Chapter 68

Across the Atlantic, in Brooklyn, Gwen was in the bathroom, crouched over the toilet, eyes closed, fingers gripping the elastic band of her underwear.

“Please, please, please,” she chanted before pushing the underwear down to her knees, bowing her head, peeking at the seat. Not a drop, smear, smudge, or hint of blood. The pristinely clean, cotton-panel seat mocked her.

When her menstrual cycle had arrived at age eleven, Gwen hadn’t known what it was, so for two days she walked around with her underwear packed with toilet paper, convinced she was dying.

It was her sister Irene who spotted the rust-colored blotch on Gwen’s skirt, took her aside, and explained things. Later, she brought Gwen to their mother. At the news, Ethel became annoyed, as if Gwen’s entry into womanhood was a burden she alone would have to bear. Ethel wagged her finger in her daughter’s face, spouting threats and spinning metaphors. “You better keep that purse latched until you’re married!”

Now, Gwen wished she had heeded her mother’s warning. She pulled her underwear to her waist, flushed the toilet, and ran her clean hands under a spray of hot water.

Pregnant.

The word made her dizzy.

As hard-handed as her sister could be with her, Gwen knew that Irene was the only one she could confide in. But Irene was sick, having spent the better part of the spring cycling in and out Kings County Hospital’s female ward.

Irene was being treated for endometriosis, which the attending physician assured her was a condition entirely nonfatal and curable. Even so, Gwen felt it would be highly inappropriate and selfish to burden Irene with her problems as she was grappling with her own.

* * *

Uptown, at 17 East 133rd Street, sandwiched between the oval oak frame and the looking glass on the wall above Emma’s dresser were two postcards, two telegrams, and a single black-and-white photo.

The first telegram had arrived the day after Harlan reached Montmartre: Mom, Dad. Here safe. Love, your son.

The first postcard, a watercolor painting of the Eiffel Tower, arrived two weeks later: Hi! I’m having so much fun. I want to stay here forever. Harlan.

A week after that, an envelope arrived, containing a photo of the entire group poised in front of the L’Escadrille. Harlan, showing all of his teeth, was leaning on Lizard like a crutch. Lizard looked solemn, his eyes focused on something beyond the photographer’s shoulder. Ivy and the other guys were grinning, bodies slightly tilted, arms splayed as if they’d just finished an elaborate dance routine. Eugene Bullard stood at the edge of the frame, hands on his hips, looking very pleased with himself.

The front of the second postcard was an incredibly detailed montage of a train crossing over a bridge, the Arc de Triomphe, a country house, the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, and a pigtailed little girl holding a bouquet of flowers. Emma remembered wondering just how in the world the artist managed to put all of that in one place and not have it look tacky? Dear Mom and Dad, still having fun. Wish you were here. Harlan.

When Germany took the coast of France, Emma panicked, sent a telegram begging Harlan to come home. Now. When she didn’t receive an immediate response, she placed a call to Eugene Bullard, not giving a damn about the time difference—it was four o’clock on Sunday morning in France when Bullard’s wife yawned hello into the receiver.

She explained to Emma that Eugene never came home before seven and that she would have him call her as soon as he arrived. And Emma wasn’t to worry, the American newspapers always made things sound worse than they were.

As promised, Eugene phoned back, but the connection was choppy. Emma spent most of the call yelling, “What? What?” until the line went dead.

Sam asked, “Well, what did he say?”

“I think he said he was trying to get Harlan and the others on the next ship out.”

Days later, the second telegram from Harlan arrived: Sailing on the 14th. Will arrive on the 28th of June. Harlan

* * *

That was the last she’d heard from her son.

It was now the middle of July and Eugene, his wife, and the rest of Harlan’s band were huddled on her stoop, bearing gifts from France, as if presents could replace her missing child.

She led them into the parlor.

Eugene said he’d filed reports with the French authorities. “But now that the Germans are in charge, who knows—”

His wife stabbed the top of his hand with her fingernail.

Eugene groaned. “Um, I mean to say, I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

Emma smirked.

Bruno leaned forward. “Mrs. Elliott, do you know where Lizard’s people are?”

Emma pressed her palms against her cheeks. “St. Louis, I think, but I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

She was so tired. Sick of crying, of waiting for news that never came, tired of thinking the worst.

Eugene folded his hands. “You been in touch with the State Department?”

“Every day,” Sam said.

“Three times a day,” Emma added.

“And what they say?”

“They don’t know any more than the day before.”

“And what’s that?”

“Nothing. They don’t know shit.”

Emma chewed the inside of her cheek, fought the tears that were threatening to come. “Lucille reached out to some friends in Paris. They say they’ll ask around, see what they can find out.”

Sam squeezed her hand.

“Oh, that’s good,” Eugene breathed. “How long that been?”

“What? Since Lucille reached out?”

“Uh-huh.”

“A few weeks.”

“And no word yet?”

“Nah.”

The truth was, Lucille had heard back from her friends, but their responses had been less than uplifting.

They too had friends and family who’d gone missing.

Poof! Vanished without a trace.

There were rumors about people being abducted from their homes, snatched right off the streets. Not just Jews, but anyone who didn’t fit into Hitler’s master race.

That’s all they would say. In fact, they’d probably said too much. The Gestapo had eyes and ears everywhere.