The Book of Harlan

by Bernice L. McFadden

  Why are you so happy? Don’t you know what this place is?

  Sebastian said he was well aware of what Buchenwald was and what purpose it was built to serve. He confessed that his father had worked at a similar institution in German Southwest Africa called Shark Island, where Germans had spent half a decade exterminating Africans.

  “I am very ashamed of the German half of me,” he announced sadly.

  That was one of only two times that Harlan saw Sebastian without his smile; the other was the night before he catwalked his way into eternity.

  Rape. It was a common occurrence at Buchenwald—a blight on an already blighted life. Nightly, the soldiers pulled women from beds, dragged them behind the barracks, and demoralized them in the worst possible ways. Sometimes they did the same to the men. Sebastian’s delicate manner made him an easy target, and one night they drove a baton into his anus.

  At roll call the following morning, Sebastian strolled calmly off the line, sashaying his way past amused soldiers, toward the front gates.

  “Halt!” was shouted numerous times, but Sebastian kept walking, his hip sway growing more seductive, more mesmerizing, with every step.

  No need for a runway, the slats of sunlight on the ground substituted just fine. One hand perched on his waist, his free arm whipping like a tail, Sebastian continued high-stepping.

  “Halt!” It was the final warning. Pistols were drawn, aimed.

  Even though his blond tresses were lying in some dusty pile, Sebastian summoned the spirit of each and every chopped strand and whipped his head so forcefully, the prisoners nearest him felt the draft.

  One bullet to the heart.

  Sebastian, ever smiling, gave the queen’s signature wave and fell dead.

  Years later, especially on dark days, Harlan would find himself thinking about Sebastian in the same way one longed for water during drought.

  Chapter 76

  On a crisp Saturday in September of 1944, a few months before the twins’ fourth birthday, Gwen dressed the boys in matching gray sweaters and red caps. Her intention was to take them to the Prospect Park Zoo and then for a whirl on the merry-go-round, but when she got outside, instead of walking toward the park, she headed in the opposite direction.

  The boys tugged her hands. Bobby, the smaller of the two, wailed, “Mother, the park is the other way!”

  They weren’t identical in looks or character. Bre was tall, dark, and gregarious. Bobby was an inch shorter than his brother and shy; a mama’s boy early on, he stuck to Gwen like a tight panty—so said Ethel. Gwen marveled at how different they looked from each other while both still being the spitting images of Harlan.

  She quickened her pace. “I know that but I’ve changed my mind about the park. I think we should ride the trains instead.”

  The boys cheered. They loved riding the trains. Sometimes the trio would spend an entire day switching between lines, getting off at random stations to explore unfamiliar neighborhoods.

  Their subway journeys had been confined to Brooklyn, but on that Saturday, Gwen made up her mind to take them all the way to Harlem and introduce her sons to their father.

  * * *

  In Harlem, they tunneled their way through the flock of Saturday shoppers. Gwen’s heart skipped and jumped in her chest like that of an elated child on the last day of school.

  “Stay close to Mother,” she warned, crushing their hands in her own.

  Gwen had no idea what she would say to Harlan. Maybe she wouldn’t say a word, maybe when he opened the door she would just shove the boys at him and flee.

  Motherhood had been difficult enough to get used to without Ethel’s relentless criticisms about her parenting skills. Gwen couldn’t do anything right where those boys were concerned.

  How many times do I have to show you how to properly wash a diaper?

  Aww, your nipples hurt? Well, they were feeling damn good when you were making those babies, right? Stop your bellyaching and stick that bubby in his mouth before he wakes the other one.

  She was doing her best, but her best would never be good enough for Ethel Gill.

  Sometimes Gwen fantasized about taking the twins to Eastern Parkway and leaving them on one of the many benches that lined the promenade. Other times she imagined smothering them in their sleep. The previous winter, Gwen had bundled the boys in wool coats, knit scarves, and hats, and had taken them to Prospect Park. It was the middle of the workweek; it was cold, the park was empty and white with day-old snow.

  The boys snapped icicles off low branches and licked them to water, made snowballs and snow angels. When she asked if they were cold, if they were ready to head home, the boys dragged mittened hands over their runny red noses and said no.

  When she’d stopped to adjust her pink earmuffs, Gwen realized that they had ventured farther into the park than she had intended. Just ahead was the boathouse and behind that, the frozen lake.

  Her feet safely planted on solid ground, Gwen had sent her sons out onto the ice. A little farther, go on. It’s just like ice-skating, she urged.

  The boys clasped hands and spun. “Mother, come play with us!”

  Gwen strained to hear the crack and splinter of the ice above their squeals and laughter. She was smiling so hard, her teeth ached from the cold.

  And then came the patrolling police car.

  The officer stumbled through the snow, waving his hands and shouting: “Get those kids off the ice! Lady, don’t you know that’s dangerous? They could fall through and drown.”

  No, she didn’t know, Gwen had lied. “Stupid me,” she said, wiping away fake tears. She thanked him a hundred times.

  On the way back home, she threatened the boys to keep quiet about the lake and the policeman. “If you say one word about it, just one, I’ll make you eat pepper sauce . . . again.”

  * * *

  She’d met a man. A nice older gentleman named Edgar who felt as trapped and suffocated in his marriage as Gwen felt in motherhood.

  The two had exchanged vows of love and had fantasized about walking away from everyone and everything, starting afresh in California. They’d even toyed with the idea of changing their names.

  But for now it was all just talk.

  “You can’t leave your kids,” he’d said. “And nothing against your boys, but I been there and done that. I raised four with my wife, and I ain’t interested in raising any more.”

  “And if I didn’t have children?”

  “Well, that would be an entirely different story.”

  * * *

  From the 135th Street station, Gwen and her sons made their way south on Lenox Avenue, walking a wide circle around hopscotch boxes chalked in blue on the sidewalk, toward 133rd Street.

  Past dog walkers and people lounging on their stoops, they turned left onto 133rd Street, and continued quickly up the street. When they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and 133rd Street, Gwen’s mouth formed a large O.

  The crossing light changed and changed again, and still Gwen just stood there, stuck.

  The boys looked at each other. “Mother?” they chimed in harmony.

  Without a word, she stepped off the sidewalk, against the light, and dragged the children across the busy avenue. Amidst the blare of angry car horns and curse words thrown from the motorists she’d nearly turned into vehicular murderers, Gwen shouted, “Where are the houses? Where are the goddamn houses?”

  She questioned the utter desolation.

  The boys pulled away from her grip and went running toward a flock of sun-basking seagulls. On their approach, the birds took flight, lit silver by the sun; they glided toward the smattering of rain clouds looming over the Harlem River.

  Gwen walked to the corner to check the street sign, to make sure this bareness was indeed East 133rd Street.

  It was.

  That was it. East 133rd Street was no longer there. All of the houses were gone and so was Harlan. And as long as Gwen was stuck with those boys, Edgar wasn’t going to leave his
wife. At least not to be with Gwen.

  “Bre! Bobby!” she screeched.

  “Can we get some ice cream, Mother?” Bre asked, falling into step alongside her.

  Gwen stopped walking, raised her hand, and brought it down across Bre’s face. Bobby jumped back, trembling.

  “Shut your nasty mouth. Always begging, always taking,” she snarled.

  Eyes flaming with hatred, Bre rubbed his cheek, but said nothing.

  Head high, back straight, Gwen courageously blinked back the water in her eyes and marched swiftly toward the subway station with Mary Bruce’s voice blaring in her head.

  Smile, Gwenie!

  Smile!

  Smile!

  Chapter 77

  Harlan had given up counting days, sunsets, and the number of people he’d seen die, since doing so had nearly sent him to the brink of insanity. He needed to keep his mind intact because that’s where his memories were stored, and he couldn’t risk losing them. When the hell that was Buchenwald became too much to bear, he could retreat into his mind and relive good times.

  Friends?

  Real friendship required months, sometimes years of nurturing—a luxury the prisoners of Buchenwald simply did not have. Time was a constant worry that hung over their heads like an anvil. Acquaintances would be a more appropriate word, though Harlan had very few of them.

  Losing Lizard had mangled his heart in a way he never wanted to experience again. So while some people took others into their hearts, Harlan kept them at arm’s length.

  Why Harlan’s life had been spared for all these years was a question for the ages. He was far from special and served no significant purpose within Buchenwald, yet he continued to cheat death, even though he often longed for its bloody sickle.

  * * *

  By late March of 1945, it seemed that Harlan might get his wish.

  The prisoners hadn’t had a scrap of food in ten days and were weak with hunger. Starvation wasted no time cutting down the feeble, littering the barracks with silent and stinking emaciated bodies.

  Rumors raged.

  I hear Germany is losing the war.

  The Second Coming is at hand!

  Hitler is dead.

  Chapter 78

  April 11, 1945

  Crouched beneath a window, Bulger, a wiry, copper-colored man, whispered to anyone who cared to listen: “This is the fourth day in a row I seen a bunch of men marched through them gates.”

  Harlan was lying in bed with his eyes closed.

  “I must have counted two thousand men.”

  “Which gates?” Harlan questioned. “The rear ones?”

  “Yeah, the back gates. I think they might be letting people go,” Bulger offered hopefully.

  “Not likely,” Harlan responded.

  The rear gates led to a dense forest of beech trees known as the Singing Forest.

  What they did to prisoners back there, out of sight, was worse than the public lynchings Ilse Koch was so fond of. In the thick of the woods—where no one could see but the birds—the soldiers ordered prisoners out of their clothing, shackled their wrists behind their backs, and hanged them on industrial-strength nails that had been driven into the trees. The prisoners dangled for hours or days. Arm joints popping, bones slipping. Sometimes, just for sport, Ilse would come down to whip the prisoners’ legs and genitals with her riding crop. Her laughter mingled with the prisoners’ agonizing screams and drifted, thin and haunting, into the prison yard. It touched the ear like a balladeer’s melancholy refrain—hence the name.

  “The front is moving closer!” came a hiss from the shadows.

  Harlan opened his eyes and turned onto his side. He’d been hearing that claim for years.

  “Maybe.” Bulger’s voice was riddled with excitement.

  Harlan closed his eyes again.

  “Three days and no roll call. What do you think that means?” someone asked.

  “There aren’t many soldiers in the yard,” Bulger whispered. “I count . . .” His lips moved soundlessly for a moment. “Ten. Just ten. We can take ten.”

  The voice in the shadows quipped, “I’m sure there are more than ten. They’re like ghosts. You don’t see them, but they see you.”

  Bulger scurried to another window, insisting, “I tell you we can take them. We can.”

  Harlan had noticed the dwindling number of soldiers and officers. Ilse hadn’t been seen for weeks, nor had the white smoke curling from the chimney of her fairy-tale house. Sometimes, in the well of the night, prisoners could hear scuttling in the darkness outside the barracks—no doubt the sound of soldiers fleeing like rats from a sinking ship.

  Harlan turned over again, trying to find a comfortable position, but every which way hurt. Frustrated, he sat up; the effort left him winded. He surveyed the barracks and then lay back down. Soon he was asleep.

  Hours later, he awakened to find the barracks drenched in shadows and silence so still, he thought he was alone.

  “Hey, is anyone—”

  “Shhhhhh.”

  Harlan sat up, peered into the darkness, spotted a group of men crowded around the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  “Shhhhh!”

  Harlan weakly climbed from his bunk and limped toward the cluster of bodies. Halfway there, the bunch turned, rushed him, and hurled him down to the floor.

  With not a drop of strength left, Harlan lay there, motionless.

  Outside an explosion went off, and then another, followed by sprays of machine-gun fire, panicked cries, and the rumble of scattering feet.

  The battle was short-lived.

  Within minutes, American tanks, the avenging angels flying stars and stripes, leveled the front and rear gates and rolled triumphantly into the prison yard. The air exploded with whoops and cheers.

  Harlan’s frail heart and weak legs prevented him from moving beyond the doorway of the barracks, so he watched from the shadows, unsure if what he was seeing was real or imagined.

  When a smiling soldier bounded up to him, Harlan reached out and touched his arm.

  Indeed, he was real.

  Overwhelmed, Harlan sank to the floor and wept.

  PART IX

  Home

  Chapter 79

  When the letter from the State Department arrived, notifying them that their son, Harlan Samuel Elliott, had been found, Emma dropped to her knees and screamed with joy.

  Three weeks later, she and Sam were standing at a Midtown pier, huddled beneath a black umbrella, anxiously awaiting the arrival of their one and only child. The passengers spilled down the gangplank dodging raindrops, as stevedores hurriedly unloaded suitcases, steamer trunks, barrels, and boxes.

  When the drizzle stopped, Sam closed the umbrella, removed his hat, and loosened his tie. Emma shrugged off her trench coat and looked at her watch.

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “He’s on this boat, baby, don’t you worry. He’s here.”

  They’d waited five years, but those last few minutes were the most agonizing.

  A jumbo-sized man with shoulders as broad as an avenue started down the gangplank, pushing a wheelchair. Sam and Emma stepped aside, clearing space for the attendant and his patient. The burly man rolled the wheelchair to a halt and looked impatiently around. There were very few people left on the dock, save for Emma, Sam, and the stevedores.

  The man looked directly at Sam. “Mr. Elliott?”

  Emma’s and Sam’s heads snapped up.

  “Y-Yes,” Sam stammered, nervously rolling the rim of his hat between his fingers.

  “Hello, sir.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Frank.”

  Sam looked at the hand and then at Emma. A long awkward moment passed before he finally shook Frank’s hand. “This is my wife, Emma.”

  Emma glanced at the blanket-shrouded person in the chair.

  “This sleepyhead,” Frank chuckled in an accent neither one of them had ever heard before, “I believe is your son, Harlan.”

  Th
ey stared down at the fedora and dark glasses and then up the gangplank. Surely this man was mistaken. This was not their son.

  Frank gave Harlan’s shoulder a gentle shake.

  Harlan lurched awake, head wobbling; the fedora rocked on his crown, the cocoon of blankets slipping from his frail shoulders. He peered over the rim of his dark glasses. “Mom? Dad?”

  Frank leaned over and tucked the layers of cloth back into place.

  Emma and Sam stared in disbelief.

  “It must be so nice to have your son home again, huh?” Frank’s voice was hesitant.

  With an unsteady hand, Emma reached down and slipped the glasses from Harlan’s recessed face.

  Harlan grinned. “Hey, Ma.”

  Tears flowed down Emma’s cheeks. “Oh my God, Harlan, Harlan,” she moaned, covering his face with kisses.

  Swallowing his own tears, Sam threw his arms around Harlan’s shoulders and planted a kiss on his forehead.

  * * *

  In the taxi home, Harlan sat between his parents, just as he had so many years earlier, when he’d first come to New York as a young boy. They rode in silence with their hands tightly clasped.

  The streets and sidewalks were busy with people window-shopping and standing on corners laughing, children skipping rope and riding bicycles. Sunlight bore down on the wet streets, creating rainbows in puddles; raindrops dangled from telephone lines.

  Harlan stared out at the scene with all the wonder and delight of a child.

  When the cab came to a stop at 200 West 119 Street, Harlan looked up at the five-story building and asked, “What’s this place?”

  “Oh, um . . .” Emma stammered.

  “We sold the house,” Sam quickly interjected. “A lot has changed since you’ve been away.” He said “away” as if Harlan had spent the last five years on holiday, frolicking on a sugar-white beach.

  The apartment was on the third floor, and the building did not have an elevator. The walk from the cab into the building taxed Harlan of the little strength he had; no way could he climb three flights of stairs.