The Memoir of Johnny Devine (31 page)

Eliza studied Millie’s gentle smile. Was she
serious? “If you’re feeling tired,” Eliza said carefully, “maybe
you should take some time off. I mean, at your age, should you
really be working so hard?”

“
Aw, Miz Eliza, I
appreciate your kindness. But I already had this out with Mr. John.
Many times. And you know what? I
still
win. Every time.” Her broad
smile forced deep ripples into her face. “And that, child,
is
always
worth
gettin’ up for.”

Eliza returned Millie’s smile, but a shadow
crossed her heart. The book was practically finished. This could be
one of the last times she would see Millie.

On impulse, she gave the woman a hug.

Millie hugged her back and patted Eliza’s
arm.

As Eliza entered the library, John rose from
his seat and met her. “I have some pages here. I … thought perhaps
writing it down would be better than me stammering in your ear.”
Avoiding her gaze, he held the pages out. “I do believe this is the
last of it.”

She took them, and, without thinking, looked
into his eyes. His nearness, the scent of his cologne, and the love
he refused to feel struck her with a wave of longing.

He pivoted away. “When you’ve finished, I’d
like to know what you think.” He crossed the room and stood by the
fireplace which was already aglow with a small fire.

She sat down and read.

Epilogue

George MacDonald said, “The one principle of
hell is—‘I am my own.’” The truth is, being my own master meant
being master of nothing at all. It was all an illusion, and not
just Hollywood. Now I am no longer my own, but God’s, and this
brings me greater peace than I’ve ever known. With each surrender
of my will, I find myself a little freer in my soul, a little less
chained to myself, a little closer to God, a little more like
Him.

My friend, I would like to leave you with
this one final thought: We think we’re alone. You and I pass each
other on the street and exchange smiles at the façades we’ve
created, but deep down, we long for someone to peel back the mask,
see us, and accept us as we really are, flaws and all. People look
at the outward appearance, but God looks at the
heart.

Eliza stared at the words, nodding outwardly
but also agreeing in her heart. Yes, she knew that feeling well,
wanting to be known and accepted unconditionally for who she was
and not for what someone wanted her to become.

I’ve bared my soul to God and surrendered
all I am to Him. Because of this, I have not shared everything with
you. I don’t want to burden you with things too troubling to read.
Some confessions can be a useful lesson to many, but other things,
perhaps not so useful, are best confessed in the safe company of
one compassionate, trusted friend.

Eliza covered a gasp. Knowing that John
valued her as a trusted confidante warmed her, filled her with joy.
But was ‘trusted friend’ enough?

It would have to be.

I cannot tell you how grateful I am for
God’s boundless mercy, His unfailing love, and His power at work in
me, making me a new man. I’ve tried, but I don’t know if I could
ever give Him the thanks He deserves.

My friend, if nothing else, I hope you will
take this one thing from my story: No one is beyond God’s loving
reach. I wasn’t. And neither are you.

“
Yes.”

John turned from the mantel and stared at
her. “What?”

“
Your message and your
gratitude are very clear. And you’ve given God all the credit for
the good things in your life now. Beautifully done.” She nodded. “I
applaud you.”

He went to the window and faced the bay for
the longest time, as if he was translating her words into a
language he could better understand.

“
Your book makes me
believe that with God, there is hope for anyone,” she
said.

John turned and searched her face, eyes
glistening. “Thank you, Eliza,” he said. “I’d rather hear that than
a lifetime of applause.”

Eliza settled into the lone chair and wiped
moist palms on her skirt. She should have worn gloves.

The Whitecotton Room on the top floor of the
Shattuck Hotel was nearly as classy as the Claremont. Ornately
trimmed, arched windows surrounded her on all sides; their
white-linen curtains tied back to give a clear view of the tops of
buildings nearby and the buzzing city beyond. White pillars spanned
from floor to ceiling throughout the room. Wallpaper of black
filigree over gold covered the wall directly in front of her.

Behind a long table, four empty chairs faced
her.

She had heard about congressional hearings
involving the HUAC, but as far as she could tell, this panel was
only a query and would not be as formal as that.

Things must be bad if a girl was tempted to
lie simply because no one would believe the truth.

She closed her eyes.

Dear God …

Would
H
e hear her clumsy, silent
prayer?

Did she have a choice?

John says I should tell the truth and leave
the rest to You. But there is a catch, isn’t there? I know what You
want in return, but I’ve given up enough of myself already. Too
much. I don’t think I can do that again—

Four men, including Agent Robinson, entered
the room.

Heart hammering, she watched the men take
their seats at the table, her mouth instantly cotton.

Agent Robinson opened a folder and stared at
her as he spoke to the man beside him.

Eliza rubbed her palms on
her skirt
again
.

This is it. Tell the truth or lie?

A strange calm stole over her, along with a
very real sense that she was not alone.

God … is that You?

“
Please state your full
name.”

Eliza started at the unexpected voice.
“Eliza Jane Saunderson.” She met the agent’s gaze with all the
confidence she could muster.

“
What other names have you
gone by?” the agent asked.

“
Just my maiden name,
Eliza Peterson.”

The two men in the center spoke quietly to
each other while Agent Robinson, on the far right, stood.

He looked her in the eye. “Miss Peterson,
are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party
of the United States?”

“
No.” She cleared her
throat. A glass of water would have been swell.

He leaned to one of the others and gestured
at something on the table. The man on the far left rose and brought
a packet to Eliza. He opened it and handed her five
photographs.

Robinson stepped around the table. “Please
tell the panel what you’re doing in these pictures,” he said.

She sorted through all five photographs,
heart sinking. “These appear to have been taken the day I visited
the Soviet Consulate in San Francisco.” She wanted to go on and
tell them about her visit, but perhaps it would be wise to only
answer the questions asked.

“
What was your business
there?” The agent drilled her with a look.

How much should she tell them about her
family? “I was hoping someone there could help me find out if I
have any relatives living in Russia. I recently learned that my
parents—”

“
Who are your contacts in
the Soviet Union?”

Eliza fought to keep from
glaring at Agent Robinson. “As I’ve told you before, I don’t know
anyone there.”
Yet
. She frowned. “You also have me on record as saying I am not
a communist, right?”

No one answered.

Easy does it, Eliza. Let them ask the
questions.

“
What are your parents’
names?”

Eliza scrambled to think of how to answer.
Perhaps it would be best to tell them only what she knew to be
true. “I knew my parents as Laura and Wesley Peterson. I’ve
recently seen a document that makes me believe they may have also
been known as Lara and Vasily Petrovich.”

“
Why did they lie about
their identities?” Agent Robinson read the folder in his
hands.

“
What makes you think they
were lying?”

He looked up at her, eyes narrowed. “They
changed their names.”

“
That’s not lying. It’s
common for immigrants to change their names to sound more
American.”

“
No. Immigrants change
their names upon arrival. According to your sister’s birth records,
she was born in New York to parents with Russian names. Names they
later changed. Why?”

“
I don’t know why they did
it later. Perhaps the birth of my sister happened so quickly on
their arrival that they didn’t have a chance to take care of it
until after she was born.”

“
Regardless of what
happened when, they were clearly hiding who they were. What were
they hiding?”

“
I don’t know. As I said,
I’ve only recently learned that they might have been known by any
other names.”

“
What was your father’s
rank in Lenin’s Red Army?”

“
I know nothing about
that. All I know is that my father was a literature
professor.”

The other three men bent close to confer,
while Agent Robinson studied her. “Do you expect us to believe that
you lived with your parents for”—he glanced at the file—“eighteen
years, and yet you knew nothing at all about your parents’ lives in
the Soviet Union or your father’s involvement in Lenin’s communist
regime?”

Eliza lifted her chin. “That’s correct. My
parents never talked about their lives before my sister and I were
born, other than the fact that they came from Europe.”

“
Do you also refuse to
answer questions about your father’s political activities in the
United States?” Even from across the room, the gleam in the agent’s
eye was impossible to miss.

Eliza was going to get trapped if she wasn’t
careful. “I haven’t refused to answer anything,” she said. “I
honestly don’t know. If my father held political beliefs, communist
or otherwise, I’m sure he had his reasons. My parents were very
good people.”

“
So, since you were raised
by communists, doesn’t it make sense that they had a guiding
influence on your current political viewpoints?”

“
They weren’t communists.
And my … viewpoints are more of a personal nature than
political.”

Agent Robinson picked up
something and came toward her with it, but she already had a good
idea of what it was. He held out an issue of
A.W.A.R.E.
, the American Women’s
Alliance’s newsletter. “Please read to us the byline credited to
the article on the far right.”

“
E.J.
Peterson.”

“
Did you write that
article?”

God, I’m going to tell the
truth. If You’re there, please don’t leave me all alone.
“I did.”

“
Did you write sixteen
other articles for the AWA and also”—he looked in the file—“twelve
articles for the League of Women Voters’ publication,
Action
?”

She resisted the urge to close her eyes. “I
did.”

“
If your articles are only
meant to explore
personal
interests, then why do you write on subjects that
are highly inflammatory and politically charged in
nature?”

Eliza frowned. “By inflammatory, do you mean
to say that there are people who don’t like to hear about social
injustice? I am not being subversive or slandering the
government—or anyone else for that matter. I’m just trying to help
others understand how unfair it is that some people are treated
unjustly simply because of their gender or the color of their
skin.”

“
You’re saying you didn’t
slander anyone in particular?” The man on the left said, sitting up
straighter.

Had she? She tried to remember exactly what
she’d written. “I have not.”

The stiff man read aloud. “I quote,
‘Performers such as Sammy Davis Jr., Lena Horne, and Nat King Cole
cannot stay in, or even eat at, the venues in which they perform.
Davis was a headliner at the Frontier Casino, but after earning the
casino a large sum of money, he was forced out the back door and
made to stay at a boarding house on the west side of town. He was
not allowed to gamble in the casino or dine in the hotel
restaurant, simply because of the color of his skin. Louis
Armstrong headlined at the Flamingo Hotel to a sold-out crowd, yet
was forced to use the service entrance and was kicked out after his
performance.’”