The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hazel

July 1950

Hazel’s nerves kicked into high gear as she arrived at the theater for the first preview. She’d had some oatmeal for breakfast, which threatened to come up, and retreated to the mezzanine level to take some deep breaths. At least the critics weren’t coming until next week.

Charlie joined her, sneaking in a quick kiss. “How are you holding up?”

They hadn’t had any time alone since she’d returned, although she’d given him, Mr. Canby, and Maxine a quick run-down after rehearsal yesterday. She wished she and Charlie could escape somewhere private and curl around each other, instead of having to stand at a distance and appear to be acquaintances in case any of the ushers came by.

“I’m doing fine, I suppose.”

“Tell me what really went on in Washington. Everyone’s talking about the article in the Tribune.”

She took a deep breath. “My lawyer says I successfully embarrassed the Committee in public, and so far they’ve seemed eager to sweep me under the rug, not charge me with contempt. So that’s good news.”

“I would have thought it would be easier to sweep it under the rug if it hadn’t been reported on.”

“No, that journalist is a hero, in my opinion. He stood up and called them out on their monstrous behavior, then had the courage to write about it, depicting me as a linchpin in the battle for America’s soul. Which I suppose made me untouchable, in a way. They can’t arrest me without looking like they’re trying to hide something.”

“Then again, if you’d been arrested, it might have highlighted how unreasonable everything is and might have threatened the power of the blacklisters.”

“You looking to put me in jail?” She was only half teasing.

He shook his head. “God no, not at all. Just following the logic.”

“That’s the trouble, there seems to be no logic, not with that crew. In any event, I’m still on the blacklist when it comes to television, film, and radio, so they’ve won in that sense.”

“That won’t matter, once the play’s up and running. You’ll be the queen of Broadway.”

“Your confidence is premature. Don’t jinx us, kiddo.”

In fact, while Hazel’s appearance before the Committee had made a splash for a day, the vitriol ran deep against anyone who refused to heed the call for blood, for informing on friends. Hazel didn’t tell Charlie that she’d already started receiving hate mail, her cubby behind the counter in the lobby stuffed with bland-looking white envelopes filled with vile accusations, as well as anonymous threatening telephone calls, always from men. Mr. Bard had told the switchboard operator to take messages and stop putting them through.

“What if no one comes to the show because of my testimony?”

Charlie guided her back downstairs. “Why don’t you run through the final changes, and then you can worry about all the stuff that’s out of your control. Sound good?”

“As usual, you’re right.”

Down in the house, Hazel called for the actors to assemble onstage. While she waited for the last of them to appear from the wings, she and Charlie stood for a moment, smiling at each other and not saying a word, until Mr. Canby sidled between them.

“Hey, Charlie, can you check with the box office? Curious how many seats we’ve sold so far.”

“I’ll be back in five.” Charlie headed up the aisle.

Mr. Canby waited until he was out of earshot. “Whatever you’re doing with the kid, keep it up.”

She tried to wipe the smile off her face, fast. Was it that obvious? “What do you mean?”

“Ah, come on. If it takes leading the kid on in order to get what we want, I’m all for it. I haven’t seen a puppy face like that since, well, since never. He’s an open book and he obviously adores you.”

“He’s a good person.” She wanted to say that it was real, not an act, and that she wasn’t leading him on in any way, but she knew better. Charlie’s love was like a coat of armor she carried around with her everywhere, one that buffered her from the world’s razor-sharp spears. She’d noticed, since falling in love, that she attracted more attention from men, from not-so-covert glances to unexpected flirtations. Her confidence had increased—knowing he was in her life, that she was loved—which in turn seemed to make her more appealing to the opposite sex. No doubt this was how Maxine, as a starlet, was treated every day, like a prize to be won. The power was heady.

When the stage manager called places at exactly eight o’clock that evening, Hazel hid down in the basement. She’d already stopped by all the dressing rooms and breezily wished everyone well, told them all to break a leg, but her nerves were shot. It was easier to be an actor any day, than a writer. You had a job to do, you got onstage, and you did it. As the playwright, she had to suffer through hearing the audience’s reaction, or non-reaction, knowing she could no longer stop the show mid-performance and make adjustments.

The sound of the curtain lifting drove her out of her hiding place and up to the balcony, far above the stage, where Charlie was waiting. Only half of the seats in that section were filled. All this worrying, and most likely the show would sink without any fanfare at all.

Right after the second act began, she motioned to Charlie and they crept downstairs, standing at the very back of the orchestra level. At least most of the seats here were filled. Mr. Canby had probably handed out free tickets in Times Square.

The actors were all doing their jobs beautifully. Maxine had matured into the role and commanded the stage just as she’d done on the USO tour, but had layered in a hint of fragility that worked perfectly for Lina. Her leading man drew laughs with his silly entrances and exits, allowing the audience to let off some steam as the tension in the play rose, page after page. When he was killed, and Maxine mourned the loss of him before being sent to her own execution, Charlie nudged Hazel and pointed out to the audience.

Even though she could see only backs, several people were shaking with sobs. Handkerchiefs were out, noses blown, as the emotional vibrations echoed around the theater. In the last scene, the audience stayed rapt. The falling of the curtain at the very end of the play was met with silence.

Hazel waited, holding her breath. Maybe she’d read it all wrong, maybe they hated it for making them feel so awful. For reminding them of the trauma of World War II, which was over and done with. Maybe she’d failed, horribly.

But then one man near the front clapped twice. Others joined in, and within ten seconds, the entire theater echoed with shouts and clapping as the crowd rose to its feet en masse. Charlie grabbed Hazel and kissed her. “You did it. You absolutely did it.”

Backstage, Mr. Canby surprised them with bottles of champagne. “You all worked hard,” he said, as the stage manager popped a cork. “I’m happy to be able to announce that a new American playwright has arrived. One who isn’t afraid to speak out, to speak up. Our very own champion of the arts, Hazel Ripley.”

Hazel left the Sunday matinee in good spirits, looking forward to an easy stroll down Eighth Avenue. She liked walking home from the theater instead of hopping in a cab, as it gave her time to think about the play, what small directorial tweaks needed to be made, the best way to convey them to the actors or the crew. The show was coming together nicely, each performance building on the one that came before. There had been a couple of technical glitches, but that was to be expected, and they’d been addressed right off. She had to give it to Mr. Canby, he had a great team in place.

The guard at the stage door handed her a note as she left. It was from Charlie, asking her to meet him at the entrance to the Staten Island Ferry. She caught a subway downtown, wondering what this was all about.

Charlie paid two nickels for the fare and they boarded, surrounded by a mass of commuters. The playfulness that they’d fallen into was nowhere to be found, he was all business.

“What’s going on, Charlie? Why bring me all the way out here?”

“I wanted to find somewhere we could talk but not call too much attention to ourselves.”

They moved to the back of the boat, where the skyline of Manhattan slowly receded as the ferry chugged into the harbor. Hazel leaned over the railing and let the wind whip her hair around her face as the ferry picked up speed, charging through the choppy waters. Part of her wished she could escape the city entirely, leave it all behind her. Find a job selling clothes in a department store in New Jersey, say, and ignore the threats leveled her way. Writing the play had been a solitary endeavor, and she’d enjoyed every moment. But by mounting a play on Broadway, she’d exposed herself. In normal times, her biggest worry right about now would be the critics coming next week. Instead, she was caught up in a political storm.

She rearranged her scarf over her hair and tied it under her neck, partly to keep it from flying into her mouth and partly to obscure her face. The passengers around them weren’t paying them any mind, but still. Was the businessman holding on to his hat listening in on their conversation? Were the couple with their arms around each other federal agents? She was becoming paranoid. She had to keep a clear head. “What is it, then?”

He turned away from her and rested both forearms on the railing. She did the same, their elbows touching. He took a deep breath. “They’re about to make a big arrest. My guess is once that happens, the focus will turn to where it should be, on the actual spies.”

“They are? Who’s they?”

“The FBI.” He lowered his voice so she could barely hear him above the churning of the ship’s engine.

“How do you know this?”

“A high-up official at the FBI who was in the war with my father. He keeps him informed of what’s going on.”

The fact that Charlie had taken her into his confidence, entrusted her with what could be explosive information, was thrilling. At the same time, Hazel worried about being told secrets that could possibly land her in more trouble, just for knowing them. The risk was worth it, she decided. “Tell me what you heard.”

“A few months ago, a scientist and an army sergeant were arrested on espionage charges. Both men were passing along atomic secrets, bound for the Soviets, but now the Feds have cornered the person who brought them together in the first place. It’s a New Yorker, a member of the Communist Party USA. He’s an electrical engineer named Julius Rosenberg, married, with a couple of kids. They’re closing in on him, and the arrest will be announced any day now.”

Hazel wasn’t convinced. “How do we know the FBI isn’t railroading an innocent man into confessing? Like Floyd, for instance. How do we know this electrical engineer hasn’t been set up to take a fall, to show to the American public that they have reason for concern? I wouldn’t put it past the HUAC or the FBI to manufacture an enemy to justify their overreach of civil liberties.”

“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.