by Camille Eide
Eliza called Betty and shared her plans to visit the consulate on Monday.
Betty was all for it, especially after she’d explained the mission to Ed, who gave his stamp of approval. It was good that Betty sought her husband’s opinion and approval. But sometimes, Eliza wondered how happy her sister and brother-in-law actually were. Of course, they always appeared happy, which was of critical importance to Betty. Eliza just hoped her sister had other goals in life besides keeping the garden club ladies’ tongues from wagging.
Sunday morning, Eliza woke to Mr. Darcy yowling at her door, apparently miffed by the fog. She hurried to let him in, chuckling. “A little spoiled now, are we?”
The cat headed for his bowl, purring. Being the night owl that he was, he’d become content to sleep in the center of her ironing board during the day. He’d developed a habit of sleeping with one eye open, and whenever she walked past the ironing board, he would reach out a paw, and if she stood close enough, he would tug her closer.
What was a little cat hair on her clothes when such affection was to be had?
Full surrender is frightening. It’s like taking a blind leap into a deep hole, headfirst, hands tied behind your back. And yet, ironically, total surrender to God brings peace, because His love and mercy are bottomless.
~The Devine Truth: A Memoir
24
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 stoppe
d 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
25
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.
What he must think of her, throwing herself at him like that … no different from all those silly, swooning women …
She stumbled twice and nearly fell in her hurry to get away from the house. The gate at the end of the drive was a blur through her gathering tears.
What did it matter what John thought of her? She wasn’t coming back.
Between her tears and the cloying mist, she could barely see. When she reached the gate, the dam burst. Crying, she tried to push the button for the gate but couldn’t find it.
A door slammed against the house, startling her.
“Eliza!”
She jumped at the sound of his booming voice. She felt for the button again, frantic.
“Eliza, wait!”
Heart hammering, she turned. She had never felt more ridiculous or more alone. She waited, trapped.
John rounded the bend, working his cane as fast as he could.
Must he fire her in person? Couldn’t he just call the agency? Tears dripped from her chin, soaking the collar of her dress. So stupid. I should have listened to Betty …
When John reached her, his eyes were black pools of misery. “Yes,” he said, his deep voice ragged. He grasped the back of her neck, pulled her close, and crushed his lips to hers.
Stunned, she wavered like a sapling reed, suspended between earth and heaven, nearly collapsing at the knees. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. But she could feel. And what she felt was …
Loved.
His lips lifted a fraction and hovered beside hers. “Yes, I was writing about you. Yes, I am in agony when you’re near. Yes,
I have to leave the room because of you.”
Am I dreaming?
He kissed her again, gently but urgently, his lips soft yet searing, shooting pure warmth straight to her core.
Her tears flowed again, but this time from blissful release. John loved her—Eliza, a quiet, penniless woman of no renown.
With a stifled groan, he let go and backed away. “No, no …”
“What?”
“Dear Lord, what am I doing …?”
“John? What’s wrong?”
“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. You left so hurt and I couldn’t let you leave thinking—” He scowled, then turned away. “I only meant to stop you. I’m sorry, Eliza. I shouldn’t have kissed you. That was wrong.”
“Wrong?” She stared at him, waiting for his words to make sense, but they didn’t. “What are you saying?” She shook her head to clear the confusion. “What about what you wrote?”
He dragged a hand down over his face. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“But … didn’t you mean those things?”
For the longest time, he just stood there, motionless. “I meant every word,” he whispered.
Then say it. “I love you, Eliza.” Just say it.
But the words didn’t come.
John turned to her, eyes red. “But it doesn’t matter, because I can’t do this, Eliza. Not to anyone. And especially not to you.”
“Can’t do what?”
He shook his head. “I can’t love.”
“I can.”
His gaze fell to the cobblestone between them. “I know you can, and you must. Just … not me.” He scowled at his cane. “Kissing you was purely thoughtless. I’m sorry.”
Why couldn’t he love her? Why couldn’t he—? “John, if you’re worried about your past, none of that matters.”