by Camille Eide
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
21
Eliza finished typing what little notes she had taken and went home early at John’s insistence. He was done for the day.
She didn’t blame him.
Eliza arrived home early enough to call the university, hoping to find someone who could translate the letters from Betty’s attic. At first, when she said she was looking for someone who could translate Russian into English, the receptionist sounded suspicious. Eliza politely explained these were old family letters that were all that she had left of her parents. The woman finally agreed to put her through to the linguistics department. With a sigh, Eliza explained her mission again, getting the feeling she was meeting another brick wall. She was transferred to a Russian literature professor, to whom she told her story yet again. This man said he would be willing to look at the letters, but only by appointment.
And the only time he had available was Wednesday at noon.
Crossing her fingers, Eliza made the appointment, hoping John wouldn’t mind her missing a day of work. When she arrived at his house on Tuesday, Eliza asked about taking the next day off and explained it was for personal family business.
He hesitated. “I was hoping we could speed things up. I’d like to finish the book as soon as possible.”
Eliza nodded, disappointed that he was in such a hurry, but not surprised after his painful confession the day before. “Of course, I understand. I will just call back and change the—”
“But if it’s the only day you can take care of your family business, then you should take advantage of that, by all means. I’ll spend the day writing as best I can.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling guilty for delaying the book when he wanted it done. The publisher’s deadline was the end of December, which was still four weeks away. “Do you want to finish the book before Christmas? Or did you mean even sooner than that?”
John straightened the books on his table without looking up. “As soon as possible.”
Still trying to catch her breath, Eliza knocked on the faculty room door on the third floor of Stephens Hall. She’d gotten off the bus at the wrong stop. When she finally figured out where the Slavic Studies department was located, she ran the entire way and arrived a few minutes late.
As she waited at the door, she checked to make sure the letters and her steno pad were still in her bag.
The literature wing was located in an older part of the building—the part built before modern heat had been invented, apparently.
Eliza wrapped her coat a little tighter.
The door opened and a gray haired gentleman greeted her. “Mrs. Saunderson? I’m Professor Grant. Come in.”
She stepped inside a room containing a few small tables with chairs and a black-and-white-checkered floor.
“Please, have a seat,” he said. “Can I get you coffee or tea?”
She couldn’t hide her shiver. “Coffee sounds wonderful, thank you.”
The professor brought two steaming mugs and got straight to work, sipping the black liquid as he read the first letter. He squinted and brought it close to his face a few times. “Some of the writing is hard to distinguish, the lines have blurred and faded. But I believe I can piece it together through context. Would you like me to read it now?”
Eliza nodded, not sure she could trust her voice. These letters could be her parents speaking from the grave. She readied her pencil to transcribe the letter in shorthand.
“This letter reads, ‘Dearest Vasily, Do you still have terrible cough? Please stay warm and promise you will not refuse food. I know your comrades are also hungry, but you must be well. Think of our son.’”
Eliza gasped. “Son? Please, can you check and see who the letter is from?”
Professor Grant checked the signature at the bottom. “‘Your Loving Wife, Lara.’”
She swallowed hard. Her parents had a son? “Please, continue.”
“‘Your Mama is still ailing, so I stay with her and make her eat broth, though she tries to say she is not hungry. But I do just as you say and do not hear her protests. See, it is not only the old wives who are wise with persuasion, my love.
“‘The fuel and food have all run out now. The villagers are very hungry and cold and there is a look in their eyes that I fear. I believe it is the look of death. When you and your comrades receive your rations, please send some home quickly.
“‘I think baby Ivan is finally getting stronger now, but it is hard to know because we are all so cold. Anything you can send will put this mama’s heart at ease. Our son depends on you, my love.’”
The professor lifted the paper higher and angled it in the light. “‘I am so proud of you, Vas. Be strong. Your Loving Wife, Lara.’”
Eliza finished transcribing, thoughts whirling. Her parents had a son? She had a brother?
She could picture the scene, though she didn’t want to—a stark Russian winter and starving villagers. A sick baby boy weak from cold.
Eliza clapped a gloved hand over her mouth to stifle a sob, but the tears rushed to her eyes unchecked.
Professor Grant offered her his handkerchief. “Russia has seen some very difficult times. Do you know when this letter was written?”
Shaking her head, she tried to calculate her parents’ ages. They were in their early twenties when Betty was born in 1919. “I wonder if Ivan was a family name,” she said. “Perhaps that would help me trace my parents’ history.”
Professor Grant shrugged. “That is possible. It is a good, strong name. It is the Russian form of John, which means, ‘gracious gift from God.’”
John, a gracious gift from God …
“Did you say you had two letters?” the professor asked.
Shaking herself from her stunned reverie, Eliza handed over the second one. “I think the handwriting on this is different from my mother’s.”
The professor nodded. “Yes.” He peered at the writing, then held the paper up to the light. “This one is more difficult to piece together. I will read what bits are legible.”
She readied her pencil. Whose voice from the grave would she hear now?
“I can’t make out the first paragraph, save for a few words like ‘Mama’ and ‘soldier.’ Let me see …” He scanned the lines closely, scratching his forehead.
“‘I can stay no longer, brother … too much for my heart … first Mama and now my beloved Anatoly, only days before we were to marry … find work as nurse … cannot tell you where.’”
His face relaxed. “This next part is clearer. ‘Yes, I will help, but you must never speak of this to anyone. We will never see each other again, Vasily. Be brave, my brother. You have …’” The professor tilted the paper again, shook his head. “I think it says ‘beautiful wife … child coming soon. You can do this. Do it for them. Do it for me. Your beloved sister …’”
Eliza leaned forward, in some crazy hope that her proximity would help him read it. “Is there a name?”
Professor Grant squinted, shaking his head. “Just a moment, I’ll be right back.” He left the room with the letter.
Eliza’s heart raced. He wasn’t thinking of calling someone and turning it over to the authorities, was he? She’d heard rumors of professors being forced to sign some kind of loyalty oath.
Maybe the HUAC had ordered universities to be on the lookout for anti-American activity.
When the professor returned with her letter and a magnifying glass, she eased out a pent-up breath. He held the letter and the glass at varying angles, squinting, for what seemed like half an hour.
“I think I can make out the first three letters. ‘Kat.’”
“‘Kat?’ Is that an actual name?”
He nodded. “There are many Russian female names beginning that way. Katja, for example. There are also Katerina, Katenka, Katjusha.” He smiled. “I hope that helps, Mrs. Saunderson. I am truly sorry I could not tell you more.”
Eliza jotted the names on her pad. They stood, and Eliza off
ered her hand. “You’ve been extremely helpful, Professor Grant. I appreciate your time. Thank you so much.”
On the bus ride home, Eliza read her transcription again. As stirring as it was to hear her mama’s voice, the letters only raised more questions.
She and Betty had a brother? And an aunt? What other relatives might they have? What had Aunt “Kat” promised to help do, and why was she resigned to never see Vasily again?
Was Kat still alive? If so, how could Eliza find her?
Eliza took out the envelope containing Kat’s letter. She couldn’t read Russian but could tell it had a return address. What were the chances that there was still someone at that address who knew Kat, Lara, or Vasily Petrovich?
She needed to talk to Betty.
When she reached her building, Eliza stopped at the telephone.
Ivy was using it, but gave Eliza a nod and, after a moment, wrapped up her call.
Eliza thanked her and gave the operator Betty’s number.
Odella answered. “Cunningham residence.”
“Hello, Odella, this is Eliza. May I speak to my sister, please?”
A heavy sigh reached across the line. “Miz Betty … indisposed, ma’am. Would you like to leave a message?”
Indisposed my foot, Betty. Sticking your head in the sand won’t make this go away.
“Yes. Please tell my sister she might like to know that we had a brother.”
A hesitant silence. “Yes, ma’am. One minute please …”
The sounds of muffled talk through rustling cloth confirmed Eliza’s suspicions about her sister’s indisposition.
“Eliza?” Betty’s voice. “What’s this? Who has a brother?”
“We do. Or, it seems, we did.” She explained about getting the letter translated.
“Will you read it to me, please?” Betty’s voice sounded oddly distant.
Eliza read the letter from Mama first, her voice catching again at the mention of baby Ivan. “What do you think happened to the baby?” she asked when she finished.
A heaviness drifted across the line. “It sounds like he was very sick. What do you think?”
Eliza tried not to picture the infant but couldn’t help it.
A tiny boy, weak and gray. Mama looking into the face of her child, desperate to see signs of improvement. Coming to America without him.
“I don’t know, Betty.” Tears clogged her throat. “I’m afraid he may have … died in the cold.”
The phone line went silent. Or at least it seemed so at first, but then Eliza heard the sound of weeping.
“Poor Mama,” Betty whispered. “She always did seem sad.”
“Yes. And poor Papa,” Eliza added. “How awful to be stuck in the army somewhere far from his family, knowing they were struggling to survive and not able to help them.”
Betty sniffled. “Eliza?”
“Yes?”
“Please find out what happened to them. I don’t care if you have to break down the door of the Russian Embassy with a Sherman tank. Do whatever it takes. Please.”
“I’ll try.” She swallowed hard. “I love you, Betty.”
Betty sniffled. “I love you too, sis.”
Back in her apartment, Eliza wondered about the address on Aunt Kat’s letter. Could the home have survived the war? Was it even inhabited? And if someone did live there, what were the chances the residents knew of her family? Was it possible that there were relatives or people in the nearby village who knew the Petrovich family? Eliza had to try. What was the worst that could happen if she sent a letter to that address?
Eliza put a clean sheet of paper in her typewriter and settled in to write her letter. She explained who her parents were, mentioned baby Ivan, and said she was looking for any relatives of the Petrovich family, particularly a woman whose name began with “Kat.”
Once she was satisfied with the letter, she carefully copied the return address onto a new envelope and sealed the letter, then hurried to the post office before it closed for the day.
And the truth shall make you free.
Those words had a way of turning up at such inconvenient moments. Yes, perhaps the truth would free Eliza. Unless the nagging fears about her parents were true.
Because in that case, the truth would only make matters worse.
By then, my life was sliding closer to the chasm at my feet and I couldn’t stop. And yet, because the façade was so convincing, fans adored Johnny Devine more than ever before.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
22
Russian Embassy? Would the Russians know about her parents?
As ridiculous and possibly dangerous as a visit to the Embassy would be, what if Eliza could get information there?
Was it worth the risk?
Yes. She needed to know the truth, no matter the cost.
After mailing the letter to Russia, Eliza called the Soviet Consulate in San Francisco and found out that all requests for information had to be made in person. No information was given over the telephone. And since the consulate was only open on weekdays, she would have to ask John for another day off, or more likely two, according to what she was told. But because of John’s urgency to finish the book, it was a request she dreaded to make.
After his gut-wrenching confession about Jeanette Lovell’s tragic death, anyone could understand why he wanted to put the memoir behind him. He had to be weary of reliving his past and facing the full emotional brunt of his troubling memories.
Yes, she understood his urgency. It was just that the thought of their time together ending tore at her insides and stole her appetite. But once the job was finished, she would find a way to move on.
She had to.
Thursday morning, Eliza hurried to John’s house, spurred on by a gusty breeze that matched her own swirling emotions.
Millie didn’t meet Eliza at the door as usual.
She let herself in, removed her coat and scarf, laid them on a chair in the sitting room, then went to her desk in the library.
John was also nowhere in sight.
A notebook lay on his table, as she had expected, since he had told her he would spend Wednesday writing.
She glanced around again. A tingle of apprehension nudged up her spine. Where was everyone? She went to the kitchen.
Millie was seated at the table in the corner, her head resting on folded arms across a Bible.
Eliza was about to call out to her but decided against it.
If Millie was asleep, she probably needed rest. And if she was praying, she probably needed to do that as well.
Back in the library, Eliza took John’s notepad to her desk and looked at his latest pages with an editorial eye. He had continued on from where they had left off. As good as his writing had become, she would have no trouble typing these pages and adding them to his manuscript.
The manuscript that would very soon be complete.
Eliza gave herself a stern reminder of Betty’s prediction that Eliza was flirting with heartache, then pulled herself together and typed what he’d written.
When the war began, I registered but I somehow missed the first draft and was glad of it. Yet from that moment on, every time I saw the newsreels and heard war broadcasts on the radio, I felt like a coward for not serving when other men were willing to fight and die. The deaths of my father and brother had cast a permanent shadow over my life, a constant reminder of the hero I would never be.
I joined the army of my own accord in February 1943. Fans went nuts over that, naturally. A real true-blue hero, they said. You see, everyone in Hollywood was doing their part for the war effort. If not joining up, then selling war bonds or traveling with the USO and entertaining troops. When I joined up, the studio (the one that fired me, as it happens) milked it for every drop of publicity they could.
You might think I joined as a way of following in my father’s and brother’s bootsteps, a way to be like them, a way to gain some measure of honor. And I may have entertained a thought like t
hat. But the truth is, I carried a deeper, darker hope. I could think of nothing I wanted more than to meet a German bullet and end it all. Die in battle. Put an end to what my life had become.
But when I left Sicily and returned to England unharmed, it seemed God had other plans for me.
One of the guys in my division—Red Cahill—was religious, and though the guys in the unit gave him grief for it, he took it without complaint. He carried a tiny, pocket-sized Bible that he would often read with a penlight at night. One day, I did a bunk check and noticed Red had left that Bible on his pillow. I knew he’d be stuck with latrine duty if the lieutenant saw it, so I decided to do Red a favor and put it away. I took it to his footlocker, but then I stopped. What was so special about the Bible that would make a guy risk being caught with it on his bunk? I hunkered down and started reading, just to see what the big deal was. I leafed through and saw the Gospel of John—seemed as good a place to start as any. I didn’t find anything mind-boggling, but I kept reading anyway. I’d read ten chapters and was just about to toss the thing, but decided to read one more chapter.
It was the chapter in which Christ raised a dead man back to life. Ironic, because I was as good as dead. I deserved to die, and I had come prepared to do just that. But seeing how Jesus brought that man back to life did something to me. Gave me a flicker of hope, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. What if God could give me new life too? What would it hurt to ask? I had nothing left to lose.
I didn’t know what I was doing, didn’t know how to pray. I had just read the part about the need to repent of my sins—that part was easy. The problem was that I couldn’t possibly list them all. But I figured God knew more of my sins than I did and could fill in the blanks. Alone in an airless barracks tent, I gave my life, whatever it was worth, to Christ. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t worth the boots on my feet, but I’d let God sort that out.