The Memoir of Johnny Devine (25 page)

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 offered 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,
m
y 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

Russia
n 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.