The Chelsea Girls(61)

“They’re passing along atomic secrets, Hazel. You’ve got to see how serious this is.” He turned his head and gave her a hard look. “This is no longer theatrical, it’s not a game.”

“Trust me, it’s just as dead serious when it’s ‘theatrical.’ What’s going on on Broadway is not a game, in any way.”

“Of course it isn’t, I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry, my love.”

She considered what he’d told her. If a real spy was exposed, maybe that would ease up the pressure on the artists, put focus where it should be, just as Charlie had said all along. Maybe this would be a good turn of events, and put a stop to the false incriminations. And if that happened, she and Charlie could take their relationship public, since they’d no longer be on opposite sides. All this speculation left her dizzy, confused.

Charlie laughed, almost to himself. “All because of Jell-O.”

“What?” She was sure she misheard him.

“Apparently, that’s how the two spies identified each other before the handoff. Each was given a ripped half of a Jell-O box top. The two halves fitted together.”

“What flavor?”

He laughed again, louder this time. “Leave it to you to ask the least pertinent question. I’ll check and get back to you.”

“It’s all too strange to be true.” She quickly added, “I guess I believe it. I believe you, of course. But if the spy ring’s techniques were that primitive, how effective could they have been at stealing atomic secrets?”

“During World War II, Russia was barely able to keep up demand for basic weaponry. These days, they’re practically going toe-to-toe with us. There’s a reason for this steep increase in technology, and it’s not because they finally figured out the math. They’ve been fed it. And they’ll use it against us, given the first opportunity.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

They stood for a while, not saying a word, watching the seagulls dive and dip around them.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


    Maxine


July 18, 1950

I was only called in for a quick morning rehearsal today, and looked forward to an afternoon of leisure. But as I was leaving the theater, Arthur pulled up in his car and motioned for me to get in. I did as directed, and he drove away fast, waiting until we were heading up Eighth Avenue before speaking.

“They got Julius.”

I stayed quiet, digesting the information. I’d heard Arthur mention the name a few times before, but had never met him. “How did you hear?”

Arthur picked up a newspaper on the seat between us and hurled it at me. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”

The front-page headline proclaimed, FOURTH AMERICAN HELD AS ATOM SPY. I glanced down the column, jumping to page eight for the rest. Near the top was a photo of a disheveled-looking man flanked by two FBI agents. One lock of hair fell onto his forehead, his heavy-lidded eyes made him look like he’d just woken up.

I started to say something, but Arthur broke in. “Don’t say another word. I don’t want you to open your mouth. They’re close. And you’re next.”

We drove out of town, up along the Hudson on Route 9 for about an hour. At Croton-on-Hudson, we peeled off and up a winding road to a hilltop. The town had become an enclave for artists and left-leaning socialists back in the 1920s, to the extent that it was referred to as Red Hill. Arthur followed a narrow dirt driveway a few hundred feet, until it opened out onto a compound of small houses. None of them interesting, with shutters or porches or gardens. Just boxes, really, with doors and windows.

He parked around the back of one of the houses and we entered through a back door. “We don’t want to be seen, even here.” He pointed to a small room off to the side. “Wait inside and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

I sat on a small bed with a worn orange coverlet, the only furniture in the room. Outside, the sun danced on the trees—it was a gorgeous summer day—but what little breeze there was didn’t make it through the screened-in window. A ladybug skated across the sill.

That’s when I started thinking about the truth. About telling the truth. As if it might set me free. So far, I’ve kept my promise not to put pen to paper about this. This mess. I’ve kept this secret for years. On orders. But I can’t keep the secret any longer.

Arthur is my controller. Among other things.

I’m a spy.

I’ve kept it out of my diary, but I can’t anymore. The act of writing calms me, takes away the dread and panic for a little while. It’s the only way I can make sense of it all. I’ve found a hiding place for these pages, under a loose board on the mantel of my fireplace in the Chelsea Hotel. Not even the hotel maids will discover it there.

For the first time, I’m really scared. Of the Party, of Arthur.

Of what I’ve done.

Growing up, I saw my German grandmother horribly abused by Americans. I watched as capitalism destroyed my father and turned him mean. It’s true, I found a haven in the acting company, but what I didn’t mention is the founders were supporters of the Communist Party. They introduced me to the American League against War and Fascism, a Communist-front organization. The members listened to me when I spoke, they cared about what I thought. Even though I was a girl, they gave me responsibilities. My gender wasn’t a hindrance for the first time ever, and I found respect there. When I wasn’t at school or working on plays, I served as financial secretary and studied Marxism-Leninism. Arthur encouraged me, pushed me. This gave me purpose, and I blossomed.