The Chelsea Girls(73)

All on my shoulders.

Maybe that was my way out.

Maybe there was another choice, besides turn myself in or continue toeing the party line. An option I’d never even imagined before, perhaps because it was so simple, so obvious. The perfect plan, if I could pull it off.

The more I considered the idea, the clearer the answer became. I could rise above my own fear of Arthur, my panic and helplessness, and turn that into brilliant rage. The rage of a diva.

The roof door opened and a large man appeared in silhouette.

Lavinia slid forward in her chair. “Aha, refreshments have arrived!”

The man headed our way, but he wasn’t one of the porters, nor was he holding a wine bottle. He held a white envelope.

“Oh my God. It’s a subpoena,” said Hazel.

Lavinia got to her feet, wobbling slightly. “Well, that was fast. Bring it on.”

The man came to a stop and stared at each of us, before settling his gaze on me. “Maxine Mead?”

I nodded.

“You’ve been asked to appear before the FBI tomorrow, in a private session, here in New York. I’ve been told to let you know it’s only a formality.”

Because of the film role. I took the envelope and watched as he walked away. Lavinia collapsed back into her chair.

“At least it’s a private session,” said Hazel. “That’s a good sign. They don’t want to make an example of you.”

My worry slowly started to dissipate. “It’ll be smooth sailing, I’m sure.”



* * *





“Miss Mead, what a pleasure to meet you in person. I’m Roy Cohn.”

I shook Mr. Cohn’s hand, amazed at how the soft voice didn’t match the man’s pugilistic appearance. His eyes bulged out like Elmer Fudd’s from the cartoon, and a garish scar ran down the length of his nose. I tried not to stare.

He fell over himself to accommodate me, holding out the chair, asking if I’d like some water or coffee. He introduced the other two men, who were with the FBI, but I didn’t catch their names, he spoke so fast. We were all squeezed into a tiny, bare office, a stenographer wedged in the corner, poor thing.

“This is simply a formality to clear you to work, as requested by a movie producer, Miss Mead. We are terribly sorry to inconvenience you. This is a pointless enterprise, but we must do what we’re told to do.”

I nodded, wary. While Hazel had said I should wait and bring a lawyer with me, I didn’t want to put the meeting off. Arthur had been instructed to lie low, up in Croton, on orders from Moscow, and I was relieved at the reprieve. It gave me more time to position myself the way I’d planned. The news of the new movie hadn’t hit the press yet, thank goodness. I wasn’t ready to let Arthur know, not yet.

Enough of Arthur and the Party. I had to stay focused. Act the part of the silly actress with nothing to hide.

“Mr. Cohn, of course. How can I help you?” I let my eyes go wide. I’d dressed the part, in a bright green suit nipped at the waist and baby doll pumps, and accentuated my eyelashes as I would on the stage, to make them pop. The better to bat them at my prey.

“We just have to clear up a couple of questions.” Mr. Cohn looked through his notes, reshuffled them, and took a nervous sip of water. He seemed jumpier than I was.

We ran through the basic questions, Mr. Cohn smiling blandly as the stenographer clicked away behind me.

He tapped a pen on his notes. “Tell me about this demonstration that Red Channels says you went to. Back in, oh, 1938. Seems so long ago, right?”

“Sure does. I can barely remember what happened yesterday.” We shared a chuckle.

“Of course. But tell me, do you remember that day?”

“I suppose so. A boy asked me out on a date, and I said yes. That’s where he took me.”

“To a communist rally?”

“Well, it wasn’t a communist rally. It was a rally for the evacuation of European Jews. To convince the United States government to allow them to immigrate, and save them from Hitler.”

He sat back. “You remember a lot about it, then.”

I’d overplayed it, trying to be helpful. “I remember because it was the one rally I ever went to.”

“Well, of course.” He looked back down at his notes. “Who was the boy who took you to this rally?”

“I don’t remember his name.”

“Really, Miss Mead?”

Mr. Cohn took a long time writing something down. As I waited, the room turned incredibly hot, as if the vents had begun blowing in desert air. I wanted more than anything to reach into my purse and pull out a handkerchief to dab at the shine on my face, but I didn’t dare.

Finally, he put down his pen and spoke. “I must remind you, Miss Mead, that you are testifying here, just as if you were before the Committee in Washington, DC.”

I threw him a girlish smile, hoping he was joking with me. “Really? That wasn’t made clear to me.”

“We take our role very seriously, Miss Mead.” His nervous mannerisms had all but disappeared. He even seemed to grow taller in his chair.

“May I ask your position, exactly?” I asked. “Are you a member of the Committee?”

“No.”

I tried to hide my relief. “I see.”