Читать книгу All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator - Henry Scott Harris - Страница 10

H: It’s hard for me to believe. There you were, eight years old, little schooling and penniless and you decided to go to France, alone. How does a child make such a mature life-changing decision?

E: When I think about it, I had no choice. The family was breaking up, my mother was la morte (dead), our house was filled with tension, no longer any laughter. All I had was the dream my father told me, a dream of freedom.

H: I’ll take that glass of wine now. (As we touched our glasses, I could see Eugene’s eyes becoming watery again, as his thoughts took him back a half century earlier to his childhood.)

E: A votre sante (to your health). The wine is French imported into the United States. I was the opposite. Made in America and imported to France.

H: Merci. How am I doing with my French?

E: Very good, Henri…

The time was very hard on me - I was so sure that the trip overseas would come easy and fast. I was so wrong. I spent over a year with the gypsies, then on the road, surviving. I had two goals, Atlanta, to see my sister and brother, and France.

I remember every day, but certain incidents stand out in my mind after all these years. Atlanta was in the midst of a very cold Fall. The trees were losing their yellow-orange leaves, which were scattered by a brisk, bone-chilling wind. My clothes were tattered, offering little real warmth. Teeth chattering, I was looking for some place, any place where I might find shelter and some food. Turning a corner there was the most delightful aroma, like no other: freshly baked bread. It was coming from a small store with strange writing on the window glass. Couldn’t read it, except for the wording on the door, “Samuel, the Baker.” Pressing my nose against the glass, inhaling the smell as my eyes eagerly and hungrily looked at breads and cakes trying to imagine the parties they were prepared for. My belly silently cried, “ Oh to have one.” Suddenly, the door opened. A short man, wearing a white apron over his clothes, came out. He stared at me. He had a long black beard and strange dangling curls on each side of his face, and wore a small black skull cap. I was startled, frightened and started to run. He grabbed my collar and said, “Whoa there young man. Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. Come with me, you look cold and hungry.” He gestured that I should come inside. It was like paradise, warm, clean and, oh my, the smells of cake and bread. “If you help me clean the shop, you can have some of the goodies and fresh bread. Here, please take the broom and sweep the floor.”

Henri, I realized that there was so little to do that he was using the clean-up as an excuse. Didn’t want to hurt my pride. It took a few minutes of sweeping the tiled floor and when I handed him the broom, he handed me a brown bag packed with cakes and strange twisted bread which he called a ‘challah.’ “For you. Thank you for cleaning the store.” he said. “Now sit and stay a while. Warm yourself. I’ll make some tea for us. What shall I call you?” I answered, “Sparrow.” The tea was sweet and warming. We talked for hours. I cautiously and curiously asked him about the curls and the skull cap. He replied, “I do it to honor God. It is part of my religion. I am Jewish.” I told him I was a Christian and used to go to Sunday church. I had never known of or seen a Jew before, but, as we talked I learned there was very little difference except for my being black. He surprised me when he said there were black Jews who lived in Africa. He asked where I was going and I told him of my planned destination. “Oy, what chutzpah! That, Sparrow, means courage, raw guts. You have chutzpah plus.”

As I prepared to leave, my body and mind warmed, he pressed a dollar into my hand and said, “The bread is life. Sometimes twisted, but smooth and soft at the beginning and the end. Mostly soft and sweet in the inside, just like a good life. Thank you for helping and may God bless and help you Sparrow, as you spread your wings. May He keep you safe in the palm of His hands.” We smiled. He patted my head. I hugged him and left with a full feeling that did not come from the cakes. Oh that bread was soft and sweet. I close my eyes and still taste it.

H: Your sister and brother, did you finally see them?

E: Tried and tried but couldn’t find either of them. Didn’t know Pauline’s married name and couldn’t find the college.

H: You had many memorable experiences for a runaway.

E: There are so many others that go through my brain. For example, had been on the road working anywhere, doing whatever, to earn money for food and a place to sleep. Been on farms, managed and cleaned up horses and stables, helped haul foodstuffs in a sweltering bayou. But, there was the remarkable and kind Mr. and Mrs. Mathews. He was a poor black barber. Saw me passing on the street and could see my condition. Within a minute, he hired me to sweep and clean his shop and said I could sleep in the backroom. On Saturdays, when the shop was crowded, he allowed me to entertain customers, singing and dancing, earning a few more coins. They were trying to make ends meet and though times were tough for them, they fed me and gave me two dollars a week.

This particular morning, I awoke, not sure if it was day or night. My body was wracked with chills and tremors, never-ending shakes and fever. They didn’t care about the cost and called the doctor. It was malaria and the doctor wasn’t sure I would live. In the midst of my illness, I heard that poor, black, barber cry out, “Dear God, help us make him well. Help us not let him die.”

Henri, this stranger sacrificed his savings, paid for the doctor and medicines. He and his wife tenderly cared for me. Don’t know how long I was ill. They applied cold cloths to my head as I shuddered, held my head as they served me soup, changed my bedding and gave me clean night shirts. They cared for me and nursed me for days and nights. In truth, they brought me back to life.

Recovered and now strong and able, I begged them to allow me to work off all that was spent on me. No matter how often I offered, they refused, saying they were doing what God and their hearts demanded.

We cried as I prepared to leave. Learned a great lesson in kindness and left a bit of my heart in that barber shop.

There were other families, other people, black and white, that readily helped with a job, food or money, including offers to stay and even become part of a family. Not all sunshine. There were those who ignored me and those who hated me. Didn’t matter, my course was set.

H: Were you getting closer?

E: Told to head to Richmond and then the ocean; perhaps to New York. Went to the freight yard, checked the boxcars before sneaking aboard. This one was clean and I hoped it was Richmond bound. When it stopped, there were whistles. It was the railroad police checking for hobos. I rolled off and dashed across the yard. It wasn’t Richmond. Where was I? Norfolk, Virginia.

H: It’s got to be frightening.

E: More. Felt lost and depressed. What to do? Which way to go? Took a deep breath and smelled what had to be the sea. If there is a sea, there must be docks, and if there are docks, there must be ships. Was I finally in the right place?

Headed to the port and yes, there were ships; small ones and big ones. I was confident; surely one was going to France.

H: What was your next move?

E: While watching the lines of men going up the gangplank, loading a cargo ship marked, “Germany”, a sailor asked me to run to the bar and have them fill a bucket with beer. “Hurry, we are leaving tonight,” he ordered. “Give you a dime.” Ran, got the bucket full, and feeling dry, took a couple of swallows. Again and again, went to get beer and each time, sneaked a gulp or two. By the third, or was it the fourth time, not sure, was no longer running, but wobbling. If they were leaving tonight, so was I. Grabbed a sack, hid between two big men on the loaders’ line and edged aboard the freighter. Up to the deck, placed the sack and looked for a place to hide. Dog tired and with beer courage, opened a door to a dark room, reached out, felt a bench, sat down and quickly fell asleep.

Hours later, strong hands shook me awake. Opened my eyes. The room was brightly lit. I was surrounded by a group of sullen looking men grabbing at me and shouting in a language I did not know.

Where was I? I could feel the motion of the ship and the grumbling engines. “Was macht’s auf das Schiff? Wie bist ue heir gekommen?” Couldn’t understand. It was the sailor who sent me for beer. “Hey, you’re the kid from the docks, the one who got the beer. We are underway and you are in serious trouble, my little friend. You are an illegal, dangerous, stowaway.”

The captain was summoned. Tall, militant, towering over me in his crisp white uniform, he glared down and with a strange accent demanded, “Was ist los? Wer bist du den? Wie bist du auf mein.” The crew shouted, “Schmeis ihns in wasser und las die fishe ihn fressen!” My sailor friend whispered in my ear, “He wants to know what is going on. The men want to throw you overboard and feed you to the sharks.”

Sacre bleu!! “Oh, my God, I’ll drown or be eaten by the sharks. Please, I can’t swim.” Got down on my knees and begged, “Don’t kill me. I’m just a boy.” The more I pleaded the louder the crew laughed. The officer bellowed and ordered, “Kom hir! Steh auf! Wie heist ue?” The sailor said, “He wants you to stand up and say your name.” I stood, trembling, head up and said, “Sparrow!” He commanded, “Fogel, wenn du auf dem Schiff, muss arbiten. Du muss essraun sauber halten, die boden washen, due wilst sher beschaftic, due Schwartzer Lump”. I was told he said, “Sparrow is a blackbird. If you are aboard, you must work. You’ll clean the mess, swab the deck and more. You’ll be very busy, you little black bastard.” The bosun told me to calm down. “We won’t throw you to the fish just yet. Next time, don’t drink our beer.” The crew enjoyed every moment of my panic.

I was handed a towel. The men gleefully applauded as the bosun ordered, “Wipe away your tears. Sit here in the mess hall, have some food and then help clean up. We’ll put you to work. You’ll earn your passage.”

The cook, soon to be known as Cookie, led me down a creaking steel stairway to a rusty metal door “This is home,” he remarked. The yellow painted walls in the ten-by-ten room were old and paint flaked off at a touch.

“Sparrow, these bunks are three high. You have the top one over there. Listen up; being on the top, you must be careful not to step on anyone’s face. Of course, some of them would look better, but if you do, it could cause trouble. Next rule - don’t wake anyone. Your cabin-mates have various work shifts. Make your bed. There is a sheet, pillow and a blanket. Stay clean and keep them clean. You will wash the sheet once a week. Okay, you’ve heard me. Those are the rules. Do what you are ordered and we’ll all get along. Be in the kitchen when the Sun comes up, right?” I saluted and said, “Right!” My bed, top-side, was just a narrow, wooden slat covered by a thin mattress. But it was home for now. I worked my way on that ship, doing whatever was asked, and learned German.

It was, “Sparrow this” and “Sparrow that.” “Fly over here, Sparrow.” “Serviere kaffee, kartoffel schalen, dem recept nach, steh auf und schlaf spatter.” (Bring coffee, peel potatoes, follow recipes, up early and sleep later). I scrubbed floors and ran errands. Men on night watch demanded, “Hey Sparrow, more coffee now,” and I was quick to deliver. It was, “Sparrow, clean up the galley, take this to the bridge, bring this to the engine room.” I was always on the move. Whenever I had the chance, I was on the bridge where the first mate taught me to navigate by the compass and by the stars. “Remember the stars, little blackbird. Wherever you go, they go with you. They are your friends. Study the stars and you will never be lost.” Taught me how to read a map and to understand map directions in German, Ost, West, Nord and Suden. Looking at the chart, I asked, “Where is France, for that is where I am going.” He replied, “Not on this ship. This is a German ship bound for Scotland and then to Bremen to deliver gewehren and tausenden kanonen, guns and a thousand cannons.” He pointed to our course. “ Look here. This is Aberdeen, Scotland, where we will be unloading and where we must put you off. France is just across the Channel.” Thunderstruck, in shock, “You can’t put me off! You can’t just drop me. There is no one there for me. I never heard of Aberdeen or Scotland.”

H: What did you do?

E: Had no choice. Did my chores and after dinner, not too happy, I entertained. The crew, now friendly, enjoyed it and they sang songs in German. I learned some of them. Words I would not forget and didn’t realize then how important they would be for me to know. It was very hard work, but managed until the storm. The ship was buffeted and I was bounced out of bed. Rushed to dress. Put on my life-preserver and headed topside.

The early evening’s white clouds had turned murky gray and soon the sky was dark. Thunder claps roared and lightening lit up a raging ocean. The seas were running high and wild. Fierce winds rolled the ship left and right and up and down in giant swells. Everything was in motion. Plates flashed off tables and smashed on the floor. Fear…are we going to sink? The motion was up, down and sideways. Reaching the deck, roped myself to the passageway. Huge waves washed over the deck, soaking each of us. The wind-driven rain was frigid. The ship was a toy as it bounced and dipped, with my stomach matching each move. I was seasick, my skin clammy. Stomach ached so bad, thought I was dying. In fact, there were times I wanted to.

Friendly sailors stood midst this storm and almost force-fed me, saying, “No matter how sick, you must eat. Must have something inside to get rid of or you could hurt your gut.” I was freezing. Soaking wet in the rain, roped so as not to go overboard, for if I did, there was no chance of rescue. I held white-knuckle tight to the railing. Leaned over and upchucked everything, including, I felt, my insides, and was sure I was dying. They chuckled, “Eat Sparrow, you look pale, almost white. When you heave, watch out for the wind.” Big joke. I was too sick to listen. It wasn’t funny, but to the crew’s delight and my regret, the backlash of the wind blew everything I threw up, right at me. My night’s dinner, including the potatoes I peeled, came up, went over the side and then the swill flew back on me. The men enjoyed every moment of my pain. It was disgusting. I was filthy, but stayed on deck, holding the railing and praying and letting the rain wash the stink and muck from my face and clothes. Felt like an eternity until the seas calmed and so did my stomach. Didn’t eat for days.

H: You poor kid.

E: Henri, I learned the compass, directions and many German words. Each would be very helpful in the future. But for this time, it was how far Scotland was from France, and what awaited me in Aberdeen.