by Camille Eide
“Like the Salem witch trials,” John said.
Eliza nodded, taking little comfort in the fact that McCarthy’s obsession had reminded both her and John of the same thing. “I want to tell the truth, but I’m afraid they’ll just twist it.”
“God knows you’re innocent, Eliza. He would want you to be truthful. Tell the truth and leave the rest to Him.”
Leave it to God? That was like asking her to jump into a bottomless pit headfirst. How could John be so certain?
He offered a faint smile. “With God’s help, we’ll fight this to the end.”
“We?”
John’s smile faded. “I didn’t want to mention it before, but they’ve already asked me about you.”
Eliza gasped. Not only were they harassing John about his former colleagues, but now they were asking him about her?
“What did you tell them?”
John shrugged. “I didn’t answer.”
“What happens if you don’t?”
“If I continue to refuse to answer, I could be subpoenaed to testify under oath.”
Dread pricked her heart. “Oh no, I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t worry, Eliza. You’re going to tell them the truth, as I have, and sooner or later, they’re going to give up.” He looked into her eyes with a strong, steady calm. “The truth will prevail.”
If only she could find a way to draw from his strength and confidence.
“Would you like me to go with you?” he asked.
“No!” She felt her eyes widen. “I mean, thank you, but don’t you think that would be dangerous? They already have us linked in their ‘Red’ files.” Eliza pictured the zeal in the agent’s eyes and shuddered. “Agent Robinson already thinks he has the next Julius and Ethel Rosenberg in his sights. I certainly don’t want to feed into his delusions any more.”
John nodded. “You’re probably right.”
Duncan came down the hall from the kitchen, his bent gait doubled. “Please, could you come quick?”
“What is it, Duncan?”
“It’s Millie.” He hurried back the way he came.
Eliza and John followed close behind.
In the kitchen, Millie sat slumped over the table.
“I thought the old girl was asleep.” Duncan wiped his brow with his sleeve. “But I can’t wake her.”
Eliza gasped.
John leaned down and spoke Millie’s name in her ear.
The woman moved but didn’t wake.
Eliza reached for Millie’s wrist and felt her pulse. It was a bit weak, and her skin felt odd, like damp cheese. Stroking Millie’s forehead, Eliza spoke, raising her voice.
Millie stirred, made some muttering sounds, then opened her eyes. She swept a glance around the kitchen, face dazed. “My, but you early, Miz Eliza.” She looked up at John and Duncan, her eyes hazy with confusion, and then back at Eliza. “I was just havin’ a little prayer time, that’s all. Never know when you need to be extra prayed up.”
Eliza smiled. If Millie needed extra prayer or a nap, she certainly deserved it.
“Good.” John nodded. He gave Millie’s shoulder a pat, then went into the library.
Duncan also left.
But Eliza lingered. “Millie, are you sure you’re feeling all right? You seem tired lately.”
Millie smiled. “Bless your heart, child. When you seventy-nine, ‘tired’ already waitin’ for you when you wake up. Beats not wakin’ up at all, though.” She chuckled. “But just between us, bein’ absent from the body mean I be dancin’ with Jesus, and I’m ready for that.”
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.”
28
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, f
our 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 He 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.’”
Eliza nodded. “Yes, I wrote that. It’s all true, after all. Am I not free to repeat truth?”
“Anti-American propaganda is often signified by its inflammatory tone and particularly its focus on championing minorities.”
A sharp string of replies came to mind, but Eliza held her tongue. Wait for a question …
“Who put you up to writing and publishing those articles?”
“My conscience.”
“Your conscience?”<
br />
“Yes. How can I, in good conscience, enjoy a glass of iced tea and dip my toes in a sparkling hotel pool while another woman just like me, perhaps of the same age and education, is not allowed to drink from the same kind of drinking glass but has to use a paper cup, and if she dips one toe in the pool, the hotel will drain it, simply because of the color of her skin?”
The men conferred again.
Agent Robinson examined another sheet of paper. “How much Red money have you received for writing propaganda?”
She shook her head. “I don’t write propaganda. I write about the gross injustice of racial, ethnic, and gender inequality. Not for anyone’s agenda, but because I believe this kind of bigotry is wrong and should be exposed for what it is—shameful.”
Robinson held the paper higher and raised his volume to match it. “I hold in my hand documented proof that the American Women’s Alliance has received funding from the Communist Party of the United States. You have received payment for your articles from the American Women’s Alliance.” He stepped close enough for Eliza to see the veins pulsing in his neck. “Let me ask you again,” he said. “How much Red money have you received for your articles?”
Eliza lifted her chin. “I sold my articles to a women’s publication in hopes that women who suffer from injustice might read them and find a common thread of support, so that if they are in an unjust or oppressive situation, they will know they are not alone. I wrote those articles to encourage women and minorities. The AWA paid me for them. I accepted the money and didn’t ask them where it came from. If the AWA has communist ties, I wasn’t aware.”
Robinson strode back to the table and the men resumed their discussion, shuffling papers.
After a minute, the man on the left end looked at her. “What is your relationship with the actor Johnny Devine, also known as John David Vincent?”