The Chelsea Girls(4)
“I brought this with me. Twelve Best American Plays from 1936 to 1937. Maybe one of these will work instead.”
Betty-Lou let out a shriek. “Amen! I thought we’d be waiting another month for a new script. Now we have twelve. Maxine, look.”
Maxine, who’d been uncharacteristically subdued, reading a book on her cot, swung her legs over the side. “Let’s see.”
Hazel tossed it over.
“Not bad.” Maxine thumbed through it. “We can work with this. Good job, Hayseed.”
Hazel refused to let that nickname stick. “Look, I really don’t want to be called Hayseed during my tour. I’ve paid my dues.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I’ve worked on Broadway since 1939.”
Maxine studied her. “Why don’t I remember you, then? When I lived in New York, I went to everything.”
“I was an understudy.”
“Huh. Did you ever go on?”
Hazel swallowed. “No.”
“Wait a minute.” Verna snapped her fingers. “I heard about you. Didn’t you understudy for something like two dozen shows and never once perform?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Not that Hazel wanted to give her one. “That’s right! The producers loved you because the audiences were never disappointed. It was in the Post.”
Hazel’s mother had read the article aloud the day it came out, while Hazel’s ears burned with embarrassment. “What a shame,” Ruth had said. “You standing in the sidelines while real actresses like Fay Wray and Betty Furness get the spotlight. Seriously, Hazel. Your brother would’ve been very disappointed.”
A man’s voice called out from the other side of the tent’s flap door. “The facilities are ready for you, ladies.”
Hazel, relieved by the interruption, followed the girls outside, clutching her helmet and a towel. They were led to the washing area, where a board with circular cutouts lay across two wooden horses. The women stuck their helmets under the faucet and filled them with water before laying them in the holes, a kind of makeshift sink. Hazel washed her face and hands and brushed her teeth before dumping out the water and wiping the inside of her helmet with a towel.
She’d hoped that she’d have the morning to get her bearings around the camp but instead was told to report back to Naples to fill out more paperwork, with Maxine assigned to accompany her. She wished it had been one of the others.
Hazel held tight as the Jeep careened back toward Naples over roads that were no better than those in the Dark Ages must have been. Above the narrow streets, laundry hung limply from precarious-looking balconies. They took a right, coming to a small plaza, where a crowd blocked the way.
“What’s going on?” asked Maxine.
The driver stood up to get a better look. “Stay here, in the Jeep.” He climbed out and was soon swallowed by the crowd.
Hazel and Maxine pulled themselves to standing to get a better view. The focal point of attention seemed to be a beautiful, very pale boy with full cheeks, his blond hair swept off to one side. For a moment, Hazel almost called out her brother’s name. The resemblance was uncanny: Even the way the boy tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes was the same. When her brother used to do that, girls swooned.
But no, it wasn’t Ben. This kid was too young, for one, and when he turned his head, the profile wasn’t quite right, the nose slightly turned up at the tip. He had one arm flung around a slightly older boy sporting the beginnings of a mustache, who seemed to be near tears.
The swarm pushed in, jostling the boys closer together. The blond boy looked defiant, his light complexion a stark contrast to that of his olive-skinned companion.
A rock flew out of nowhere and struck the blond in the forehead. He winced but didn’t speak or cry out. A shock of red blood oozed from just below his hairline.
Hazel gasped, shielding the sun with her hand for a better view of the scene. “Why are they attacking them?”
An old Italian woman standing next to the Jeep, her head covered by a green paisley scarf, answered in accented English. “They were caught trying to steal bicycles. One refuses to speak. Probably a German, the other a collaboratore.”
“Jesus,” said Maxine. “What will happen to them?”
“They die.” The woman spit on the ground before allowing herself to be sucked forward with the surge of the mob like liquid mercury.
Hazel tried to spot their driver. He’d made it about halfway to the boys, but the pack had tightened and wasn’t responding to his commands to step aside. Hazel pointed to a group of kids who were collecting rocks from the rubble of a bombed-out wall. “They’re going to stone them to death!”
This primitive system of justice outraged Hazel, but the energy emanating from the crowd was like a living, breathing monster, unstoppable. The blond boy seemed resigned to his fate, but held on tightly to his friend as others tried to pull them apart. The dark-haired one shook his head, tears streaming down his face, as a man near the edge of the crowd lifted an enormous cement block above his head and, staggering under its weight, headed in the direction of the boys.
In one swift motion, Maxine climbed over to the front seat of the Jeep and slid behind the wheel. She laid hard on the horn, shifted the gears, and gunned the engine.
Hazel clutched the side of the Jeep and stifled a scream as Maxine drove forward. This was madness, driving straight into danger. Distracted by the horn, the crowd parted, some of them barely stepping out of the way in time.