The Chelsea Girls(58)

Another committee member, Congressman Richard M. Nixon, took over the line of questioning. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’d like you to take a moment before answering.”

She knew what was coming. The ultimate test of a witness’s cooperation, naming names. The failure to do so would signify that she was protecting potential infiltrators, and was not a true American. A serious offense.

“Considering your extensive contact with people and organizations that spread communist propaganda,” said Congressman Nixon, “do you know anyone who has been a member of the Communist Party? Fellow travelers, if you will.”

“I’m sure you already have a long list of names of people who you consider to be fellow travelers. I am not interested in confirming, denying, or adding to it.”

The members of the public gasped, giving the chairman reason to slam down his gavel a few times for good measure.

“What about your brother?” continued Congressman Nixon. “A Mr. Benjamin Ripley. He was a member of the Communist Party, am I correct or not?”

Once again, her beloved brother’s name was being dragged through the mud. What these men were doing was no different than if they’d exhumed his bones and danced on them. Enough was enough. Hazel let rip. “My brother was killed in the war. He’s not here to defend his name, and I am shocked you’d try to use him to get me to testify against others. You’re not interested in discovering subversives, or uncovering some dastardly plot against America, you only want to push people like me around to prove how powerful you are. To publicly stigmatize and degrade.”

The chairman lectured Hazel at great length after her outburst, while Mr. Stone asked for a break, which was denied.

But as the furor died down, a lone voice, a baritone Hazel didn’t recognize, rang out from the back of the room. “Thank God someone is talking straight. Finally.”

Once again, the room went wild. Hazel turned around but couldn’t tell who’d said it. More yelling, more banging of gavels, and in that time, Hazel was able to regroup, pull herself together. That one voice, breaking out through the bitterness and allegations, made all the difference. She knew she wasn’t alone in this madhouse, and that she was strong enough to manage what was next. She gave a silent prayer of thanks to her anonymous supporter.

Once again, after order was restored, the chairman resumed his questioning. “Do you know a Mr. Floyd Jenkins?”

“I do. We met in Naples and he designed the costumes for my play.”

“Is he or has he ever been a member of the Communist Party?”

She remembered his rallying declaration at Sardi’s, in front of practically the entire cast and crew: If Hazel’s a communist, then I’m one, too. We must all stand together. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no tolerance for sarcasm in these dark days. No doubt the Committee already had Brandy’s witness testimony, and if Hazel answered the truth, that Floyd wasn’t, they could accuse her of perjury. “I am willing to respond to any questions that pertain to me or my activities. I understand from counsel that, under the Fifth Amendment, I can refuse questions about myself on the ground of self-incrimination. I don’t need to take the Fifth, because, as I’ve shown, I’m willing to discuss my actions and intent. But I will not name other people, or answer questions about their actions or intent.”

“You are not in a position to set the terms here, Miss Ripley. I will ask you again, Floyd Jenkins. A communist or not?”

“I refuse to answer on the ground that it might incriminate me. I will take the Fifth, because you refuse to agree to a reasonable request.” She turned to Mr. Stone, forgetting that the microphone would pick up her every word. “As a theatrical production, this is first-rate. Right up there with Nick Bottom and the Mechanicals.”

“Nick Bottom?” The chairman pounced. “This Nick Bottom you speak of, is he a communist?”

Hazel burst out laughing, as did several of the spectators. After a sharp look from Mr. Stone, she spoke clearly and succinctly into the microphone, for all to hear. “He’s a character from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A fictional character.”

The room broke out in pandemonium. Again.

“Strike that from the record, this is a waste of time. Strike it off!” The chairman’s neck, and then cheeks, turned crimson. He grappled with the papers in front of him and rose to his feet. “That’s enough. We have no further questions.”

The hearing was over. Mr. Stone grabbed her by the arm. “We have to get out of here fast. Follow me and don’t answer any questions. Not one. Understand?”

They made it out through the scrum and leaped into a car that had been waiting by the curb.

“I may be wrong, but I think you did it.” Mr. Stone looked like he was about to break into song.

“Did what?”

“You laid bare their political agenda, and embarrassed them to boot. The way Chairman Wood got flustered at the end there bodes well. He won’t want this getting out.” He switched back to sober, wary attorney. “I have to say, you were lucky. You pushed back, and I think that caught them by surprise, you being a woman and all.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. Who was that man, the one that spoke out?”

“He’s a reporter from the Chicago Tribune. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad for us. We’ll find out soon enough.”