The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Maxine

July 18, 1950

I was only called in for a quick morning rehearsal today, and looked forward to an afternoon of leisure. But as I was leaving the theater, Arthur pulled up in his car and motioned for me to get in. I did as directed, and he drove away fast, waiting until we were heading up Eighth Avenue before speaking.

“They got Julius.”

I stayed quiet, digesting the information. I’d heard Arthur mention the name a few times before, but had never met him. “How did you hear?”

Arthur picked up a newspaper on the seat between us and hurled it at me. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”

The front-page headline proclaimed, FOURTH AMERICAN HELD AS ATOM SPY. I glanced down the column, jumping to page eight for the rest. Near the top was a photo of a disheveled-looking man flanked by two FBI agents. One lock of hair fell onto his forehead, his heavy-lidded eyes made him look like he’d just woken up.

I started to say something, but Arthur broke in. “Don’t say another word. I don’t want you to open your mouth. They’re close. And you’re next.”

We drove out of town, up along the Hudson on Route 9 for about an hour. At Croton-on-Hudson, we peeled off and up a winding road to a hilltop. The town had become an enclave for artists and left-leaning socialists back in the 1920s, to the extent that it was referred to as Red Hill. Arthur followed a narrow dirt driveway a few hundred feet, until it opened out onto a compound of small houses. None of them interesting, with shutters or porches or gardens. Just boxes, really, with doors and windows.

He parked around the back of one of the houses and we entered through a back door. “We don’t want to be seen, even here.” He pointed to a small room off to the side. “Wait inside and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

I sat on a small bed with a worn orange coverlet, the only furniture in the room. Outside, the sun danced on the trees—it was a gorgeous summer day—but what little breeze there was didn’t make it through the screened-in window. A ladybug skated across the sill.

That’s when I started thinking about the truth. About telling the truth. As if it might set me free. So far, I’ve kept my promise not to put pen to paper about this. This mess. I’ve kept this secret for years. On orders. But I can’t keep the secret any longer.

Arthur is my controller. Among other things.

I’m a spy.

I’ve kept it out of my diary, but I can’t anymore. The act of writing calms me, takes away the dread and panic for a little while. It’s the only way I can make sense of it all. I’ve found a hiding place for these pages, under a loose board on the mantel of my fireplace in the Chelsea Hotel. Not even the hotel maids will discover it there.

For the first time, I’m really scared. Of the Party, of Arthur.

Of what I’ve done.

Growing up, I saw my German grandmother horribly abused by Americans. I watched as capitalism destroyed my father and turned him mean. It’s true, I found a haven in the acting company, but what I didn’t mention is the founders were supporters of the Communist Party. They introduced me to the American League against War and Fascism, a Communist-front organization. The members listened to me when I spoke, they cared about what I thought. Even though I was a girl, they gave me responsibilities. My gender wasn’t a hindrance for the first time ever, and I found respect there. When I wasn’t at school or working on plays, I served as financial secretary and studied Marxism-Leninism. Arthur encouraged me, pushed me. This gave me purpose, and I blossomed.

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.

I glanced over at Arthur, trying to get a read on his mood. He was hunched over, and scratched at a patch of skin under his short-sleeved button-down shirt, the one I’d bought for him back in Los Angeles, attracted to its needle-thin lines of turquoise. He seemed cowed, childlike.

This new subservience chilled me. Arthur had trained at the School of Special Assignment in Russia. For a year, he’d taken six courses a day in the basics of being a handler. He’d passed many of these skills on to me, like how to break a tail or work a meet, but he also knew how to kill silently and quickly. He was all-powerful, or so I’d thought, but clearly these two comrades were much higher up in the organization.

He saw me looking at him and stopped scratching.

“What does the organization suggest we do?” Arthur addressed the man and woman equally.

The man put down his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “We need to get you both away from here, it’s too hot.”

“Gold and Greenglass have been passing secrets since ’45,” said Arthur. I recognized both names, agents who’d been caught in the FBI’s sting. “Julius since 1942. They should have been phased out. We brought this on ourselves.”

“The information they retrieved has been invaluable,” said the man. “Until now, the benefits have outweighed the risks.”

“Do you think Julius will talk?” asked Arthur.

The woman didn’t give a direct answer. “He’s been working for us for a while, which means he’s accumulated valuable knowledge.” She snapped her head in my direction. “How is it going with the play?”

“Fill them in on what you’ve told me,” directed Arthur.

I tried to hide the worry in my voice. “The play’s going well, and people are coming to the previews, in spite of the fact that Hazel had to testify.”

Arthur spoke up. “The play’s excellent, and Maxine stands out. It’s exactly what we hoped for. Everyone’s already talking about it, and it hasn’t even opened.”

“When is opening night?” the woman asked.

“Friday.”

“All right. After the reviews are out, come up with a reason to quit. We’ll relocate you both to California.”

My heart sank. “But I’m under contract for the next four months.”

“It’s too dangerous for you to stick around New York. Not with what’s going on with Rosenberg.”

The thought of leaving the play made me sick. I didn’t realize until now how hard it would be to relocate, again, and leave behind the friends I’d made. To leave Hazel behind. “The press will be terrible if I suddenly up and quit. No one wants to hire an actress who cuts out on her contract.”

The woman stared at me. “I’m sure it happens all the time.”

“Maxine’s up for another film role, right, Maxine?” Arthur nodded at me. “Tell them about it.”

It was true. A Hollywood director had seen an early preview of the play and set up a meeting soon after, gushing that I’d be perfect for the female lead in his next movie. I tried not to get too excited about it. After all, I’d been burned last time this happened. “It’s a possible part in the new James Mason film,” I offered.

“The female lead,” said Arthur. “The perfect excuse to get her out of New York.”

“If it works out,” the woman reminded them. “We’ve been down that road before. Unsuccessfully. What if she blows it again?”

Arthur didn’t answer right off, letting the moment hang. “I’ve been thinking about it, and there might be another way, if she doesn’t get the role. One that would create a diversion from Julius as well as close the show down entirely.”

This was news to me.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “What’s that?”

“Charlie Butterfield.” Arthur practically growled the name.

“Who’s Charlie Butterfield?” asked the man.

“He works with American Business Consultants, and has been assigned to monitor Hazel Ripley to make sure she stays patriotic. His father is Laurence Butterfield, the one stirring up all the fuss in New York. Charlie’s by Hazel’s side constantly.” Arthur gave me a pointed look. “We saw them together at Coney Island. I got the impression he’s in love with her.”

I wished Arthur weren’t so astute. I’d picked up the same dynamic between them, but hoped Arthur hadn’t noticed. Recently, during rehearsals, Hazel and Charlie had behaved like a couple of turtledoves, practically cooing to each other when they thought no one was looking.

“What do you think is going on?” asked the woman. “Is she stringing him along in order to get his father off her back? Or is it more than that?”

Arthur looked to me to answer the question.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Either way, the situation could be a valuable tool for us,” said the woman.

The conversation was not going the way I’d expected. Even though it wasn’t what I wanted, ultimately I didn’t care if they dragged me away from the play, as long as they didn’t ruin Hazel’s life as well. God knew what they were thinking, but it wouldn’t be good, for Hazel or Charlie.

“Maxine, is something wrong?” The man eyed me suspiciously.

I swallowed. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m opening a play in three days. I know you want the reviews to be raves, and it’s a big role. Let’s just focus on that for now, all right?”

The man picked up his plate and tossed it into the sink, the sound of it shattering echoed in the tight room. No one moved. “Your first priority is the Party. You seem to be forgetting that fact, Miss Mead.”

“No, I’m not at all.” My denial sounded thin, even to me. “I’m simply trying to do what you’ve asked of me.”

Arthur pointed a finger in my face. “I’m not sure where you stand anymore. You and Hazel are joined at the hip these days. I don’t like it.”

“Really, Arthur,” said the woman, “first Caroline, now Maxine? Your track record with your agents is certainly problematic.”

I sat frozen in place, digesting this piece of information. I’d figured Arthur’s wife’s illness had developed out of the stress of being an agent. Not everyone was cut out for the job, and her psychological weakness certainly fed my own ego. But had she in fact turned on the Party, questioned her role? Was she mad, or had she been silenced?

The woman went to the sink, picked up the broken plate pieces, and threw them in a garbage can. When she was done, she brushed her hands together. I got the impression that she was the toughest of the three, her face pinched and mean.

“You’ve done so much for us already, Miss Mead.” She said the words without a hint of gratitude. “We are all indebted to your support and good work over the many years. So many years. Perhaps once this is all over, you deserve a reward, not a punishment.”

Arthur’s eyebrows raised.

She continued. “A journey to the Soviet Union, where you will be lauded and heralded and can continue your good work for us. We should have done so with Julius, but we left it too late. We ought to learn from our mistakes.”

They all observed me for my reaction to this glorious invitation. Go to Russia, a country I’d never been to and whose language I didn’t speak. This was a warning wrapped up in a big pink ribbon. The bologna sandwich in my stomach threatened to come back up. I coughed, covering my mouth as I did so, trying to rearrange my expression into something unreadable. I was an actress, after all. This was what I did for a living. But with someone else’s words. I didn’t usually have to be playwright, director, and actress on the spot.

I had to respond appropriately, make them believe me.

So I drew on a tried-and-true theater technique, sense memory. I thought back to a time when I was happy as a child, when I felt safe. My grandmother and I used to pick mushrooms on the shores of a lake near our house. We’d come home and sauté them in butter, and the crunch and savory flavor of the dish made me swoon with delight. I could practically taste the mushroom on my tongue and, like magic, a peaceful calm swept over me. I raised my head up high and let my shoulders fall. “I would be thrilled to accept such an honor.”

The woman seemed flustered. “You would?”

“Of course.” The words came out strong and sure. Confident. “The Party has been my family for many years now, and I’m here to do whatever you need, in whatever capacity you require.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

I silently gave thanks for my profession.

“Still, I like this idea of a distracting scandal. If we haven’t heard back about the movie by Friday, let’s use it to our advantage.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Arthur straightened, eager to prove his own loyalty. “We set up Charlie Butterfield and Hazel Ripley in a compromising position—no doubt Maxine can pull that off—and expose the fact that Butterfield’s son is sleeping with an accused communist who’s written a play that the Feds hate. The press will go mad at their hypocrisy, particularly if the show’s a big hit.”

And no doubt the show would close. Hazel would lose everything: her name, her livelihood.

The woman smiled, pleased. Arthur had redeemed himself. “Report back through the usual channels.”

I stayed silent during the long ride back to the city.

What had I done?