up the money and took off, not knowing where, but always north. I remember working in a general store packing shelves and carting goods and food. It was fine. Had a roof over my head, some food and a few dollars. Slept in the backroom on bags of potatoes. But, I did make it to Atlanta.
H: How did you manage to do it?
E: Daddy said I was lucky, he was right. I walked, following the train tracks and came to a station. Can you imagine my joy when I learned a train was scheduled to stop on its way to Atlanta? For the first time, I bought a ticket. Got aboard the passenger train, took a seat up front near a window. As the train started to move, the conductor walked down the aisle collecting tickets. He took my ticket and roughly grabbed my shirt, pulling me up and pushed me to the back of the car, to a section marked “colored only.” “Stay there or I’ll put you off,” he bellowed. I clenched my fists and showing no fear, stared right into his eyes. At that moment I knew he would not touch me again.
CHAPTER 5: ON THE ROAD
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.
