The Book of Harlan

by Bernice L. McFadden

  In his rose-colored sitting room, Eugene nervously tugged the lobe of his left ear.

  “Listen,” he said, presenting his palms like a gift. “I’ve already checked, and all of the ships are booked solid into July. You could all take a train into one of the bordering countries and try your luck from there, but from what I’ve been told, there’s no guarantee you’ll get on a ship before June.”

  Ivy broke into sobs, and both Lincoln and Bruno leaped to comfort her. Lizard shot Harlan an accusatory look.

  “This thing can go either way,” Eugene offered bitterly. “Let’s just hope it goes the right way.”

  * * *

  Those who stayed in Paris because they had nowhere to go, or simply no inclination to leave, flocked to Montmartre to escape the dark drift of their anxiety. To get lost in the music, numb themselves with alcohol, reefer, and opium, engage in carnal pleasure with strangers, to sin through the last days.

  God cried. The dry bones of the devout crackled in the cemeteries, skies split, bled pink, and the devil wailed: Don’t worry tomorrow, live for today. Don’t just dip your toe, wade in. Discard your scarves, welcome the wind against your neck; let it rake its airy fingers through your hair. Leave your umbrellas at home, step out into the rain and get wet. Let the children have cake for breakfast, tell strangers you love them. Fuck, drink. Feed the pigeons fresh bread. These are the last days; there will be no weeping here because Montmartre is not a place of sadness or regrets, it’s a haven of art, freedom, and celebration, so revel, revel!

  * * *

  On the afternoon of June 14, Harlan woke to a fan of brunette hair across his face. He brushed it away, stirring the woman beside him. She sighed sleepily, wiggled her behind against his groin, and murmured, “Bonjour, mon chéri.”

  Peering into the muted darkness of the room, Harlan’s eyes seized on a towering, ornate pier mirror, not two feet from the bed. He lay very still, anticipating the moment his memory would race forward, informing him of those things that he presently could not recall. Specifically, where he was and the name of the woman lying next to him.

  He was just four days away from boarding a steamer bound for New York. Eugene had delivered the news a few days earlier. Everyone was happy to hear it, everyone except Harlan.

  Paris had been a revelation. Not once had he been called out of his name. Not once had he been denied entry into a restaurant or hotel.

  Back in New York, none of the white girls he’d bedded ever invited him home for dinner. If he ran into them beyond Harlem’s clearly defined borders, his Hey, how you been? was usually met with an empty gaze. There had been none of that ugliness in Paris.

  A deafening blast of a bullhorn wrecked his musings and startled the woman erect. In that instant, her name flew onto Harlan’s tongue; he opened his mouth and it fluttered out on a winged question: “Astrid?”

  Astrid cast a brief glance at him before tumbling out of bed and racing across the room to the window. She pulled back the drapes and sunlight stormed the room, setting her alabaster skin ablaze. She pulled open the window and the clamor of hundreds of marching feet, shod in jackboots, echoed up from the street.

  Harlan sat up. “What’s that? A parade?”

  Astrid’s lips moved, but he was unable to hear her words over the din; but then again, he didn’t need to because the alarm in her eyes was earsplitting.

  He joined her at the window and peered down at a sea of goose-stepping soldiers. An enormous swastika had been draped over the Arc de Triomphe, smaller versions flapped from apartment-building windows, waved as flags by toddlers.

  Beneath the rain of confetti, hundreds of people cheered and threw kisses at the procession. Others stood tight-lipped, faces stiff with disbelief.

  “What are they saying?”

  “They say,” she whimpered, “this is the end as we know it.”

  __________________________________

  The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called

  the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray.

  He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.

  —Revelation 12:9

  Chapter 54

  In the cabarets that night, Nazis outnumbered the Parisians—sitting three to a table, visor caps balanced on their knees, standing against the walls, and lurking in doorways and the shadowy halls near the toilets.

  Onstage at L’Escadrille, a terrified Ivy tried to engage them—gesturing with her hips and fingers as she sang. She did her best to treat them as if they were any other paying customer out to have a good time, but her movements were clumsy and the smile she offered was more terrified grin than cheerful beam. Behind her, the musicians stumbled through songs, fell off tempo, stalled, and had to start from the top.

  At the end of their second set, a disgusted Eugene told them it was best they call it a night instead of continuing to stink up the place.

  At the word go, Ivy, Lincoln, and Bruno hurried toward the door.

  “Hey, where y’all going?” Harlan cried.

  “Back to the hotel,” Ivy threw over her shoulder before stepping hastily into the night.

  Harlan looked at Lizard. “You gonna run and hide too?”

  Lizard made a face.

  “Aww, c’mon, man, we only have three days left, let’s enjoy it.”

  Lizard glanced at the stone-faced soldiers. “Can’t you see things have changed?” he mumbled.

  “Aww, fuck ’em.”

  They ended up at the Flea Pit, a bistro frequented by black musicians and their flunkies. Lizard was relieved to find the place free of Nazis.

  Whiskey-and-soda in hand, Harlan invited himself into a game of darts while Lizard sat at an empty table facing the door.

  A buxom redhead who had been ogling Harlan from across the room downed her whiskey, swaggered over, and whispered a lewd proposal in his ear. Harlan threw back his head and laughed until he coughed.

  After some back and forth, the woman grabbed his hand and strolled him toward the door.

  “Don’t be jealous,” Harlan chided Lizard as they walked by, “some women just prefer chocolate over milk.”

  Lizard rolled his eyes.

  “Is he your friend?” the woman asked in her broken English.

  “That’s my brother,” Harlan proudly replied.

  “Your brother?” The woman’s eyes glowed with amusement. She turned and called out to a leggy blonde huddled over a table of polka-playing saxophonists. “Viens içi, Janet.”

  The blonde tottered over.

  “This is my sister Janet,” the red-haired woman spouted in her crippled English.

  Just like Harlan and Lizard, the women looked nothing alike. They joined Lizard’s table and ordered a round of drinks.

  After a while, Lizard, who had always prided himself on being able to hold his liquor, realized that the room was spinning and the wooden floor was buckling beneath his feet. He pressed his hands to his head, closed his eyes, and groaned, “I think I’m drunk.”

  Janet ran her tongue along his jawline. “Me too,” she whispered.

  Lizard squirmed, giggled like a toddler.

  Harlan slipped a cigarette between his lips, rapped his knuckles on the table, and announced that it was time to go.

  Under the moonless sky, the couples stumbled down winding streets, their laughter rising like smoke, sailing through open windows, stealing into dreams.

  A block before they reached the main avenue, a figure stepped from the shadows and asked for a light.

  The women fell silent. Lizard fought the urge to run. Only Harlan seemed oblivious to the threat—he continued to reel with laughter over a joke that had dropped dead with fright.

  The redhead yanked his arm. “He asked for a light. Do you have one?” she sputtered nervously.

  “Did he? Well, how would I know, I don’t speak French!” Laughter hooked him again as he patted his pockets in search of his matches.

  The women rummaged nervously through
their small dinner purses. Lizard stood frozen—more mannequin than man.

  “Sorry, I guess I left my matches back at the . . . at the um . . .” Harlan struggled to conjure the word. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Back there.” Rocking forward, he squinted at the man before him, finally noticing the uniform and the swastika bound to his forearm. Harlan’s high dripped away. “Sorry, buddy, I guess you’re out of luck,” he said, and then looked at the redhead. “Translate that fer him.”

  The soldier smiled menacingly. “Buddy? What does this buddy mean?” he growled in English.

  Harlan’s head bobbed. “It means pal. Friend.”

  “Friend?” The soldier spat a wad of phlegm at Harlan’s feet. “You and I could never be friends.”

  Harlan threw his shoulders back. “Whatever.” He grabbed the redhead’s hand. “’Scuse us.”

  The soldier stealthily blocked their path. He eyed Lizard and the women with disgust, and they withered.

  “Consorting with Negroes?” he snorted disgustedly. “You three should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “You three?” Harlan grunted. “He ain’t white.”

  The soldier cocked his head and gaped at Lizard. “Humph, race mixing.” He shuddered. “It fills the world with mongrels like yourself.”

  Harlan mumbled something and the soldier stepped boldly to him. “What did you say?”

  Harlan held his gaze. “I said, he ain’t no mongrel.”

  The two men glared at each other.

  Three more soldiers approached from down the street, their heavy footsteps echoing ominously. The first soldier waved them over. When they were within earshot, he spoke to them in rapid-fire German.

  Lizard clenched his jaw and balled his fists in anticipation of what was to follow.

  The soldiers surrounded them, barring all possible exits.

  Harlan’s head spun left and right. “Okay,” he shouted, “what the fuck is this?”

  “We think you should maybe come with us,” the first soldier stated coolly. “Buddy.”

  Lizard dropped his trumpet and threw a wild punch that hit nothing but air. Harlan used his guitar case as a battering ram, charging the soldier closest to him, knocking him down.

  The victory was fleeting—within seconds both Harlan and Lizard were on the ground, flailing against a torrent of fists and boot heels.

  The women ran screaming from the scene.

  In the apartments above, lamps were turned on, curtains parted—the brave ones opened their windows, flung their heads out to get a full-on look at the brawl. But no one called for the police or drenched the assailants in cold water. When the annoyed and the awakened saw the swastikas, they hastily closed their windows and climbed back into bed.

  * * *

  Harlan floated out of a fog of unconsciousness to find himself slumped over in the backseat of a speeding military jeep. His body throbbed with pain, and he could taste blood in his mouth. Alongside him was Lizard, head flung back on his neck and mouth ajar; he was snoring like a drunkard. Miraculously, the soldiers had beaten Lizard into slumber. If the situation hadn’t been so grim, so terrifying, Harlan would have laughed at the comedy of it.

  The soldier in the passenger seat barked something that prompted the driver to shift gears, slowing the vehicle to a leisurely sightseeing pace.

  Mind racing, but giving no indication that he was awake, Harlan remained slouched and still as the jeep rolled unhurriedly past brick apartment buildings and the linden trees that lined the streets and avenues. From the corner of his eye, he spied the Eiffel Tower and held it in his sights until the jeep made a sharp left, down a narrow street.

  Minutes later, Lizard’s snoring came to an abrupt halt, his body tensed, and his eyelids began to flutter. Before Harlan could rest a bracing hand on his thigh, Lizard lurched forward, hollering and swinging his fists.

  The jeep swerved wildly, sideswiping two parked cars. After the driver regained control and brought the vehicle to a halt, both soldiers wrangled Lizard back into the seat. They pulled their batons and beat him about his head and ribs until he cowered in submission. Then they turned their aggression on Harlan, even though he had done nothing other than tremble with fear.

  Chapter 55

  The sky was blush with morning when the jeep rolled to a stop before a dome-shaped building crowned in thick gray rubber.

  Harlan and Lizard were dragged by their collars from the jeep, thrown to the ground, kicked, ordered back on their feet, and then shoved through the guarded entryway into the building.

  The American musicians stumbled down the corridor, past vacant concession stands pushed up against walls with posters depicting smiling, cherry-cheeked men, women, and children engaged in ice-skating, roller-skating, and cycling.

  At the dome’s brightly lit epicenter, Harlan and Lizard were muscled down the steps and abandoned in the rink which was crowded with more than a hundred people. They stood, shoulders touching, gazing at the mass of anguished and confused faces.

  “Içi, içi!”

  Harlan and Lizard turned toward the beckoning voice.

  “Içi, içi,” the short black man cried again, frantically waving both of his hands.

  They started toward him, stepping carefully along the zigzag paths made by the rows upon rows of sleeping pallets covering the floor.

  The man urged them on, his eyes fluttering nervously from Harlan and Lizard to the armed guards who watched from the rows of red stadium seats. When they reached him, the man pointed at two vacant pallets. “Asseyez-vous.”

  Harlan sat down, but Lizard remained standing, his head tilted, staring at the massive swastikas that dangled from the arched metal support beams.

  The man hunched down beside Harlan.“Je m’appelle Meher Feki.”

  Harlan nodded.

  “Votre nom?”

  “Harlan.”

  Meher nodded. “Harlan,” he repeated, and then looked at Lizard. “Son nom?”

  “His name is Lizard,” Harlan said.

  “Li-zard?” Meher murmured, before jabbering on in French, exceeding Harlan’s rudimentary comprehension of the language.

  Harlan raised a halting hand. “I’m American. I speak English.”

  “Ah!” Meher said. “Me, I too speak English.” He went on to explain that he’d been born in Tunisia but had been living in France for twenty-eight years, employed as a chauffeur for a wealthy Swiss family in Belleville. “Two days ago, the German soldiers stop the car, order me out. I come out. I ask them what is the problem. They no give an answer. They hit me in the head until I fall to the ground, where they kick and kick.”

  Meher pointed to the knots on his head and raised his shirt, exposing his bruised rib cage. “My madam, she is screaming. Tears on her face. Her husband pull her back, cover her mouth with his hands. Don’t try to save me.” As he relived the scene, Meher’s eyes turned damp. “They bring me here. I don’t know what I have done. What crime I have committed. I ask and ask, and they say nothing, just beat me.”

  Once again, Meher pointed to the knots on his head. “I have a wife, two kids. Where they think I am? They must think I am dead.”

  Chapter 56

  Under the hot, glaring lights of the dome, sleep was impossible for anyone other than the young innocents and the elderly who were closing in on their last days. This wasn’t to say that their slumber was easy—twitching limbs, clenched fists, and whimpering was evidence that it was far from serene.

  The rest of them, Harlan included, lay awake with their eyes as wide as half-dollars and hearts drumming with dread. The women clasped their hands over their mouths to keep their screams captive, while their eyes implored the men to turn their reticence into revolt. The men looked at the soldiers, at their guns. When they once again met the women’s urging eyes, their faces were dark with shame.

  Harlan didn’t know what to make of the situation. If he possessed more than an ounce of naïveté, if the bruises to his body didn’t ache so, if the stench
of fear wasn’t so potent it made him want to gag, Harlan might have convinced himself that this was nothing more than a Scotch-and-reefer-induced nightmare.

  * * *

  The next day, Harlan and the other detainees were loaded onto dozens of buses, transported two hours outside of Paris, and unloaded at a sleepy train station. They were ordered to lace their fingers over their heads and then hustled past a group of yawning French soldiers and one lone ticket clerk pretending to read his newspaper.

  In cattle cars still reeking of livestock there were loaves of bread and pails of water. Spotting the treasure, the prisoners raced recklessly forward, consuming every crumb and drop.

  A French soldier climbed into the car and pointed at a burly man sporting a lush brown beard. “Vous êtes en charge. Si quelqu’un s’échappe, nous vous fusillerons.”

  The man’s jaw dropped. He pressed a trembling index finger into his chest. “M-m-moi?”

  The soldier pulled out his sidearm, pressed the nozzle against the man’s temple, and repeated his demand.

  “What did he say?” Harlan whispered to Meher.

  “The soldier told the man he is in charge. If anyone gets away, he will be shot.”

  * * *

  On the hay-scattered floor, Harlan sat between Meher and a grizzled, olive-colored man with bulging knuckles. Across the car, Lizard, who hadn’t spoken one word to Harlan or anyone else, turned over an empty water pail, sat down, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes. Two more men did the same. Mothers lifted their children up to the box-shaped windows; others stood at the openings and wept into the sunlight.

  In one corner of the car, a small albino boy sat curled in his mother’s lap, his arms coiled like ropes around her neck. Huddled in another corner were two very slim, dark-haired men who appeared to be in their twenties. Their eyebrows had been plucked away to stripes. They spoke in whispers behind their palms, gesturing gracefully with their shoulders.

  If it weren’t for the shadow of new growth insulting their beautiful faces, Harlan would have mistaken them for women. As his eyes drifted from their faces, he wondered about Ivy, Bruno, and Lincoln. Had they made it safely back to the hotel or had they suffered a similar fate?