The Memoir of Johnny Devine (28 page)

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

Armed with
her transit schedule, Eliza boarded the
west-bound electric train Monday morning and settled onto a seat by
the window. The last time she’d been near a train of any kind was
the day her parents’ bodies were delivered home for burial. What a
tragic irony. They left the railway station on one train and
returned a week later on another, as though they had simply taken a
trip and come back home as planned.

She passed the time by watching the city
transform as the train traveled through Oakland and approached the
bay. In the distance, fog blanketed the surrounding hills. But as
the train crossed the Bay Bridge, the fog dissipated and sunlight
shimmered on the water’s surface like confectioner’s sugar in
sparkling motion.

The transit station in
downtown San Francisco was a beehive of rushing people, oily
machinery smells, shouts, steady chatter, the squeal of gliding
wheels, and the
ding-ding
of electric train bells. Wishing she’d worn her
saddle shoes instead of heels, Eliza set out for the nearest cable
car terminal, hoping her route information to the Soviet Consulate
was correct. She spent the next half hour on a packed car going
into west San Francisco. The car pitched down steep streets toward
the marina and the Pacific Ocean. Eliza took in the city—the
multiple lanes of honking cars, the pedestrians, the marine smell
of wharf and sea and fish frying, the colorful apartment buildings
with bay-style windows jutting out from each story.

She got off the car a few blocks from the
consulate and walked the rest of the way, glad for the fresh air
and a chance to recover from being squashed between two large
people in the cable car. She arrived just before noon, which should
give her enough time to request her information and get the process
started. If she was lucky, maybe one day was all it would take.

A guard wearing a visor cap and a dark-blue
overcoat with gold bars on his shoulders stopped her at the door.
He said something in Russian.

Eliza stilled. “I’m sorry, I don’t
understand.”

“
Papers.”

“
Papers? No. I’m afraid I
don’t have any.”

The man examined her face and her clothing.
“State business.”

Eliza swallowed hard and thought fast. “I am
here to get help finding my relatives in Russia. My parents were
from Russia. I guess that makes me Russian. Sort of.” She smiled.
The people on the telephone hadn’t said anything about needing
papers.

“
Wait here,” the guard
said. He gestured to another guard, who went into a small booth and
used a telephone. Moments later he returned and spoke to the first
guard.

“
Go to front desk.” He
gestured toward the entry door.

“
Thank you.” Eliza hurried
inside.

Two more guards stood at attention
inside.

Since they didn’t stop her, Eliza studied
her surroundings.

A woman in royal blue sat at a desk in the
lobby. About a dozen people stood in line to see her.

Eliza got in line, took a book from her
handbag, and waited.

When the person ahead of Eliza finally
finished his business at the desk, the clerk wrote for a long time,
then added a page to one of the stacks of paperwork surrounding
her.

Eliza checked her watch. It was nearly two
o’clock.

Without looking up, the woman said something
in Russian.

“
I’m sorry, I
don’t—”

“
May I help
you?”

“
Yes, I hope so.” She drew
her aunt’s letter out of her handbag. “I am looking for my
relatives in Russia. I was hoping to get some help finding them, or
at least to get in touch with the officials in this
village.”

Frowning, the woman took the envelope from
Eliza and squinted at the return address, then peered at Eliza.
“What is purpose of contact?”

Eliza smiled. “I recently learned I have an
aunt in Russia. Or had, anyway. I want to find out if she’s alive
and if I can make contact with her. Her name is Kat, perhaps short
for something longer, and her maiden name would have been
Petrovich.”

The woman’s frown deepened. “One moment.”
She picked up a telephone and spoke quickly in Russian. She nodded
as she listened, watching Eliza.

She fought the urge to fidget. Surely these
people would understand her desire to find a lost relative?

“
What is political
interest in Soviet Union?” the woman asked.

“
None. That is, I don’t
have any political interest there. I—I only want to find out if my
aunt is alive.”

The woman tapped her pen against the desk.
“You are not able to prove political interest?”

Eliza shook her head. “Since I don’t have
any, I don’t see how I could prove it.” She frowned. This wasn’t
going the way she’d hoped. An idea struck. “Wait—maybe you can read
this letter. It was written to my father, Vasily Petrovich, from
his sister.”

The woman heaved a sigh, glanced beyond
Eliza, then unfolded the yellowed paper. She pulled it closer as
she read. Then she glared at Eliza above the page. “Where did you
get letter?”

Dread raced down Eliza’s spine. Had she just
made a terrible mistake? Could the information in the letter
possibly get someone in trouble? Her aunt may have come under
suspicion all those years ago. Papa never mentioned that he had a
sister—perhaps that was because Kat lived in hiding and needed to
stay that way.

Forcing a calm, polite smile, she slowly
reached for the letter. “It belonged to my parents.” She licked her
suddenly dry lips. She tugged the letter out of the clerk’s grasp,
silently thanking God the woman hadn’t confiscated it, and stuffed
it into her bag.

“
We cannot give
information. If you cannot state political allegiance, I must ask
you to leave consulate.”

Eliza’s heart pounded. “But—”

The woman motioned for the nearest
guard.

“
No, I don’t need an
escort, I’m leaving.” She hurried out of the building, half
expecting to feel the clamp of a hand on her shoulder and handcuffs
on her wrists. It wasn’t until she reached the sidewalk outside the
gate that she caught a full breath. Why did she feel like a
criminal?

Her own government was suspicious of her for
being Russian. Now Russians were suspicious of her for being an
American.

She walked a few blocks to catch the next
cable car back to the train station. There was no point hanging
around San Francisco if the Russians weren’t going to do anything
but treat her like some kind of political enemy.

But where could she go
where she would
not
be treated like an enemy? And why should she be seen as an
enemy? For simply being born to her parents, for being opposed to
injustice, for wanting to find the people to whom she belonged?
What was so subversive about that?

When Eliza returned home that evening,
although her toes and calves throbbed, she stopped at the telephone
and gave Betty a report.

“
That’s inexcusable. They
should have been more helpful. Imagine, treating an American
citizen that way! I’ll have Ed call them and give them a
talking-to.”

Eliza smiled, and it felt good. It was her
first genuine smile all day. “Thanks, Betty, but they made it very
clear that they don’t give out information to just anyone. We have
to have some official reason for the request, backed by
paperwork.”

“
Well, at least you tried.
You’re coming for Christmas, aren’t you? Ed brought home an
aluminum tree, and we’re putting it up now. You should see it. Ours
is positively the most stylish tree on the block.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. “What color?”

“
Flamingo pink!” Betty
said. “It’s going in the front window.”

After they said their goodbyes, Eliza
climbed the stairs, feeling as if someone had attached a wrecking
ball to each of her legs. Inside her apartment, she kicked off her
shoes, peeled off her coat and scarf, and fell onto her bed. The
heaviness in her heart matched the fatigue in her body. What more
could she do? She wasn’t about to give Agent Robinson what he asked
for, so now she was left to face further investigation and maybe
even a trial. As ridiculous as a trial sounded, Eliza was beginning
to believe it was possible.

What else would the agent uncover? What if
he found Aunt Kat before Eliza did? And what if her parents had
truly been in some kind of political trouble? Could the HUAC use it
to incriminate Eliza? People were being tried for treason on flimsy
evidence. Who knew what was in Eliza’s file?

Too weary to think anymore, she fell into a
fitful sleep, hounded by dreams of running from a lurking figure
following closely on her heels.

I once
hoped the ‘legend’ would eventually disappear and I could
just be a man forgiven, but it was a fanciful hope. The reality is
that a man may be forgiven, but a legend is never
forgotten.

~
The Devine Truth: A Memoir

Tuesday morning, fog
covered the
Berkeley hills like quilt
batting, making her walk slow going. It didn’t help that each step
was a reminder that the book was nearly finished and her time with
John was about to end.

Eliza arrived at the villa twenty minutes
later than usual. But since John wasn’t expecting her until at
least Wednesday, perhaps her arrival time today made no
difference.

Millie’s wrinkly forehead gathered into a
puzzled frown when she saw Eliza. “Thought you wasn’t comin’
today.”

She smiled to mask her disappointment. “The
task didn’t take as long as I expected.” She smoothed her curls and
went into the library.

John was on the telephone and beckoned her
in.

As he resumed his conversation, Eliza went
to her desk and looked for his newest pages, since he’d had all day
Monday to write. She found nothing there, so she went to his table,
saw a notebook, and took it back to her desk. She put a clean sheet
of paper in the typewriter and opened his book.

The latest page contained only one dated,
unfinished paragraph.

December 7, 1953

So is this the penalty I’ve brought on
myself? Her touch still haunts me. Is this some kind of test? Do
You know the agony I feel knowing she’s so near and yet I can never
have her? How difficult it is to keep silent? Do You know what it’s
like to feel your heart leave your body and watch it walk out that
door day after day? Do You know how empty my life will be when
she’s gone? If this is my punishment, I don’t know how much more I
can stand. I can’t keep

The meaning of the words soaked in like
water on sand. Numb, she stared at the page again, at his familiar
handwriting. His words. His feelings.

For her?

Some part of her brain registered that John
had gone dead silent.

Eliza looked over her shoulder.

John was no longer speaking into the
telephone, but was staring at her, the receiver in his hand falling
slowly to his side.

…
the agony I feel
…

Heart pounding, she stood and faced him.

He still hadn’t moved, but simply stood
watching her.

…
difficult to keep silent
…

Yes, keeping silent had been painfully
difficult for her as well. Now they could both say what had been
held in check.

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t come to her.

Why not?

He didn’t know her feelings, of course. John
would never make advances without knowing she wished him to.

He needed to know she felt the same way.

Forcing her legs to move, Eliza crossed the
library.

John watched her approach with a look of
dismay that deepened as she came near. When she reached him, he
wore a stark expression she didn’t understand.

“
John?” It was no more
than a whisper.

He turned his face away.

She stepped closer. “Those things you wrote
…”

John’s chest moved in a shallow, rapid
rhythm, but he would not look at her.

Please look at me … you need to know ...

With a strange boldness, she placed a
trembling hand on his cheek and gently guided his face back to
her.

Slowly, his gaze rose until it met hers.
There, in his eyes, were things she’d never dared hope to see. Raw
things, like longing. Suffering.

Love.

John loved her.

She couldn’t feel her legs.

“
I feel the same way,” she
whispered. She stepped closer and closed her eyes. His warm breath
fanned her skin, sending a delicious ripple through her. Her lips
tingled in anticipation.

Sensing a shift in him, Eliza opened her
eyes.

John was backing away.

Panic crept in. Weren’t his words, his
agonized longings about her? Or—

Had he been writing of someone else?

Of
D.M.
?

“
John? Were you not—?” She
couldn’t stop the rising panic. “Were you not writing of
me
?”

He stiffened and turned away again.

Which could only mean one thing: Eliza had
just made the most embarrassing blunder of her life.

“
Oh my goodness, I’m so
…”

Stupid
.

“…
sorry.” She dashed out
of the library and gathered her things, barely seeing what she was
taking. Passing a confused-looking Millie in the sitting room,
Eliza hurried out the front door, down the steps, and across the
stone walk, her humiliation compounding with every step.