The Chelsea Girls(57)

As the letters floated around on the page, she remembered she’d had the typical understudy’s nightmare last night—that she had to go on but hadn’t had time to memorize the part—exactly what had happened that first day in Naples.

Here she was, back to learning lines instead of writing them, and her brain refused to cooperate. It might as well have been in Mandarin. In a cold sweat, she pulled off the hotel robe and threw it on the floor. She’d have called Maxine for comfort if the Chelsea Hotel’s phone lines weren’t tapped. Instead, Hazel was completely alone, treading water in a whirlpool of nerves.

She met Mr. Stone for breakfast at a corner table of the hotel restaurant, where he whispered further instructions. “You can take exactly one break, only if things get too difficult. And no jokes.”

“Jokes? Why would I joke?”

“You’d be surprised what people do under that kind of pressure. A colleague of mine had a client who said he wasn’t going to break, and ended up throwing all his friends’ names out to the committee, including his college roommate and best friend.”

“That won’t be me, I assure you. Do I get to meet the loudmouth Joseph McCarthy?”

Mr. Stone blanched. “I said, no jokes. You’ve got to be serious about this. No, you won’t. He’s focused on investigating the State Department for communist infiltration. For now. But I warn you, the HUAC is just as serious.”

“Believe me, I know.” Hazel looked out at the people on the street, going about their day, worried about a dentist appointment or what to buy for dinner that evening. How wonderful it would be to go back to that state of mundane, everyday bliss. Once this was over, if it was ever over, she’d appreciate the more modest joys of life. But wasn’t that what everyone said, when their lives took a terrible turn?

The committee room in the Old House Office Building seemed like something right out of an Oscar Wilde play, with its dark wood, refined striped wallpaper, and globed sconces. Clerks passed official-looking papers back and forth, stenographers sat at the ready in front of their machines, members of the public took their seats and murmured among themselves, while photographers squeezed in wherever they could get the best angle.

Hazel and Mr. Stone took their seats and again she scanned the list of questions. Again, they floated around in her vision like fireflies.

“Here they come.” Mr. Stone leaned close. “Take your time, speak slowly and clearly. Don’t let them rattle you.”

The members of the Committee, all scowling, middle-aged men, filed in and took their places on a raised platform. The chairman, Congressman John S. Wood, banged his gavel. “The House Un-American Activities Committee will come to order. This morning the Committee resumes its series of hearings on the vital issue of communist propaganda and influence in the entertainment industry.”

The first questions were easy. Hazel supplied her name, where she was born, her current place of residence, her education, her occupation, the title of her play.

“Miss Ripley, are you a member of the Communist Party?”

“No.”

“Were you ever asked to be a member of the Communist Party?”

“No.”

The chairman shook his head after her reply, as if he knew something she didn’t.

He looked at his notes. “Did you sign a petition for the Scientific and Cultural Conference for World Peace?”

She took a deep breath, remembering to answer with care. “At a rehearsal for a play, I don’t remember which one, a group of young people approached me outside the theater and asked if I’d sign a petition so they could be representatives at a peace conference. I thought having a conference for peace was a great idea, so I did so.”

“Did you question as to whether this so-called conference was a communist front?”

“Why would I?” Hazel sensed Mr. Stone twitch beside her, worried that she was getting riled.

“Answer the question.”

“No. I did not.”

“What about the anti-fascist rally you attended in 1938?”

“What about it?” She knew she shouldn’t talk back, but couldn’t help herself.

“Did you know that it was organized by the Communist Party?”

“I knew that I was against fascism, as we all were in those days. And are currently, unless I’m mistaken about the purpose and outcome of World War II.”

The chairman looked down at the stenographers. “Please note that the witness refuses to answer the question.” He glared at Hazel. “You also sent birthday greetings to the Moscow Art Theatre on its fiftieth anniversary, did you not?”

“The Moscow Art Theatre is a distinguished institution in the theater world, like the Old Vic in London. I got a phone call asking if I’d like to be added to the list of people offering congratulations, and I said, ‘Sure.’ The telegram had nothing to do with politics or the Soviet Union or communists.”

“Who was the person who called you?”

“I have no memory of the caller’s name.”

“You are currently a member of the Actors Equity Association, is that correct?”

“Yes. If one wants to work on Broadway, one must be a member of the union.”

“I see.” His raised eyebrow suggested otherwise. “You appear to be associated with a number of organizations and causes that we know to be communist organizations or fronts.” He fingered the gavel.