“Lorraine!” he shouted. “What on earth did you do to my church tie?”
Owen and Jessie looked at the tie dangling around their father’s neck and burst out laughing. It had shrunken to half its size and was as wrinkled as a prune.
“It looks like a clown tie!” hollered Jessie. “Like a little kid’s tie!” Owen doubled over his knees and laughed so hard that no sound came out. Lorraine just shrugged and threw up her hands innocently.
“You got me,” she said.
Naturally, the family was late to the sermon. The whole congregation turned around and looked at them when they came into the church.
Today, unfortunately, Mayor Reverend Jerry’s speech was neither short nor sweet. Franny counted sheep while he spoke. But then, at the end of his speech, he said something that caught her attention: “As many of you know, tomorrow Franny Hansen is up and leavin’ us for New York City to begin her studies at the Juliet School there.”
“Juilliard School,” hissed some know-it-all from the front pew.
“Yeah, that,” said the mayor quickly. “Well, Franny, we want you to know that we’re all real proud of you. We’ll expect to see your name in the papers and bright lights soon. Don’t forget about all of us here in Rusty Nail when you’re a big star, y’hear?”
Franny blushed. And then the mayor began to clap, and everyone else joined in: Rodney the jail janitor, mean old Stella Brunsvold, Mr. Klompenhower, old Hans Zimmerman, Miss Hamm, Mrs. Staudt and her ancient father. Even Norma Smitty and Melba clapped a few times.
Wes poked his daughter in the side. “Go on, Mozart,” he whispered to her. “Stand up and thank your fans.”
With a shy smile, Franny stood up and gave a little bow. When she did this, a loud whoop came from the back of the room. She turned around and saw Sandy and Runty standing on the last pew, stamping and hollering.
And then she noticed that there were three people in the back of the room who weren’t clapping: Mr. Orilee, Mrs. Orilee, and, of course, Nancy, who sat there scowling at the floor. The family had been the town outcasts since the contest in Minneapolis and the showdown between Lorraine and Mrs. Orilee at the Colosseum. Mrs. Orilee remained the sole member of the W.O.R.N.A.T.C.T., while Lorraine’s pie-and-common-sense club thrived. Nancy sat alone in the school cafeteria at lunchtime, her nose in the air. And thus, Franny’s lifelong and seemingly invincible rival had been vanquished.
“All right, all right,” yelled the mayor over the clapping. “That’s enough. We don’t wanna give Franny a big head. She might not even be able to get through the door of the air-o-plane tomorrow.” A few people tittered at this feeble joke and everyone settled down. “Now, let’s go get us some refreshments. I got us a treat today, some real gourmette goodies: Twinkies, Kool-Aid, and coffee in the back. Let’s eat.”
No one in Rusty Nail ever needed to be told twice to eat. Everyone (except the Orilees, of course) stampeded to the Colosseum, where the culinary offerings lay spongily on paper plates.
Franny and her family celebrated with the congregation for the rest of the morning.
Instead of going home with her family after church, Franny walked over to Oak Street to see Olga one last time before her trip. She still worked for the Russian several days a week.
“Have you packed all of your bags, Dyevushka?” Olga asked as she opened the front door and ushered Franny inside.
“Not yet,” said Franny. “But almost.”
“Well, you do not need to pack everything you own, you know,” she said. “You are just going for the summer.”
“I know,” said Franny. “I only have two suitcases.” Just then, she noticed a stack of leather suitcases lined up in Olga’s foyer. “Wait! Why are your bags out? Are you going somewhere too?”
“Yes,” said Olga, waving for Franny to come into the living room with her. “I will tell you all about it later this afternoon. But first, I need for you to finish organizing my papers. You are still my indentured servant, you know,” she added, and smiled ruefully. Then she went into the kitchen.
Franny had been organizing Olga’s personal papers into files for the last month, and only one box remained unopened. Franny cut open the top and saw that it was filled with newspaper and magazine clippings. She took them out and stacked them on the floor, and got ready to organize them by date.
Franny looked at the headline of the first article, dated January 29, 1940, which proclaimed in English:
RUSSIAN VIRTUOSO DEBUTS AT CARNEGIE HALL
She peered at the old black-and-white picture and saw that it was Olga at fifteen or sixteen years old. She quickly thumbed through the rest of the articles.
They were all about her teacher—dozens of them, in many languages and strange alphabets—tracking her life and career over the last twenty years. Many of the photos with the articles showed Olga as a young lady playing on various stages, wearing ball gowns. And there she was with the actress Marlene Dietrich; there she was with President Roosevelt. Franny could hardly believe it. Olga always boasted about being a fine pianist, but she had no idea that the Russian was this famous.
Then she came across a little pile of articles that looked relatively recent. Sure enough, they had only come out a year earlier, in 1953. The headline on the first proclaimed:
CARNEGIE HALL CANCELS SHOW OF RUSSIAN MASTER
Franny frowned and flipped through the others. Their headlines grew increasingly disturbing:
MALENKOV HEADING FOR THE BLACKLIST?
MCCARTHY TO HOLD HEARINGS ON RUSSIAN EXPATS IN NEW YORK CITY
And finally,
INTO THIN AIR—MALENKOV FLEES NEW YORK CITY
Franny read the first few paragraphs with great interest:
World-famous pianist Olga Malenkov has fled her New York City home and is believed to be in hiding, authorities said yesterday. Since her debut at Carnegie Hall at fifteen years old, Miss Malenkov has been considered the foremost performer of Rachmaninoff and Prokofiev in the world.
Until recently, she was also considered an avid spokesperson against the Communist regime in her native Russia. However, Senator Joseph McCarthy recently announced that he was setting up a committee to investigate the Russian expatriate community in New York City.
The article confused Franny, but she read on anyway, hoping to make sense of things. She had the feeling that she was finally getting to the root of Olga’s secrets: the phone call, the mystery-car incident, the overheard conversation with Svetlana, the references to Rusty Nail being a hideout.
According to reports, Senator McCarthy wanted Miss Malenkov to testify against several fellow countrymen who were to stand trial. Miss Malenkov reportedly declined his request and shortly afterward left New York. Her lawyer, Charles Koenig of the American Civil Liberties Union, would not disclose his client’s whereabouts and declined comment at this time.
Franny’s heart leaped. Charles Koenig—wait! That was Charlie!
“Is that very interesting to you, Dyevushka?” thundered Olga’s voice from the doorway.
Franny jumped and dropped the article. “I was just putting these in order—according to their dates, like you told me to.”
Olga picked up the article and looked at it. “So, I guess by now you have solved the big mystery,” she said.
“What big mystery?” asked Franny.
“About why I am here in Rusty Nail,” said Olga.
“I didn’t really understand the article,” confessed Franny. “But please don’t think that I was spying on you again! I just saw it there, and couldn’t help reading it! And anyway, I thought that you were here because you married Charlie!”
“It is all right,” sighed Olga. “The secret will be out soon enough. In a few weeks, I am going to be in all of the papers and newsreels again.”
Franny stood up. “Why—what’s going to happen?” she asked.
“What that article was saying, Dyevushka, is that I am a wanted woman, ” said Olga. “The so-called Commie hunter, Senator McCarthy, has
set up a hearing in Washington, and in it he wants to prove that many Russians living in New York City are Communists and should get sent back to Russia. He wants me to be his most important witness against these people. But many of them are my friends, who fled Russia when I did—and they are not Communists. If they get sent back there, they will be jailed or worse.”
“Then why can’t you just get up and tell the truth— that Senator McCarthy is lying about them?” asked Franny.
“I wish that it was that easy,” said Olga. “He is a very determined and powerful man. If I try to prove him wrong, he will find a way to punish me. He already has. He had some of my concerts canceled, and could go a lot further. So I ran away, out here, to get away from him and figure out what to do.”
Franny suddenly felt a crush of guilt as she remembered the phone call many months ago, when she had accidentally told the caller that Olga lived there. And shortly afterward, the car with the men had shown up.
“Madame Malenkov,” she said, tears burning the corners of her eyes. “It’s my fault that he found you! I answered the phone when I shouldn’t have, and when they asked if you were here, I said yes! And then those men showed up here—it’s all my fault!”
“Please stop crying, Dyevushka, ” said Olga. “Remember what I told you about crying when you are supposed to appear strong. I do not want you to think that you are even slightly responsible for what is happening. They would have found me anyway. For all I know, they could have followed my moving truck here. I was only borrowing time, being here.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Franny, wiping her eyes.
“Those men who came to the house were delivering a subpoena,” explained Olga. “Which means an official notice requiring me to show up at the hearing. So, I must go. In fact, that is why my bags are packed. Tomorrow, I too am flying—to Washington, D.C., where the hearing will take place.”
“What are you going to say at the hearing?”
To Franny’s shock, Olga’s eyes also filled with tears. “I am going to tell them the truth—that my friends are not Communists—and I will bravely face the consequences. Svetlana came out here to convince me to do this. She reminded me that hiding doesn’t make something go away. After all, that is why my parents helped me escape Russia so many years ago—so I could live a free life, not one in hiding like them. It is time to do the right thing and set an example.”
She blinked back her tears and took a deep breath. Seeing how upset Franny was, she tried to smile.
“Do not worry about me,” she said. “I am sure that I will be fine. After all—what can they do to me? I am the great Olga Malenkov, concert pianist. I have survived much worse things than that sweaty, shouting man. And the tide is turning against McCarthy, slowly but surely. But it will take people like me standing up to him to make that happen.”
Franny remembered what Wes had said in the movie theater about the senator: He’ll get his, mark my words.
“What about Charlie?” Franny asked. “What’s he going to do?”
“Charlie is going to come with me,” answered Olga. “In fact, here is another big secret, Dyevushka: he is my lawyer, not my husband.”
Franny almost fell over backward.
“I met him while he was still in law school in New York, many years ago,” Olga said. “He was my good friend. When all of the trouble began, I called him, and he has been helping me. He handles cases like this all the time—that is why he is gone on such long work trips. I do not know who started the rumor about us getting married—probably that Norma Smitty woman—but we decided not to deny it since it would be easier for me to live here in Rusty Nail if everyone thought that we were husband and wife. We knew that the townspeople were going to be scandalized enough by the fact that I was Russian.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Franny, sitting down on the floor amidst all of Olga’s articles. “More crazy things have happened since you came to Rusty Nail than ever before.”
“Yes, that is probably true,” said Olga. “And imagine my surprise, in the middle of this drama, when I came out here to my Rusty Nail hideaway and you turned up on my doorstep. A skinny, determined, and talented pest of a country girl.”
Franny’s face flushed as she remembered how she’d badgered Olga into giving her lessons, and all of the wangling that had gone into it. Now she realized that the last thing in the world Olga had needed was Franny bothering her.
“If I’d known all of that McCarthy stuff was going on, I would’ve left you alone,” she said, embarrassed. “I swear. I’m really sorry.”
“Ha!” Olga exclaimed. “I do not believe that for a second. You and that friend of yours would have been in that peony bush twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes I still wonder how you managed to talk your way in through the front door and into my music room.
“You know, Dyevushka, you are going to have a wonderful future on the stage,” the Russian went on, more wistfully now. “And not just because you are such a—how do you say it?—a bacon. You have a wonderful ability to win people over—like you did me.”
“Ham,” said Franny. “You mean that I’m a ham.”
“Yes, that,” said Olga. “But also because you loved music and understood it long before you had anyone to truly encourage and guide you. That is the sign of a true gift.”
She walked over to the couch and retrieved a little box from behind it.
“I have a little present for you,” she said, handing it to Franny. “To remind you of our first meeting, and of your roots here in Rusty Nail, when you are famous and far away.”
Franny took the package, which was long and thin and flat. What on earth could it be? Some sort of strange instrument? She zealously tore off the paper and laughed when she saw what lay inside.
The flyswatter. “Take good care of it.” Olga smiled impishly. “I am very fond of it.”
Franny picked it up, remembering the night that she and Sandy had camped out in the peony bush, spying. It seemed like a very long time ago, and she felt like a very different person now. She looked at Olga, the person who had changed her life, and tried to think of a way to say how much it all meant to her.
“Thank you” was all she managed, in a squeaky voice.
“You are welcome,” said Olga. “Someday you will do the same for another struggling young girl you come across. It is like a code of honor with us pianists, despite the competition and jealousy among all of us. After all, the young girl you come across could be the next Mozart or Rachmaninoff, and we all want to advance our art.”
Franny nodded solemnly.
“Now finish up your work in here, please,” the Russian added, waving toward the stack of articles. “I cannot stand a half-finished job. And I am sure that you want as much time as possible with your family before your life changes forever. And I need time alone before mine does too.”
As Olga walked out of the room, Franny heard her say: “I can see your first headline now—Franny Hansen: Rising Star of Rusty Nail. ”
When Franny left Olga’s house and walked home, the stars were coming out, one by one. She stopped and looked at the sky for a long time. It was huge, full of infinity. Tomorrow her teacher would disappear into that sky, off to an unknown future, on to the next tumultuous chapter of an endlessly turbulent life.
Franny had known the Russian for nearly a year, but everything still felt like a dream to her. Somehow, just somehow, Olga’s life had managed to bump into Franny’s and send it in a different direction entirely—like a ball hitting another ball on a pool table and changing its course. It had been an against-all-odds encounter.
But during that time, Franny had learned that this is just how life is: filled with coincidences that later seem like fate. Filled with chance meetings with random people who later become the most important figures in your life. She discovered that success comes from the right person or right opportunity happening to you at the right time in your life.
Of course, she had sensed this from the
very beginning, which is why she had had the courage to knock on Olga’s door in the first place. In this regard, Franny had been wiser than her ten years all along.
But at this moment, she wasn’t thinking about any of these things. Instead, she thought about how, the very next day, she would be up there in the sky herself, in an airplane for the first time in her life. She imagined being high up in the blue abyss, surrounded by clouds.
In her mind, she looked back down at the Earth and saw Rusty Nail hundreds of miles below. She could see Main Street and the little brick building where she’d grown up. She saw the crossroads of Oak and Fair streets, where she’d first cut her deal with Olga and become a new person. On the edge of the town, she saw the Hellickson farm with its streams and cornfields and thick bales of hay. She even thought that she saw Mr. Klompenhower’s pig barn.
And then the imaginary plane lifted higher and the land fell away. Franny watched the town disappear altogether. After a moment, she turned her attention to the endless sky above.
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to the usual suspects: Erin Clarke, my astute editor at Knopf; Christine Earle, my wonderful agent at ICM; Gregory Macek, my stalwart; Caitlin Crounse, my confidante; and Frances J. McCarthy, Esq., my mother and muse.
Lesley M. M. Blume is an author and journalist based in New York City. Her first book, Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters, was released by Knopf in 2006, and was called “a fabulous read that will enchant its audiences with the magic to be found in ordinary life” in a starred review by School Library Journal. She is hard at work on her third book.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
The Rising Star of Rusty Nail Page 18
