he represented for them the first symbol of what their trip to America would be like. As the major left, he assured me that he would do everything he could to make certain that our flight orders were okay.

  Despite his encouragement, I stayed up all night worrying. While my Eskimo friends slept, I busied myself with packing and various other tasks. I prayed that our flight orders had not been changed and that the weather would permit the helicopter to get through and pick up the rest of the traveling party at Qaanaaq.

  At 3:30 A.M., I walked about a mile through the cold morning air and waited outside the hangar for the helicopter pilot. True to his word, he arrived at precisely 4 A.M. It was a go. The weather had miraculously opened a brief window of time for him to fly over the mountains to Qaanaaq and back, a trip of about two and a half hours. We had beaten Tornarsuk again, I thought.

  The pilot lost no time getting the helicopter airborne. I left for the base commander’s office.

  Upon my arrival at 7 A.M., I was immediately escorted in and offered a cup of coffee. The commander greeted me as warmly as always. First, he said, he wanted to confirm the names of everyone in my traveling party. After we discussed this matter, he informed me that our flight to McGuire Air Force Base would be delayed because of activities there involving the secretary of defense. We talked about the reunion project in relation to the Thule air base, and he assured me of his support for the project. At last I could relax. He invited me next door to meet the air force public relations staff, who would do a story on its role in the North Pole Family Reunion.

  I was relieved that my worst fears had not materialized. As I was saying good-bye, the commander said he would join us at the departure terminal to meet Anaukaq and Kali and to see our group off.

  When I arrived at the hangar, I saw the helicopter sitting on the landing pad. I knew then that the other members of the traveling party had arrived. I ran up to the pilot, grabbed his hand, shook it, looked him in the eye, and said, “Tack sa mycket! [Thank you very much].” He looked me back in the eye and said in Swedish, “ingen orsak, ingen orsak [You’re welcome, you’re welcome].” We had just enough time to get the group together and over to the military airlift command hangar for the jet flight to the United States.

  The waiting room at the military airlift command is rather austere in comparison to the waiting rooms at commercial airline terminals in the United States. When we arrived with our many bags, we were asked to stack them with others in a large pile in one area of the terminal. The bags would be taken and placed with the rest of the freight in the cargo section of the plane, just ahead of the seats. We waited and took our seats among thirty or so air force servicemen who were also traveling to the United States. As promised, Major Sharp and Colonel Knapp came out to bid us farewell.

  Walking from the hangar onto the frozen tarmac, we saw the camouflaged green C-141 that would carry us to America. Its small tires and very low-slung profile made it look more like a large bomber than a conventional jet, while its large wings, extending from the top of the fuselage, seemed to droop like those of a giant vulture.

  In no time we were all aboard and strapped into our seats facing backward, away from the cockpit. Everybody seemed very comfortable, and no one seemed especially frightened or uneasy about the flight. The flight sergeant started blaring instructions over the loud intercom system, which is designed to overcome the attenuation of the earplugs each passenger receives on the uninsulated jet. I had to get up with the translator and go from person to person to make certain that seat belts were fastened and earplugs were in.

  The crew treated the Eskimo travelers rather like celebrities, passing out extra fruit and juice. The pilots invited us to the large panoramic flight deck, which is about four times the size of the cockpit of a regular commercial aircraft. Anaukaq and Kali enthusiastically accepted the invitation, and we headed up the steep stairs. Once in the room-sized flight deck, they were thrilled to see the sky around them at forty thousand feet and the vast snow-covered flatlands and mountain peaks below. The pilots and other officers on the flight deck were so impressed with the two old men that they pulled the military insignia from their uniforms and gave them to Anaukaq and Kali as a gift. The two old hunters accepted graciously the first gifts from their American journey.

  “Kooyounah, kooyounah,” they repeated as they tried to stick the velcro insignia to the shoulders of their coats.

  After seven hours of smooth, restful flying we started our descent for McGuire Air Force Base in the center of New Jersey.

  On Friday, May 29, 1987, Matthew Henson’s and Robert Peary’s sons set foot on American soil for the first time. They stood together on the tarmac for a moment, surveying their surroundings in silence. Their faces registered pleasure and awe.

  “It is now a reality. We have reached our fathers’ land,” Anaukaq said.

  “Yes, after so many years,” replied Kali. “But it sure is Keyettoe [hot]!”

  As we feared, the temperature was a steamy ninety degrees, a hundred-degree differential from the temperature we had left in Greenland. The East Coast was experiencing one of the worst heat waves in decades, and the air was oppressive. But the group didn’t seem to mind. We all just shed our coats as we stepped aboard an air force van bound for the terminal.

  The air-conditioned terminal came as a relief. We filed through customs to the comfort of a waiting room. Everything appeared in order as the unsmiling, tough-looking customs official checked us through, one by one. There were thirteen Eskimos in the group, nine Hensons, three Pearys, and the translator. The Hensons included Anaukaq and his sons Avataq, Ussarkaq, Ajako, and Kitdlaq, who were all together for the first time in years. (I made separate, special arrangements to bring Vittus, the fifth son, into the United States from southern Greenland.) Also, Anaukaq’s grandson Massauna-Matthew and his granddaughters Malina and Aviaq were with us. Kali had invited only his son, Talilanguaq, and his grandson Ole along.

  Just when we thought it was going well, we hit a snag. The customs official called me over to say that Malina did not have proper identification and could not be permitted to enter the country. This could not be so, I assured him. After all, we had received special permission from the U.S. consulate in Denmark for her to use the document signed by the commander of the Danish military at Thule. But the customs agent showed me that the commander’s document read in small print that it was valid only if the said Malina Henson could prove her identity with a birth certificate or other form of Danish/Greenlandic identification. Malina had no such identification. She had never been outside the Moriussaq region and had no need for it. No one had told us she needed further identification.

  “I am sorry. The others may go through, but I cannot let her enter the country without proper identification,” the customs offi
cer said.

  When the translator explained the problem to the group, Malina dropped in a chair and lowered her head. Tornarsuk had a long reach.

  I pleaded with the customs officer, but to no avail.

  “Well, she can’t stay here at the base. What can we do?” I asked.

  “We’ll have to send her back on the next available plane,” he replied. In the meantime, she would have to be confined to base.

  I knew that the next plane would leave for Thule at 8 A.M. the following Monday. If that flight had no seats, she would have to remain on base until the air force could find her a seat on yet another returning flight.

  The other members of the group, having cleared customs, sat in a second waiting room, separated from us by a large glass enclosure. They could see Malina slumped in her chair, staring at the floor. Their momentary joy had turned to despair.

  I went over to console Malina, who was shaking with fear. She was hurt and embarrassed that she might have caused complications for her grandfather. I tried to reassure her that everything would be fine.

  I asked for permission to call the State Department to request special approval for Malina to enter the country. My request was granted, but I knew that this would probably involve a great deal of red tape—and our staying on the base until the matter was resolved.

  Returning to the customs officer, who by now had observed the sadness that had swept over the entire group, I appealed for understanding. I told him the story of Matthew Henson and Robert Peary, and the significance of their sons’ visit. I showed him copies of the visa applications which I had brought along, including Malina’s. I even shared with him reprints of newspaper and magazine articles about the planned reunion. He seemed unmoved.

  “There is no way I can permit her to enter the country without the documentation called for in the commander’s identification papers,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I must put her on the next flight to Thule.”

  “Please sir,” I implored. “Don’t break this young woman’s heart. Let her join her family for this two-week visit. I give you my word that I will have her back at this gate, ready to return to Greenland on schedule.”

  He did not respond. In fact he began to talk with others around the terminal.

  I was on my way to the phone to call the State Department, when I turned to him and asked, “When will you be able to put her on a flight back to Thule?”

  “In two weeks,” he replied, smiling for the first time. “Take her on through—and good luck on your project.”

  We just looked each other in the eye for a moment and acknowledged our mutual appreciation. The gruff old guy had a heart after all. “We all thank you, sir,” I said.

  The group cheered Malina when she came through the customs door. Avataq and Ajako ran up to the customs officer and shook his hand saying, “Kooyounah.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The North Pole Family Reunion

  Outside the terminal, my students were waiting in a large, air-conditioned chartered bus. Our committee had chosen the bus over other forms of transportation because we felt it offered us the greatest flexibility and, in the long run, would cost less. The driver, a seasoned veteran, and the student escorts who had driven down from Cambridge earlier that day helped our guests get comfortable. Before long we were on our way to Harvard. Trying to avoid the big-city traffic, the driver took as many back roads as possible. Our Eskimo friends glowed with excitement as they gazed out the windows in utter amazement at their surroundings.

  “Incredible,” said Ussarkaq. “Look at all of these plants,” he said pointing to the trees and shrubbery along the road. “I have seen these plants ever since we arrived. They’re everywhere! I have never seen so many plants in my entire life.”

  “The pathways go on forever,” said Kali, referring to the maze of highways. “They never end! Are they manmade? Maybe they were here when the earth was formed.”

  “Eemuckkah [Maybe],” responded Anaukaq, sitting beside him. “But look at the pedde [cars]—so many pedde. They look like a flock of little cheemeahk—little auks, flying all around you. They just keep coming toward us and coming toward us,” he shouted, gesturing with his hands. “Endless! They never stop. So many pedde—it’s just too much.”

  “Igloo, igloo, igloo, igloo, quah, quah, quah, pah che [So many igloos],” said Kali.

  “Eeee, I see them,” said Anaukaq. “Look! The tall ones have many little igloos inside where people live—like the cliffs above Moriussaq where the birds live in holes on the face of the mountain.”

  “Look at that large white igloo. I could live in that one,” Ussarkaq shouted, pointing to a large white Victorian home.

  Everyone laughed.

  “It is hard to believe that we are now in America. A little while ago I was sleeping in Qaanaaq,” Ussarkaq said.

  As we passed through one town, Ole shouted, “Look at all of the people—where do so many people come from?”

  “I don’t know. They come and go down large streets which look like canyons,” Talilanguaq commented.

  “So this is America,” said Kitdlaq. “The place we have always dreamed about. I can’t believe we are here.”

  After a few hours of travel, we pulled into a highway rest stop. We all got off to stretch our legs and get a bite to eat while the bus refueled. The only restaurant at the stop was part of a well-known hamburger chain, so the Eskimos were treated to a classic American meal: a large hamburger, french fries, and a cola. They loved it. This would be just the beginning of many such roadside stops as we moved up and down the East Coast during the next two weeks.

  We arrived at Harvard early that evening and were greeted by students, family members, and friends at Leverett House, where I had previously made lodging arrangements. After dinner in the Leverett dining room, we joined other students in the courtyard. The trees, birds, and squirrels around the courtyard all fascinated the Eskimos. No one wanted to turn in. They were all too excited about the strange new world around them.

  Eventually we convinced Kali and Anaukaq that they should retire to their room and get some sleep. We then took the rest of the group to Harvard Square. The lights and sounds of the square dazzled them. There were people and cars everywhere. And now they were no longer viewing them from the window of the bus, but mingling among them. The Eskimos spoke with curious passers-by and sampled pizza, sausages, sandwiches, ice cream, and about every other tasty delight the Square had to offer.

  When we returned to Leverett with late-night snacks to talk about the planned events, we found Anaukaq and Kali still up, talking in their room. Only utter exhaustion forced the group to retire in the wee hours of the morning.

  The next day, everyone was up at six o’clock. For over an hour, the entire group stood in the courtyard and watched two squirrels put on what was, for the Eskimos, a fantastic show. The lively squirrels ran about the Leverett courtyard, climbing trees and scampering across telephone wires. Back in Greenland, no wild animal runs about so freely, especially if there are hunters around. Little things that we take for granted fascinated my Eskimo friends.

  Anaukaq noticed a slight swelling in his leg and brought it to my attention. I had him examined immediately by our project physician, Dr. Louis C. Brown, who had served for many years as a physician to the Harvard University Health Services. Dr. Brown, assisted by Ann J. C. Daniels, R.N., determined that Anaukaq’s leg was not draining properly. Like many elderly folks, he had a slight swelling in his legs from time to time because of poor circulation. His legs had been in one position for several hours during the long flight and later during the bus ride, and this had adversely affected his circulation and drainage. They also found that he had never removed the tight wool long underwear that he had worn since we left Greenland. They treated him and elevated his leg in a comfortable position for several hours. Dr. Brown and Nurse Daniels would spend the next ten days with us, checking Anaukaq’s and Kali’s blood pressure, heart, lungs, body temperature, sweat levels, and ju
st about everything else on a daily basis.

  The following morning, while Anaukaq rested his leg, we took the group shopping for clothes. We bought summer shirts, pants, jackets, shoes, and accessories for everyone. Aviaq and Malina bought dresses, along with earrings, headbands, sunglasses, and watches.

  Our plans called for us to visit the Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum in Brunswick, Maine, that afternoon. Since the museum is not far from the home of Robert Peary, Jr., before we boarded the bus I decided to make one final plea to the Pearys to see if they would meet Kali. This time, however, I bypassed the family spokesperson and telephoned Robert Jr. directly. His wife answered the phone. She listened patiently as I explained how much it would mean to Kali to meet his half brother, that we didn’t mean to intrude but had planned to be in the area anyway, and so forth.

  “Oh, all right,” she said finally, in a grandmotherly way. “Bring him up to meet us.”

  I was no less delighted than I was surprised by her response. How ironic, I thought, that the two people who ostensibly needed to be “protected” most from the sensitive news of Kali’s existence were the ones who first agreed to see him.

  When we arrived, the Pearys, along with their son, Robert III, came out to greet us. Robert Jr. walked up to Kali with a big, warm smile and extended his hand. With an equally big grin, Kali shook his hand. They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Now, are you my half brother?” Robert Jr. asked.

  “Yes, I am Peeuree’s son,” Kali replied.

  “And your name is Kali?”

  “Yes, Kali Peeuree.”

  “Well, I’m a bit confused,” Robert Jr. admitted. “I have never met you, but when I was up in Greenland back in twenty-six, I saw some Eskimos that were said to be related to me. I didn’t meet them, but the name I remember is Anaukaq. Now I hear from my son that Anaukaq is colored—Matt Henson’s son. I’m confused.”