The Memoir of Johnny Devine

by Camille Eide

  I soon became friends with Red Cahill, and I also talked to the chaplain whenever I could. I don’t know how or when it happened—some of it was instant, some gradual—but God began to change me. Change my heart, give me hope through His promises. And hope, something I’d long forgotten, tasted sweeter than anything I’d ever known.

  Until June 1944. In His kindness and mercy, God had helped rid me of a lot of things, and without all the booze and late nights, and in spite of a raging war, I was getting healthier, stronger. I’d begun to hope, to believe life was worth living. But when final orders came for us to storm that beach in Normandy, I had a feeling that the punishment I deserved had only been delayed, my past couldn’t be made right by simply turning my life over to God. That just seemed too easy. Omaha Beach would be my payment, the squaring of things between me and God, once and for all. It made sense that he would take me out at that point. After all, that was the reason I’d joined up.

  The only problem was, I’d changed my mind about wanting to die—I wanted to live. I had found grace and mercy, and I didn’t want it to end, not yet. “My Father,” I said, borrowing a prayer from Christ, “if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will.”

  As part of the 1st Infantry Division, Red and I were in the first wave to hit Omaha Beach, just before daybreak on June 6. As we neared the beach, gunfire peppered the water all around us.

  We waded toward the beach, but machine-gun fire rained on us from every direction and pinned us down. Red was hit and couldn’t go any farther, sinking in two feet of murky water. I tried to fire back, but my gun jammed. One of our tanks lobbed a shell in the direction of the assault. A sniper shot from somewhere above the beach and hit my helmet. I dropped down into the water next to Red, who had passed out. I screamed for a medic. Shells were exploding all around us. I hunkered down and covered him, kept his face above water, and prayed hard.

  About that time, a shell from a German 88 exploded near us and knocked the wind out of me. It should have killed me, but instead, the shrapnel only hit my right hip and knee. I yelled for the medic again, not sure if Red had taken shrapnel too. The water around us turned bright red. All I could think about was how the blood from one man’s body—God’s Son—was somehow enough to save every man on that beach and then some.

  Red was still unconscious, and I didn’t know what else to do but pray. The Germans kept pinning us down, and things looked bad for our guys on the beach. Someone dragged Red and me out of the water. That’s when I blacked out.

  When I woke, I was lying on a stretcher at an aid station. I asked about Red, but no one knew where he was. I passed out again for several days. Later, while recovering in an army hospital, I got a letter from Red. He was going to be okay and was headed back home. His letter came wrapped around a small, pocket-sized Bible.

  I still have that Bible.

  And I still have the wounds I received on D-Day. The scars have mostly faded, but the pain lingers. I walk with the help of a cane now, a blessing in disguise. It reminds me of how I tried to throw my life away and how God, in His mercy, took hold of me. Like Jacob, who dared to wrestle with God, I was only touched at the hip and sent back, left with a limp and a reminder that God is sovereign. I should have died that day. In fact, everyone who saw that 88 shell explode said I should have been dead. Maybe in a way, I did die that day. I know I’ve never been the same.

  Though I lived most of my life not believing in Him, God never stopped believing in me, and because of that, I’ve never wanted to live more than I do now.

  With a deep sigh, Eliza took out the last typed page and added it to the stack. She should proofread the last few pages before moving on, but she couldn’t. Her eyes were blurred with tears. John had done an incredibly heroic thing by shielding his friend with his own body—offering his own life, in fact. Why was it easy for him to point out how terrible his mistakes were, but dismiss his noble acts?

  The sound of John’s cane approaching filled her with a mingled rush of emotion.

  He came into the library, but when he saw her, he stopped. “What’s wrong?” His brows gathered into a V.

  “Nothing. I was just going over these latest pages of yours.”

  “But something has upset you.”

  Eliza shook her head. “Not at all.” She wiped her cheek and tried to smile, but after what she’d just read, a smile felt so inadequate.

  John still didn’t look convinced.

  She tried her best for a lighthearted tone. “Don’t you know a teary-eyed reader is a good sign?”

  He swallowed, forcing his Adam’s apple to bob, but still didn’t say a word.

  “Your story is deeply moving. And nearing the end, it would seem.”

  John examined the floor. “Yes, it’s almost finished. I only hope someone will find it useful.”

  Useful? John’s story had changed her in ways she never would have believed possible. Eliza simply nodded, unable to trust her voice.

  The sky had grown quite dark by the time she boarded the bus. December always seemed so impatient, the daylight hours so short, as if to remind her that time was quickly slipping away. Without a single peep of protest from her.

  And what did she have to protest? That she had fallen in love with John? What possible good would that do? He had no such feelings for her. And why would he? She was a typist for hire. A nobody. Eccentric, as Betty had so kindly noted. If there was room in John’s heart for love, that place was probably being filled by the one woman he still wasn’t talking about in his book. And if his silence about Deborah Marlow was because there had been no off-camera relationship—which Eliza found hard to believe—then why did he receive letters from her?

  She closed her eyes to avoid seeing her fool-hearted reflection in the dark bus window.

  God, it’s not wrong to keep quiet about how I feel, is it? Sometimes it’s best to keep the truth to ourselves. If John knew how I felt, he would have to replace me.

  No, she definitely needed to keep her feelings to herself. Not only that, but she needed to find a way to thoroughly scrub them from her heart.

  God, is this something You can help me do?

  As the bus pulled away from a corner stop, new passengers made their way down the aisle. An elbow jostled her as someone took the seat beside her.

  “Nice evening for a tour of the rich neighborhoods, isn’t it?”

  She knew that voice. Eliza rubbed the knot forming at the base of her neck and turned to him.

  The glee in Agent Robinson’s eyes matched his broad smile.

  “I have nothing more to tell you.”

  “That’s odd.” Delight dripped from his voice. “I should think you would find working with John David Vincent, a.k.a. Johnny Devine, to be as fascinating a topic as I do.”

  Was there nothing this man didn’t know about her?

  “Time to cut the innocent act.” He made a sweeping glance at the other passengers. “I know about your father’s service in the Red Army and all the lies about your parents’ identity. We have reason to believe your parents were selling information to the Soviets. And I think you and that sister of yours know who the contacts are.”

  “There were no contacts, as I’ve told you. And even if there were, my parents are dead and neither my sister nor I know anything about it. We only just recently discovered that our parents were Russian.”

  “Is that so?” The agent smiled. “Funny thing is, the more time I spend looking into your family, the harder I find it to believe in the growing number of coincidences. Like your association with John Vincent. His Red file keeps growing too.”

  Eliza turned to him, stunned. John had received calls asking him to name Hollywood colleagues who were communists, sure, but were they now accusing him of communist activity?

  “But that’s another topic. I won’t waste your time by laying out the details of our investigation.”

  “Really? Then what does qualify as a good reason to waste my
time?”

  He shifted in his seat to face her.

  At such close proximity, Eliza could see the tiny red veins in the agent’s eyes. Along with a disturbing amount of zeal.

  “Just so you know, I’ve received special commendations from McCarthy himself for flushing out commies. Want to know why? I watch, Miss Peterson. That’s how I find subversive activity. A classic rooskie tactic is to infiltrate nice neighborhoods. Slip in quietly, looking like every other American family. Kids, dog, whitewalls on the Buick, the works.”

  That picture could describe thousands of families in neighborhoods all across the country.

  “It’s my job to know who you are. But … let’s say I take your word for it and stop asking about your family.”

  Eliza would take the bait, of course—if not for his expression. As if he was setting a hook to reel in the biggest catch of his career. “And what do you want in exchange for leaving us alone?”

  “You’re sharp. I almost forgot about that college degree of yours.” He opened a briefcase, took out a large manila envelope, and handed it to her. “This is addressed to me. It’s even got postage, see here? You provide me with a copy of Johnny Devine’s full manuscript, including the names of his colleagues, his subversive activities, and commie associations, the whole ball of wax. And this is just between us—he doesn’t have to know. Then I make a note in your file about your cooperation on this. That you’ve shown your willingness to do your patriotic duty. Add some solid points to your defense.”

  Give this man a copy of John’s manuscript? All that flatfooting must have scrambled his brain. “You couldn’t be more wrong about him.”

  With a wave of his hand as if her opinion was of no consequence, the agent shook his head and smiled. “No need to confuse your pretty little head with complicated details. Just send the manuscript, then you and your high-strung sister will be seeing a whole lot less of me.”

  I’ve often asked, “Why now, God? Why not years ago, before mistakes were made and damage was done?” But then, who but God knows what might have been?

  ~The Devine Truth: A Memoir

  23

  Friday morning, Millie opened the door for Eliza and ushered her inside. Millie’s gait seemed a bit slower and the catch in her step more pronounced. Probably from the change in weather. Winter was only a few weeks away.

  “I sure hope that book gonna be finished soon.” Millie took Eliza’s coat.

  “Why is that?”

  Millie peered into the library, then turned to Eliza with a somber headshake. “He just ain’t been hisself. Bringin’ up all those old memories like to do him in, I ’spect.”

  So even Millie had noticed the toll it was taking on John. Yes, completing the book and moving on would be best. For everyone’s sake.

  She went to her desk. John was not in the room, but she hadn’t really expected to see him. As much as she hated to admit it, they had made tremendous progress with him doing more of his own writing. And that was good, considering her latest dilemma. Of course she would never consider giving a copy of John’s book to that lunatic. As if duplicating an entire manuscript without John’s knowledge was even possible. And if the agency did get his book, who knew what those fanatics would read into it? Robinson seemed to be on some kind of personal mission that went beyond standard investigation. Besides, she could never do that to John.

  Perhaps it was time to let him know what was going on. He wasn’t going to like the fact that the HUAC was now linking the two of them together.

  John had left his notebook on her desk with two new pages, which she typed in no time.

  She was just finishing the last few lines when John came in.

  “Ah, I hope I haven’t left you in suspense.” John seemed more relaxed than he had been in a while. He even smiled, which sent goosebumps racing along Eliza’s arms.

  “No, you’re just in time,” she said. “And I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Of course. Are you all right?”

  Eliza nodded, warmed by his concern. “For a while now, I’ve been followed and questioned by an agent from the HUAC.”

  John came to the settee near Eliza’s desk and lowered himself onto it, facing her. “You too? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I haven’t mentioned it before because he keeps trying to say my parents were … spies, and I’ve been trying to uncover the truth about them before he does. I’m … not sure what I’m going to find.” She winced. This was harder than she thought, hearing herself doubt her own parents aloud. She went on about the agent following her and the things she had learned about her parents, including the letters.

  “Is there a way to find out if your aunt is still alive?”

  “I’ve sent a letter to the return address in Russia. But her letter was written at least thirty-five years ago. The country has been so war-torn, and since Kat said she was relocating, I don’t expect anything to come of that. It’s just a shot in the dark.”

  “We can pray,” John said. “God can add divine guidance to your bullet.”

  Eliza nodded. “That brings me to one of the things I need to tell you. I’m hoping the Soviet Consulate can help me locate any relatives in Russia who knew my parents. I don’t know how else I can clear their names and get the agents to take me and my sister off their list.”

  John nodded. “Good idea. Do you think the consulate has the information you need?”

  Eliza shrugged. “I don’t know, but I hope so. I spoke to someone who said I must come in person. The trouble with that is …”

  “You can only go to the consulate during the week.”

  “I’m afraid so.” She studied his reaction, but his expression remained even, as usual. “The good news is, it’s in San Francisco. The bad news is, the process could take several days.”

  “By all means, take as much time as you need. Do you want to stay near the consulate? Do you need help paying for a hotel?”

  Blushing at the idea of him paying for her hotel room, she shook her head. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

  “All right.” John studied her. “So you’ll go first thing Monday?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry, I know you want to finish the book as quickly as possible.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. I’d want to be doing something too, if I were you. I know the kind of pressure those maniacs can apply. Believe me, I understand.”

  Which was probably a good time to tell him that their files were now strapped together in Agent Robinson’s briefcase. She looked him in the eye, but couldn’t get the words to come. No matter how she said it, he was sure to be upset. Maybe even blame her.

  No. John was nothing like Ralph. He was quite different. In fact, he was so—

  John’s concerned expression returned. “What is it?”

  “There’s something else, and you’re not going to like it.”

  “Go on.” His eyes never left her face.

  “I’m afraid that I’ve … led them to you.”

  He frowned. “To me? What do you mean?”

  “The agent cornered me on the bus last night. He knows I’m working with you on your book. He …” She stared at her fingers intertwined in her lap. “He asked me to give him a copy of your manuscript.” She steeled herself for his response and then looked up.

  “I see.” He glanced at the pages stacked on Eliza’s desk.

  “Of course I would never do it,” she said in a rush.

  John met her gaze. “I know that,” he said. With a sigh, he rose and went to the window. “McCarthy’s lost his mind. He thinks everyone is a communist until proven innocent. He and his minions will twist anything into evidence. And it’s only gotten worse since the Rosenberg executions. Those agents are like sharks. Once they taste blood …”

  So the threat was worse than she thought. “I’m truly sorry for getting you tangled up in my troubles.”

  John turned to her, face softeni
ng. “You did nothing of the sort. They’ve been badgering me for months. And don’t worry, there’s nothing in my book that will implicate me or anyone else.” He reached over and ruffled a corner of the stack of typed pages, then shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just have Fred send them a copy.”

  Was he serious? Eliza could just imagine Agent Robinson taking some minor detail in the book out of context and twisting it into evidence against John.

  “Listen, if it will make you feel better, I’ll talk to Fred Wharton. He’ll get his lawyers on it. They know how to handle these guys. And in the meantime, try not to worry. Okay?” He seemed so calm and confident.

  If he wasn’t worried about the added scrutiny, there was probably no sense in her worrying, either. She studied his expression, just to be sure. “All right, I won’t worry.” She forced more confidence into her smile than she felt.

  His gaze fell to her lips and lingered for a moment, then another, then dropped to the floor.

  Her heart skittered. How unfair that he could do that to her without even saying a word.

  “I need to attend to something,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Perhaps we could just resume when you return next week. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” she said. With the book so close to completion, was he no longer in a hurry to finish it?

  With a single nod, John turned and left her.

  That afternoon, Eliza picked up a transit schedule to plan her trip into San Francisco on Monday. It felt good to be doing something proactive.

  She spent Saturday working on her new proposal, though she couldn’t finish revising the book until she talked to Millie about her views on equality. As disturbed as Eliza was about prejudice, was she truly showing the plight of the oppressed accurately? Being a white, middle-class American, could she really understand?