The Chelsea Girls(62)

They figured I’d be useful in New York City, where membership in the Communist Party was surging during the mid-thirties, especially among theater folk and others still reeling from the Depression. I continued to be shocked by the racism and poverty in America. The economic free fall had cut a raw wound in society’s skin, and exposed the maggots and filth deep inside. I truly believed that Communism would eradicate these evils.

At the Chelsea Hotel, I felt finally at home. It was an artistic community, full of creative people who disagreed and fought and then met for drinks, and Lavinia took me under her wing and made me feel like I belonged. At the Chelsea, it didn’t matter how much money you had in your bank account, what schools you attended, or where you were born. Neighbors treated each other as equals, and talent and wit carried the day. The way the world should be.

Soon after arriving in New York, I got the ultimate praise. I was taken underground.

The Communist Party USA had a secret department, a clandestine arm that coordinated with Soviet intelligence agents. We stayed low, out of sight, and were given missions via our controllers. A couple of times, I was asked to go on a date with a journalist or rabble-rouser who seemed sympathetic to our cause, to see if they could be convinced to spy against America. Hazel’s brother, a card-carrying member of the Party, was a ripe target. We went on a few dates, but I got the distinct impression he didn’t hold enough of a grudge to flip. And after he brought me to that demonstration—the last place I wanted to be seen—I broke up with him fast. I couldn’t risk being exposed.

I believed in this cause. I believed that the world would be a better place if we were all equals. Not American equality, which really meant the ones with the most money had the most pull, but truly equal.

Through it all, Arthur was my glue, what kept me together. I’d fallen in love with him right off, and did whatever I could to please him. As a team, we were magnificent. Arthur rose higher in the ranks; I stayed by his side through it all. Reliable, dependable.

A couple of years into the war, I was instructed to audition for the USO touring company and relay what I could to Arthur, but soon after arriving in Europe, I got the message that it was too risky, and to shut down all contact. I liked having that reprieve, I have to admit. Of just being an actress, not an operative. If I’d still been working for the Party, I might not have let myself get so close to Hazel, but I was vulnerable, and the war unsettled my preconceptions about America, as you couldn’t help but root for the soldiers. But when Paul was killed, because the Americans screwed up and put him in danger, my resolve returned.

I headed to California, hoping to marry Arthur and continue our work, only to discover he’d been married off to another agent, on orders of the Party. They did that all the time, as married couples tended to attract less attention, but I’d thought it would be me. The Party knew best, Arthur said. And we were still a couple, in every way but that.

Determined to impress, I threw myself into my assignment to infiltrate the film industry. And boy, did I. The faster my star rose, the more excited Arthur and the others became. With success would come access to powerful men across the country—Mr. Butterfield being a perfect example—where I could listen in on conversations and report back what I heard, all while playing the role of silly actress.

The night we found out that Marilyn Monroe had gotten the part I was up for, and was so close to landing, was the same night Arthur cut off my hair, as punishment for my failure. In Hollywood, you don’t get a do-over. Once an up-and-comer has been passed over for a lead role, there’s a pretty good chance of being sidelined forever. Arthur’s brutality got his point across, and when I read about Hazel’s play in Variety, I figured I could redeem myself by landing a starring role on Broadway, by being a big fish in a smaller pond, at least temporarily. They agreed it was a logical step, one that might get me back on track.

I tried to keep Arthur happy, but he didn’t like this new alliance, of me and Hazel. I was nothing without him, he’d made that clear enough. And I knew that if I were found out, he’d do nothing to protect me. I’d be taken off to jail right behind Mr. Rosenberg.



* * *





I heard low voices, Arthur’s, and then another man’s. With one of the spies in our network arrested, the plan had been thrown into disarray. As the afternoon sun over Croton-on-Hudson crawled westward, panic began to set in. What if they kept me here? Or sent me away? I had to be back in the city by tonight’s performance. With only four more shows left before opening night, each one was an opportunity to fine-tune the role. No way would an understudy be able to cover for me, as they usually only got their own rehearsals once the show was up and running. I couldn’t jeopardize the show. I couldn’t do that to Hazel, after everything she’d done for me.

More voices. Jumping off the bed, I put my ear to the door, when it suddenly opened. Arthur glowered at me and motioned for me to follow him.

In the kitchen, a woman was making bologna sandwiches with white bread and offered me one. I was starving at that point, having forgotten to eat breakfast before rehearsal, and accepted the plate and a seat at the wobbly Formica table. A severe-looking man, with black hair so thick it looked like a wig, sat across from me, chewing on his own sandwich. He nodded at me solemnly. Arthur leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

I knew better than to ask their names, this mysterious couple. They appeared to be siblings. The woman’s profile mirrored the man’s, and she had a similar low hairline, although her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.