The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER FOUR

Hazel

August 1945

By August, the heat was unbearable, and news of atomic bombs being dropped on Japan only increased everyone’s anxiety. The crush of the unknown seemed to get worse every day, as the entire camp waited to find out where the next posting would be. Hazel was still haunted by the terrible fate of Paul, but she and Maxine didn’t discuss it, as if it were an infected wound, too raw to be exposed to the air. Silence was the only way to bear whatever came next in the war and not go mad.

Every so often, though, she’d look up and catch Maxine blinking rapidly, overcome by emotion, and Hazel would step in front of her, shielding her from the view of the other girls. Once, during a show, the line “All we have is our hands and a hole in God’s earth” stopped Hazel cold. She couldn’t remember what to say next, or why she was even standing onstage, but Maxine had picked up her cue and carried on with the play. As they crossed paths center stage, Maxine had laid a hand gently on Hazel’s arm. No words were necessary between them.

“Where do you think they’ll send us next?” Betty-Lou propped herself up on her cot, fanning her face with the script for tonight’s performance, a compilation of Hazel’s soldier tales. Colonel Peterson, entranced by her stories and looking for any way to keep the men entertained during the wait, had insisted that the acting troupe read them out loud, onstage. The girls were pleased, as it meant they didn’t have to memorize anything new, just stand center stage and speak.

“I wouldn’t mind being posted to a tropical locale,” said Verna as she added next week’s shows to the calendar with a black pen. “When you’re surrounded by palm trees, the heat doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe one of the Pacific Islands.”

“I’ve had enough.” Phyllis wore only her brassiere and panties, broken up by pink rolls of flesh. She’d stripped down as soon as they’d returned from breakfast, overcome by the flies and the sun. “I want to go home. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to offer comfort and distraction. What about our comfort and distraction?”

Hazel stopped scribbling in her notebook. “We haven’t had to go out and kill people. No one’s tried to shoot at us and kill us. Think of what these soldiers have been through.”

Betty-Lou moaned. “Hazel with her halo, always doing good. Give it another few months, you’ll be complaining like the rest of us.”

Hazel took the teasing with a good-natured smile. “Yes, I’ll be moaning with the rest of you wherever they send us next, I promise.”

“I just want to be somewhere that there’s orange juice. That’s what I miss most.” Phyllis sat up. “A fresh glass of cold orange juice.”

“With bits of pulp so you get the burst of flavor,” added Betty-Lou.

Verna cried out. “Stop, you’re making my mouth water. This is so cruel. When I go home, I’m going right back to Los Angeles, where you can have an orange tree in your own backyard.”

“What are you writing, Hazel?” Maxine asked. “I thought the latest script was final.”

Hazel placed a hand over the page, not that Maxine could read it from where she was hanging laundry on the makeshift clothesline, filling the tent with the smell of wet stockings and Shalimar.

This morning, an idea for a play had come to Hazel in a rush of images. She didn’t want to have to explain it, though. “Just a letter home.”

“Ladies, mail for you!”

The artist boy, Floyd, popped in after Phyllis slid on a robe and gave him the all clear. He’d made himself the acting troupe’s little helper ever since the fancy dinner in the mess tent, surprising them with boxes of Good & Plenty candy and, once, a bottle of White Horse Scotch. His devotion had only increased when Maxine and Hazel had come across some soldiers roughhousing with Floyd one day, making fun of his “artistic ways,” and threatened to ban them from future performances if they continued the teasing.

Floyd walked over to Maxine and handed her an envelope with a grand flourish. “For you, Miss Mead.”

Maxine took a deep breath, like she’d been splashed with a bucket of cold water, before tearing it open. Maxine never got mail, and as she read the letter, Verna snuck up behind her, taking a quick peek over her shoulder.

“Ooo, it says ‘Meet me in the City of Angels,’” Verna crowed. “Maxine’s got a rendezvous.”

Maxine whirled around and for a moment, Hazel worried she’d lash out. But she caught herself, offering up a cheery smile. “Guess I’ll have an orange tree in my backyard as well.”

Before they could question her further, Floyd called for everyone’s attention, standing tall in the middle of the space, gangly and blushing. Clearly proud to be noticed, yet utterly terrified of making a fool of himself. “I have news for you ladies.”

“What’s that?” Hazel asked, eager to encourage his bravery. She found him endlessly endearing, like a younger brother she had to protect from the big, bad world.

“We’re not performing on the truck tonight.”

“We’re not performing?” echoed Phyllis, her eyes shining at the thought of an evening off.

“I didn’t say that.” He grinned so wide it was as though his face might burst. “We’re performing at the Teatro di San Carlo.”

Soon after Hazel had arrived, a driver with a love of opera had pointed out the grand theater, telling her it had been built in the 1730s, even before La Scala in Milan. Damaged by bombs a few years ago, it was one of the few buildings quickly restored after the liberation.

Even Betty-Lou perked up at the news. “A real theater. Where I won’t get bitten up by those awful bugs that come out at night.”

“Where people sit in actual seats, not on benches,” added Verna.

“Be ready by five,” said Floyd. “This is gonna be your biggest show yet.”

Hazel stood and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the hero of the day, bringing us such good news.”

The theater was even grander inside than Hazel expected. Box seats rose five stories in a horseshoe shape, capped by a painted ceiling where robed figures floated on clouds. After playing under the actual sky for so long, no matter what the weather, it was a relief to have a fake one instead.

Hazel spent time with the crew before the house was opened to the audience, trying to explain what kind of lighting she wanted for the evening’s performance. A soldier who spoke Italian translated, but the stagehands were pushing back, saying it couldn’t be accomplished. Hazel didn’t back down. She kept at it, talking to the interpreter, gesturing like mad, until they all were nodding.

Maxine approached her after the group broke up. “What’s going on?”

“I could tell they were just going to point a spot at whoever’s speaking, and that won’t work at all. It has to feel inclusive, warm.”

“I’ve never heard you so passionate about lighting before,” Maxine teased.

“This is different.”

“Because you wrote it.”

“No. Because they wrote it.” She pointed out to the empty audience. “It’s their play. That’s why it has to be perfect.” After what had happened to Paul, her eyes had been opened to the harsh realities of war, and she knew every soldier out there had gone through a similar awakening, one that must be respected and honored.

At exactly eight o’clock, the colonel gave a brief speech about what the evening entailed. Verna read first, and the soldiers seemed more subdued than usual, perhaps intimidated by the lush setting or because this wasn’t a normal performance, just a series of speeches. But by the time Verna had finished her story, the soldiers were dabbing at their eyes. The men ate it up, giving her a standing ovation.

Next up was Betty-Lou. Hazel hovered backstage in the wings with Maxine, watching Betty-Lou reduce the audience to helpless laughter as she told a soldier’s story about trying to tame a local piglet, when Colonel Peterson appeared.

“We have to stop the show.” He held a piece of paper in his hand, and Hazel could have sworn he was shaking. “Stop it at once.”

“We can’t stop the play.” Maxine gestured to the stage. “They’re having a ball.”

“Stop the play and read this to the men.” He shoved the paper into Hazel’s hand. “Orders of the CO.”

“The commanding officer?” Hazel’s eyes grew wide. Something terrible must have occurred. Or maybe it was news of their next posting. Either way, it was unfair to make the performers the bearers of bad news.

Before Hazel could inquire further, Colonel Peterson shoved her onstage, just as Maxine had done her very first day. Betty-Lou looked over, confused. Murmured complaints from the audience at the interruption washed over Hazel as she took center stage.

“I’m sorry.” Hazel spoke quickly, hoping to get this over with fast, whatever it was. “I’ve been told we have important news from the CO.”

A hushed silence fell over the expanse.

Hazel unfolded the note and gasped. She glanced over at the colonel, who nodded. Her voice shaking, she read out loud.

“The war with Japan is over.”

Tears filled her eyes as she looked out over the men.

“The war is over. We’re all going home.”