The Chelsea Girls(60)
Right after the second act began, she motioned to Charlie and they crept downstairs, standing at the very back of the orchestra level. At least most of the seats here were filled. Mr. Canby had probably handed out free tickets in Times Square.
The actors were all doing their jobs beautifully. Maxine had matured into the role and commanded the stage just as she’d done on the USO tour, but had layered in a hint of fragility that worked perfectly for Lina. Her leading man drew laughs with his silly entrances and exits, allowing the audience to let off some steam as the tension in the play rose, page after page. When he was killed, and Maxine mourned the loss of him before being sent to her own execution, Charlie nudged Hazel and pointed out to the audience.
Even though she could see only backs, several people were shaking with sobs. Handkerchiefs were out, noses blown, as the emotional vibrations echoed around the theater. In the last scene, the audience stayed rapt. The falling of the curtain at the very end of the play was met with silence.
Hazel waited, holding her breath. Maybe she’d read it all wrong, maybe they hated it for making them feel so awful. For reminding them of the trauma of World War II, which was over and done with. Maybe she’d failed, horribly.
But then one man near the front clapped twice. Others joined in, and within ten seconds, the entire theater echoed with shouts and clapping as the crowd rose to its feet en masse. Charlie grabbed Hazel and kissed her. “You did it. You absolutely did it.”
Backstage, Mr. Canby surprised them with bottles of champagne. “You all worked hard,” he said, as the stage manager popped a cork. “I’m happy to be able to announce that a new American playwright has arrived. One who isn’t afraid to speak out, to speak up. Our very own champion of the arts, Hazel Ripley.”
* * *
Hazel left the Sunday matinee in good spirits, looking forward to an easy stroll down Eighth Avenue. She liked walking home from the theater instead of hopping in a cab, as it gave her time to think about the play, what small directorial tweaks needed to be made, the best way to convey them to the actors or the crew. The show was coming together nicely, each performance building on the one that came before. There had been a couple of technical glitches, but that was to be expected, and they’d been addressed right off. She had to give it to Mr. Canby, he had a great team in place.
The guard at the stage door handed her a note as she left. It was from Charlie, asking her to meet him at the entrance to the Staten Island Ferry. She caught a subway downtown, wondering what this was all about.
Charlie paid two nickels for the fare and they boarded, surrounded by a mass of commuters. The playfulness that they’d fallen into was nowhere to be found, he was all business.
“What’s going on, Charlie? Why bring me all the way out here?”
“I wanted to find somewhere we could talk but not call too much attention to ourselves.”
They moved to the back of the boat, where the skyline of Manhattan slowly receded as the ferry chugged into the harbor. Hazel leaned over the railing and let the wind whip her hair around her face as the ferry picked up speed, charging through the choppy waters. Part of her wished she could escape the city entirely, leave it all behind her. Find a job selling clothes in a department store in New Jersey, say, and ignore the threats leveled her way. Writing the play had been a solitary endeavor, and she’d enjoyed every moment. But by mounting a play on Broadway, she’d exposed herself. In normal times, her biggest worry right about now would be the critics coming next week. Instead, she was caught up in a political storm.
She rearranged her scarf over her hair and tied it under her neck, partly to keep it from flying into her mouth and partly to obscure her face. The passengers around them weren’t paying them any mind, but still. Was the businessman holding on to his hat listening in on their conversation? Were the couple with their arms around each other federal agents? She was becoming paranoid. She had to keep a clear head. “What is it, then?”
He turned away from her and rested both forearms on the railing. She did the same, their elbows touching. He took a deep breath. “They’re about to make a big arrest. My guess is once that happens, the focus will turn to where it should be, on the actual spies.”
“They are? Who’s they?”
“The FBI.” He lowered his voice so she could barely hear him above the churning of the ship’s engine.
“How do you know this?”
“A high-up official at the FBI who was in the war with my father. He keeps him informed of what’s going on.”
The fact that Charlie had taken her into his confidence, entrusted her with what could be explosive information, was thrilling. At the same time, Hazel worried about being told secrets that could possibly land her in more trouble, just for knowing them. The risk was worth it, she decided. “Tell me what you heard.”
“A few months ago, a scientist and an army sergeant were arrested on espionage charges. Both men were passing along atomic secrets, bound for the Soviets, but now the Feds have cornered the person who brought them together in the first place. It’s a New Yorker, a member of the Communist Party USA. He’s an electrical engineer named Julius Rosenberg, married, with a couple of kids. They’re closing in on him, and the arrest will be announced any day now.”
Hazel wasn’t convinced. “How do we know the FBI isn’t railroading an innocent man into confessing? Like Floyd, for instance. How do we know this electrical engineer hasn’t been set up to take a fall, to show to the American public that they have reason for concern? I wouldn’t put it past the HUAC or the FBI to manufacture an enemy to justify their overreach of civil liberties.”