The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hazel

July 1950

After Hazel checked into the Washington, DC, hotel recommended by her lawyer, she put on a silk bathrobe and hung up her dress for the following day. One didn’t want to show up wrinkled in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee. She’d chosen a navy tailored suit with a relaxed silhouette that hit right below the knee, about as generic and unfeminine as one could get. Her aim was to meet the Committee, comprised all of men, of course, on their own level. Be straightforward. Not get pushed around.

Inside, though, she was terrified. If she angered the members of the Committee, her chances of getting the show mounted on Broadway would drop to zero. But if she placated them, she could never live with herself.

Everything had moved at lightning speed since the subpoena had been placed in her hand. She’d gotten the referral for her lawyer, Andrew Z. Stone, Esq., from Mr. Canby the next morning. “You’ll be in good hands with him. He’s an honest man and is agreeable to representing blacklisted artists,” Mr. Canby told her.

When she’d met Mr. Stone in his midtown office a few hours later, he’d made some calls in an attempt to get her a private meeting with the Committee, but had been refused. “In that case, the sooner you appear, the better,” he’d advised. “They’re thirsty for blood, and the longer you put them off, the angrier they’ll become.” The Committee members were feeding on the outrage generated by every appearance, getting nastier and less careful about legal propriety. So she’d agreed to appear the next Monday—the company’s last day off before previews began—in front of a dozen or so politicians, with the press documenting her every word.

Which was the following morning at 11:00 a.m.

A knock at the door broke the silence of the room.

“Who is it?”

“Me.”

She swept open the door and Charlie slipped inside.

“What on earth are you doing here? We said I’d do this on my own.”

He didn’t answer, but held her close. They’d decided after their first night together that the relationship had to be kept under wraps, at least for now, even from close friends like Maxine. No good could come from news of their alliance getting out, not with all the negative attention on Hazel, but they both hated the thought of being apart.

The feel of Charlie’s arms around Hazel made her wilt inside, just when she needed her strength. To let go, and let someone else hold her up, was too much, and she began to sob.

He led her to the sofa and pulled her down beside him, offering up a handkerchief, which she gratefully took.

“How did you get up here? Did anyone see you?”

He shook his head. “I came in through the kitchen, no one said a word. I had to see you.”

“You’re crazy.”

“That’s true.”

After they kissed, she settled her head on his shoulder. “All I want to do is write plays and put them up. That’s it. I have no other agenda. But I’m trapped in this nightmare and if I don’t do well tomorrow, if I don’t put on the performance of my life, I may never work again. I’ll lose everything.”

“What does your attorney say?”

She sat up straight, all business. “I have three options. I take the Fifth—refuse to answer their questions—and get held in contempt, possibly sent to jail. Or I can be a ‘cooperative witness’ and give up the names of people who’ve been members of the Communist Party at one time or another. If I do that, there’s a good chance I can continue on with my career, but I’ll have placed others in the same precarious position I am in today.” She rubbed her face with her hands.

“And the third option?”

“I tell them that I’ll answer any questions about myself but none about other people. But here’s the rub: If I do that, I’ll have waived my rights under the Fifth Amendment and could be legally forced to name names. That’s all they’re after, more names. I’m supposed to prostrate myself before them, show that their paranoia is valid by offering up more sacrificial lambs, friends who’ve done nothing wrong. It’s political purgatory.”

“There, now.” Charlie placed both hands on her legs as if trying to stop her from floating into air. Which is exactly what she felt like: a balloon that could be popped at any moment, before falling to the ground in jagged pieces.

“Stone considers the third option morally correct, but the Committee might still hold me in contempt.”

“What’s his advice, then?” His words were edged with exasperation. “Isn’t that why you hired him?”

“Look, it’s not his fault, he’s trying to help.”

“Of course. You’re right. I just want to kill someone, specifically my father, for his part in this sideshow.”

“Trust me, I know that feeling. But Stone’s been helpful. He told me never to answer any question with a flat-out ‘No.’ I’m supposed to soften it with ‘Not that I can recall’ or ‘It was so long ago, I’m afraid I don’t remember.’ If I try to defend the people they’re asking me about, the Committee might very well produce testimony by others that contradicts what I say, catching me in a lie. Then I’ll be charged with perjury. It’s a twisted, sick game. I don’t know what others who’ve appeared before me have said to the Committee, which makes me as paranoid as they are, and more likely to do whatever it takes to get out of the hot seat.”

“You won’t do that. You’re stronger than that.”

Charlie’s support was a much-needed comfort. “I wrote up a statement, with Mr. Stone’s help, saying that I would not object to answering any questions about myself but wouldn’t impugn others. It was sent to them by messenger a few days ago.”

“That seems reasonable.”

She reached over to the coffee table and picked up an envelope. “It was delivered back to me today, unopened.”

“So you’ll have to do your talking yourself, not rely on the page. You can do that.”

“I’m a writer, not a politician or a lawyer. They hold all the cards. Besides, they don’t care what I say. They just want to get me in a bind and squeeze me hard so that they can prove to the American public that democracy is a minute away from collapse.”

“By standing up for yourself, you’ll prove that it’s not.”

“And go to jail. Lose everything.”

“You won’t, I promise. I love you, Hazel.”

Ever since they’d made love up in her room at the Chelsea, Hazel had found herself desperate to be touching Charlie whenever he was near, either laying a hand on his arm as they passed in the aisle of the Biltmore, or shoulder to shoulder as they whispered back and forth in the house seats. Only with that touch did she feel that all was right in the world, that the problems were surmountable. It was as if her body had known she was in love with him before her mind had. But the connection wasn’t only about physical passion, she knew now. She valued his ideas and opinions, shared his passion for the theater, and wanted more than anything to spend every moment they could together, laughing and talking before curling up in bed when the day was through.

The realization made her forget, for a moment, the nightmare she was trapped inside.

She pulled him close and stared into his eyes, already feeling the heat of their connection. “I love you, too.”

Hazel propped herself up with several pillows and watched as Charlie dressed in the morning light. His legs were solid but not thick—perfect, really—and she couldn’t get enough of the way the small of his back curved up, the indentation of the spine that ran like a channel between his shoulders.

He kissed her goodbye and wished her good luck, promising that he’d see her back in New York, and after he’d gone, she ordered some coffee from room service and glanced again through the twenty-something questions her lawyer had given her to study.

As the letters floated around on the page, she remembered she’d had the typical understudy’s nightmare last night—that she had to go on but hadn’t had time to memorize the part—exactly what had happened that first day in Naples.

Here she was, back to learning lines instead of writing them, and her brain refused to cooperate. It might as well have been in Mandarin. In a cold sweat, she pulled off the hotel robe and threw it on the floor. She’d have called Maxine for comfort if the Chelsea Hotel’s phone lines weren’t tapped. Instead, Hazel was completely alone, treading water in a whirlpool of nerves.

She met Mr. Stone for breakfast at a corner table of the hotel restaurant, where he whispered further instructions. “You can take exactly one break, only if things get too difficult. And no jokes.”

“Jokes? Why would I joke?”

“You’d be surprised what people do under that kind of pressure. A colleague of mine had a client who said he wasn’t going to break, and ended up throwing all his friends’ names out to the committee, including his college roommate and best friend.”

“That won’t be me, I assure you. Do I get to meet the loudmouth Joseph McCarthy?”

Mr. Stone blanched. “I said, no jokes. You’ve got to be serious about this. No, you won’t. He’s focused on investigating the State Department for communist infiltration. For now. But I warn you, the HUAC is just as serious.”

“Believe me, I know.” Hazel looked out at the people on the street, going about their day, worried about a dentist appointment or what to buy for dinner that evening. How wonderful it would be to go back to that state of mundane, everyday bliss. Once this was over, if it was ever over, she’d appreciate the more modest joys of life. But wasn’t that what everyone said, when their lives took a terrible turn?

The committee room in the Old House Office Building seemed like something right out of an Oscar Wilde play, with its dark wood, refined striped wallpaper, and globed sconces. Clerks passed official-looking papers back and forth, stenographers sat at the ready in front of their machines, members of the public took their seats and murmured among themselves, while photographers squeezed in wherever they could get the best angle.

Hazel and Mr. Stone took their seats and again she scanned the list of questions. Again, they floated around in her vision like fireflies.

“Here they come.” Mr. Stone leaned close. “Take your time, speak slowly and clearly. Don’t let them rattle you.”

The members of the Committee, all scowling, middle-aged men, filed in and took their places on a raised platform. The chairman, Congressman John S. Wood, banged his gavel. “The House Un-American Activities Committee will come to order. This morning the Committee resumes its series of hearings on the vital issue of communist propaganda and influence in the entertainment industry.”

The first questions were easy. Hazel supplied her name, where she was born, her current place of residence, her education, her occupation, the title of her play.

“Miss Ripley, are you a member of the Communist Party?”

“No.”

“Were you ever asked to be a member of the Communist Party?”

“No.”

The chairman shook his head after her reply, as if he knew something she didn’t.

He looked at his notes. “Did you sign a petition for the Scientific and Cultural Conference for World Peace?”

She took a deep breath, remembering to answer with care. “At a rehearsal for a play, I don’t remember which one, a group of young people approached me outside the theater and asked if I’d sign a petition so they could be representatives at a peace conference. I thought having a conference for peace was a great idea, so I did so.”

“Did you question as to whether this so-called conference was a communist front?”

“Why would I?” Hazel sensed Mr. Stone twitch beside her, worried that she was getting riled.

“Answer the question.”

“No. I did not.”

“What about the anti-fascist rally you attended in 1938?”

“What about it?” She knew she shouldn’t talk back, but couldn’t help herself.

“Did you know that it was organized by the Communist Party?”

“I knew that I was against fascism, as we all were in those days. And are currently, unless I’m mistaken about the purpose and outcome of World War II.”

The chairman looked down at the stenographers. “Please note that the witness refuses to answer the question.” He glared at Hazel. “You also sent birthday greetings to the Moscow Art Theatre on its fiftieth anniversary, did you not?”

“The Moscow Art Theatre is a distinguished institution in the theater world, like the Old Vic in London. I got a phone call asking if I’d like to be added to the list of people offering congratulations, and I said, ‘Sure.’ The telegram had nothing to do with politics or the Soviet Union or communists.”

“Who was the person who called you?”

“I have no memory of the caller’s name.”

“You are currently a member of the Actors Equity Association, is that correct?”

“Yes. If one wants to work on Broadway, one must be a member of the union.”

“I see.” His raised eyebrow suggested otherwise. “You appear to be associated with a number of organizations and causes that we know to be communist organizations or fronts.” He fingered the gavel.

Another committee member, Congressman Richard M. Nixon, took over the line of questioning. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’d like you to take a moment before answering.”

She knew what was coming. The ultimate test of a witness’s cooperation, naming names. The failure to do so would signify that she was protecting potential infiltrators, and was not a true American. A serious offense.

“Considering your extensive contact with people and organizations that spread communist propaganda,” said Congressman Nixon, “do you know anyone who has been a member of the Communist Party? Fellow travelers, if you will.”

“I’m sure you already have a long list of names of people who you consider to be fellow travelers. I am not interested in confirming, denying, or adding to it.”

The members of the public gasped, giving the chairman reason to slam down his gavel a few times for good measure.

“What about your brother?” continued Congressman Nixon. “A Mr. Benjamin Ripley. He was a member of the Communist Party, am I correct or not?”

Once again, her beloved brother’s name was being dragged through the mud. What these men were doing was no different than if they’d exhumed his bones and danced on them. Enough was enough. Hazel let rip. “My brother was killed in the war. He’s not here to defend his name, and I am shocked you’d try to use him to get me to testify against others. You’re not interested in discovering subversives, or uncovering some dastardly plot against America, you only want to push people like me around to prove how powerful you are. To publicly stigmatize and degrade.”

The chairman lectured Hazel at great length after her outburst, while Mr. Stone asked for a break, which was denied.

But as the furor died down, a lone voice, a baritone Hazel didn’t recognize, rang out from the back of the room. “Thank God someone is talking straight. Finally.”

Once again, the room went wild. Hazel turned around but couldn’t tell who’d said it. More yelling, more banging of gavels, and in that time, Hazel was able to regroup, pull herself together. That one voice, breaking out through the bitterness and allegations, made all the difference. She knew she wasn’t alone in this madhouse, and that she was strong enough to manage what was next. She gave a silent prayer of thanks to her anonymous supporter.

Once again, after order was restored, the chairman resumed his questioning. “Do you know a Mr. Floyd Jenkins?”

“I do. We met in Naples and he designed the costumes for my play.”

“Is he or has he ever been a member of the Communist Party?”

She remembered his rallying declaration at Sardi’s, in front of practically the entire cast and crew: If Hazel’s a communist, then I’m one, too. We must all stand together. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no tolerance for sarcasm in these dark days. No doubt the Committee already had Brandy’s witness testimony, and if Hazel answered the truth, that Floyd wasn’t, they could accuse her of perjury. “I am willing to respond to any questions that pertain to me or my activities. I understand from counsel that, under the Fifth Amendment, I can refuse questions about myself on the ground of self-incrimination. I don’t need to take the Fifth, because, as I’ve shown, I’m willing to discuss my actions and intent. But I will not name other people, or answer questions about their actions or intent.”

“You are not in a position to set the terms here, Miss Ripley. I will ask you again, Floyd Jenkins. A communist or not?”

“I refuse to answer on the ground that it might incriminate me. I will take the Fifth, because you refuse to agree to a reasonable request.” She turned to Mr. Stone, forgetting that the microphone would pick up her every word. “As a theatrical production, this is first-rate. Right up there with Nick Bottom and the Mechanicals.”

“Nick Bottom?” The chairman pounced. “This Nick Bottom you speak of, is he a communist?”

Hazel burst out laughing, as did several of the spectators. After a sharp look from Mr. Stone, she spoke clearly and succinctly into the microphone, for all to hear. “He’s a character from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A fictional character.”

The room broke out in pandemonium. Again.

“Strike that from the record, this is a waste of time. Strike it off!” The chairman’s neck, and then cheeks, turned crimson. He grappled with the papers in front of him and rose to his feet. “That’s enough. We have no further questions.”

The hearing was over. Mr. Stone grabbed her by the arm. “We have to get out of here fast. Follow me and don’t answer any questions. Not one. Understand?”

They made it out through the scrum and leaped into a car that had been waiting by the curb.

“I may be wrong, but I think you did it.” Mr. Stone looked like he was about to break into song.

“Did what?”

“You laid bare their political agenda, and embarrassed them to boot. The way Chairman Wood got flustered at the end there bodes well. He won’t want this getting out.” He switched back to sober, wary attorney. “I have to say, you were lucky. You pushed back, and I think that caught them by surprise, you being a woman and all.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. Who was that man, the one that spoke out?”

“He’s a reporter from the Chicago Tribune. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad for us. We’ll find out soon enough.”

Hazel leaned back, letting the relief wash over her and praying that Mr. Stone’s initial assessment was correct.

That, at the very least, she had a chance of keeping Wartime Sonata on track.