The Chelsea Girls

CHAPTER TWO

Hazel

April 1945

Maxine stayed silent for a moment, before putting her arm around Hazel. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. My big mouth.”

Hazel finally got the words out. “Ben was killed soon after he enlisted, in a plane crash.”

“If I remember, he was a talented guy, right?”

What an understatement. Ben had been the boy wonder, a natural mimic. He took after their dad, a former vaudeville star brought down by a stroke when Hazel was twelve. Ben, always up for a challenge, had entertained their father, enlisting Hazel as his stooge in skits that made him laugh, although it only showed on the good side of his face. Even before their father’s stroke, it was assumed that Ben and Hazel would go into acting, that the Ripley name would carry on through the children. After all, this was the family legacy. While other families passed down a dry-cleaning business or a hardware store, their inheritance was their father’s brilliance in the footlights, and his name.

From the fading glory of their vast Upper West Side apartment, where scripts and old newspapers littered the living room, Ben—older by three years—worked on auditions and scenes for his acting classes. Hazel dutifully signed up for the same ones as soon as she graduated from high school. Ruth, who had managed her husband’s career from the very beginning and liked to take full credit for his success, was determined that the family become as famous as the Astaires or the Lunts. “The Ripleys of West End Avenue,” she’d proclaim.

The first time Hazel performed a scene in acting class, she worked on the role with her mother until late the night before. Her head spinning from exhaustion, yet jittery with excitement, Hazel had waited with her scene partner as the teacher—an elderly Russian man with wild hairs sprouting from his ears and nose—reminisced for a good five minutes on Ben’s uncanny take on O’Neill before allowing Hazel and her scene partner to proceed. From the corner of her eye, she’d noticed the instructor slumping farther and farther into his seat as they stumbled through the scene, which made her forget all the coaching her mother had given her. Once they’d finished, the instructor had focused all his commentary on her acting partner, before dismissing Hazel with a mere three sentences: “That was a perfectly fine interpretation of the scene. The problem with ‘fine’ is that it’s boring. You bored us.” While she knew she wasn’t the best actress in the room and had a lot to learn, it wasn’t fair to compare her first attempt with that of her brother after three years of intensive study. Hazel had scurried out as soon as class was over to avoid the sympathetic-yet-gleeful looks of her classmates. She’d been resigned to living in the shadows ever since.

But her brand of boring appealed to producers casting for understudies. They preferred a chameleon who’d blend seamlessly into the production, who wouldn’t dare tamper with the blocking or line readings in an effort to outshine the star. Secretly, Hazel didn’t mind waiting in the wings, watching the best scenes before retreating to the understudies’ dressing room with a good book. But to say so out loud would tarnish her father’s legacy, as well as her brother’s lost dreams. She had to do more, be more.

She’d first heard about the USO tour from a couple of actors at the counter of Hanson’s Drugstore on Broadway, where she was killing time before slinking home after yet another pointless understudy rehearsal. She’d signed up to audition for the tour on a whim, figuring that it would make her parents happy to see their daughter follow in Ben’s footsteps, both on the stage and in service to the country. How wrong she’d been: Her mother had hated the very idea, terrified that she’d lose her daughter as well as her son, and said she prayed each night that Hazel would be rejected.

The day that Hazel was to depart on her tour, she’d stepped into the kitchen, wearing her uniform, only to see the ghost of Ben reflected in her mother’s eyes. Her father’s naturally lopsided countenance slid into a grimace as her mother ran from the room, one hand clutching her mouth as if she was about to be sick. No matter what Hazel did, it turned out terribly.

Maxine rubbed Hazel’s back. “Sorry to have spoken ill of your brother. I barely knew him.”

The major returned, accompanied by a wiry man with a pipe sticking out of his mouth.

Maxine and Hazel exchanged looks. No doubt Maxine had overstepped her place by advocating for the two boys.

“Which one of you speaks Kraut?” asked the wiry man.

Maxine raised her hand, as though they were in elementary school. To see Maxine cowed made Hazel even more nervous.

“Come with me. Both of you.”

As they walked deeper into the building, the man introduced himself as Colonel Peterson, the head of radio programming. “We’re in charge of all the music the soldiers listen to, as well as propaganda broadcasts. That’s where you come in. What’s your name again?”

Maxine introduced herself, then added, “And this is Hazel Ripley.”

“Maxine, huh? This way.” The colonel didn’t even look at Hazel. But she was used to that by now, and she’d already noticed that being in close proximity to Maxine was the equivalent to disappearing into thin air.

They entered a small soundproofed room where a microphone sat on a desk, next to some fancy equipment with lots of dials.

The colonel picked up a bundle of papers. “The soldier who’s been doing the propaganda broadcasts got transferred, and we’ve been looking for a German speaker to fill in. Radio waves, unlike newspapers or television broadcasts, aren’t deterred by borders or front lines, which gives us a direct line of communication with the enemy population. You’re a girl, but I figure it might be even better that way.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?” asked Maxine.

“Make your voice nice and pretty, and read off this list of German POWs.” He pointed to a single piece of paper beside the microphone. “Then say that the boys are safe and sound, in German. Once that’s done, pick some articles from these”—he tossed down a few copies of The Stars and Stripes—“and condense it for a German audience.”

“Condense it? I’m not sure I understand.”

He pointed to a headline. “Choose three or four articles that emphasize American values, American strength, and summarize them. We want to plant doubt in their minds. Make them wonder if the Fuehrer is not all that he’s cracked up to be, if they’re not being told the whole truth.”

“Right.” Maxine didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll take these back to camp with me and figure out what to say.”

“You don’t go anywhere. First broadcast is today, as soon as you’re ready. If you do a good job, we’ll have you on once a week.”

“What on earth? I can’t just speak off the cuff, I have to have something in front of me to read. I’m an actress. I need lines.”

The colonel wasn’t listening. “We’ll call you Lina aus Amerika.” His accent was terrible. “Lina from America. Don’t make it too heavy-handed. No calls for surrender, no ridicule. We’re just reinforcing what they know deep down, that they’re on the losing side. Got it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“But we’ve got to get back for a show—” The door slammed before Maxine could finish the sentence. She stared after him, aghast. “I can’t do it. What do I talk about?”

Hazel grabbed the newspaper and picked up a pen. “I can help you. And if we get this right, we’ll be back next week. That’ll give us a chance to find out more about the boys. Maybe we can reach someone higher up who’ll listen to us.”

“Good point.”

They sat down together at the table, studying the front page. “This one’s all about the dive-bombing of rail bridges in Northern Italy, backed by ground forces,” said Hazel. “I’ll strip out the basic ideas for you and write them down, so it’s a condensed version.”

Maxine nodded. “Great. Then I’ll just translate it off the page. What about this one? It says that the British forces are fifteen miles from Hamburg, which is Germany’s largest port.”

“Sure, that’ll work.”

“Reader’s Digest’s got nothing on you.”

Writing so fast, on the fly, made Hazel’s heart race. Figuring out how to pare down a complicated sentence, or simply racking her brain to find the right word, was a mental challenge—like memorizing lines, but more interesting. They’d summarized three articles by the time the colonel came back into the room with a technician.

“Remember, keep it light and pretty,” he said, as the technician handed Maxine a set of headphones. “Lean in close to the microphone.”

Hazel held her breath as Maxine read through the list of POW names, her voice soothing and calm in spite of the guttural German consonants. She stumbled on the commentary for the second news item, and glanced over in panic. Hazel gave a nod of encouragement and Maxine kept on, the abrasive sounds of the language mellowed by her delivery.

After the last news item was announced, Maxine said a few lines in German, then signed off with a kiss. “Danke fürs Zuhören.”

They tiptoed outside the room as the technician put on a record.

The colonel beamed down at Maxine. “Well done. Come back next week. Same time.” He looked her up and down. “Maybe we’ll get some photos taken, fire them over the lines so they can get a long, sweet look at our girl Lina. This could really be something big.”

“I’m thrilled you’re pleased.” Maxine drew close. “Maybe you could do something for me.” She went on to describe the story of the boys they’d rescued on their way into town. “We were hoping you could follow up, make sure they’re properly seen to, in case it turns out that they did work for the resistance. It would mean the world, if you could inquire.”

“I suppose I can look into it. A German and an Italian, you say?”

“Yes. Paul and Matteo.”

“Fine, fine.” He took his leave, even shaking Hazel’s hand. “See you gals in a week.”

Out in the bright sunshine of the plaza, Maxine let out a deep laugh. Hazel couldn’t help but join in from relief.

Maxine elbowed Hazel in the ribs. “I couldn’t have pulled it off without you. Looks like Lina aus Amerika’s new fans are getting two girls in one package: I’ll be her voice and you’ll be her brains.”

To think that, twenty-four hours earlier, Hazel had written off Maxine as a bossy witch. Now they were linked as comrades in arms. She hoped her brother had made a similar friend in the short time before his death.

“You look a little wiped out.” Maxine led her to a fountain where a trident-wielding Neptune stood watch over lions that, before the bombing, had spewed streams of water. Instead, their empty mouths gaped, as if they were uttering silent roars at the destruction of their city. “Let’s sit over here a minute.”

Hazel scanned the streets. Their ride was nowhere in sight. “I hope we make it back in time for the show.”

“The soldiers will still be waiting, no matter how late we show up.”

The giddy bubbles of relief slowly faded, replaced by the memory of the angry mob earlier that afternoon. Hazel spoke quietly. “Do you think the colonel will follow up like he said?”

“I don’t know. Hopefully, we’ll have more news next week.” Maxine waved an arm out in front of her. “Every person here has a story, and most of them will probably end more pitifully than the ones we got a glimpse of today. Children dying of hunger while their mothers watch, unable to help. The world is a horrible place, and in the frenzy to be right, to force their will, these armies trample over each other. Trust me, I’ve been out here since last year and the one thing I’ve learned is that we’re all at the mercy of the powers that be.”

Maxine’s view was so tragic, Hazel couldn’t agree. She got the distinct impression that under the grand speechifying lurked the same fear for the boys’ safety that gnawed at Hazel. “Once Hitler is stopped, and all the newspapers say that might be any day now, we’ll be able to right all these wrongs,” she insisted. “Fix what was broken. Take care of the children.”

As the Jeep pulled up, Maxine stood and straightened Hazel’s tie. “Enough with all this gosh-shucks optimism, Hayseed. For now, you just worry about not missing your entrance cue again.”

A week later, the news broke that Hitler had committed suicide, lifting the spirits of the soldiers, but Hazel detected a hesitancy behind the celebrations. The war in the Pacific was still raging, and no doubt the troops would soon be shipped east to join in the battle against Japan. Even after four long years of war in Europe, the fighting wasn’t over.

The book of plays had warmed Hazel’s welcome among the actresses, to her grateful delight. During the next week, they rehearsed in the mornings, filling in the men’s roles with soldiers who had some acting experience, and often learned their lines faster than the professionals. Hazel’s confidence grew with every show. Her knees stopped quaking before she stepped out onstage, and she could be present, in the moment, for most of her scenes. As the latest addition to their motley troupe, she didn’t get the leading roles, but that was fine with her. Better to have Maxine or Betty-Lou garner the loudest applause at the curtain call.

Not that it was perfect. She noticed that sometimes Maxine went off the deep end, overplaying her lines, but the men loved it when she swaggered about with a singsong cadence, even if it had very little to do with the character she was portraying. Betty-Lou often forgot what she was supposed to say next, but she shrugged it off with a good-natured squeal, while Verna had an annoying tendency to drift too far upstage.

At least half the soldiers had never seen a legitimate play and were intrigued by the whole concept. With an average age of twenty-six and a hunger for drama, they reminded Hazel of what she’d read about Shakespeare’s audiences, the groundlings, who stood out in all weather and had no qualms about letting their enthusiasm rip. The USO tour’s sets were basic, with scenery painted on fabrics that could be easily switched out between shows, and the minimum number of stage props. Yet for a few hours, there was no doubt the men were instead imagining the grand interior of an English manor house or a tiny village in Andalusia.

When Maxine and Hazel arrived back in Naples a week later, Colonel Peterson was in a good mood, Lina’s propaganda broadcast having pleased his superiors immensely. Once they’d wrapped up the session, he shook both their hands. “Well done, ladies.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” said Maxine. “Now. Can you tell us any news about the boys? You know, from last week?”

The colonel hesitated a beat before explaining that the Italian one was on his way back home, accompanied by two soldiers who would inquire into the validity of the German’s story. The German, he said, was being held in a jail two blocks away so the Americans could interview him further. If he truly was the son of a high-ranking officer, as he claimed, he could be valuable.

“What if Maxine offered to help interview him, since she knows German?” said Hazel.

Maxine jumped in. “Right, I’d be happy to help.”

“Sure, sure. We’ll let you know.”

A dismissal, if ever Hazel heard one. Normally, she’d back off, cowed by his authority, but she couldn’t acquiesce this time. What if Paul had a sister back in Germany, one who wondered what had happened to him or if he was safe? A sister who would never get an answer, not if he was chewed up by the maddening bureaucracy of the war. It didn’t help that every night, the image of a blond boy flicking his hair out of his eyes emerged like a ghost in Hazel’s dreams. Sometimes it turned out to be her brother, sometimes Paul.

“We made a strong connection with the boy,” said Hazel. “We would really like to assist.”

“I can see that. You’ve made yourselves clear.” The colonel reached out and shook their hands. “In the meantime, thank you. Lina was a big hit and we appreciate your service.”

“I’m sorry, do you mean that you don’t need Lina anymore?” Hazel exchanged looks with Maxine.

“Hitler’s dead, there’s no point, the German soldiers know it’s over.” The colonel popped a pipe into his mouth with one hand and lit a match with the other, waving the flame over the tobacco before inhaling deeply. The smoke ghosted up over his face, obscuring his features for a moment.

Without the broadcasts, there’d be no excuse to return to headquarters. Hazel racked her brain. “Well, what about the American soldiers? What if we do something for them?”

“Like what?” The colonel took another long drag on his pipe.

“What about we profile a soldier each week, talk about where he comes from, that kind of thing?” She sensed Maxine nodding beside her, encouraging her. “I’ll write it, and Maxine can read it as herself, not Lina, to cheer our boys up and do our part to support the war effort.”

The colonel looked over at Maxine. “I guess we could try it. What the hell. Go ahead, write something up and come back next week. If I like it, you can broadcast it.”

Maxine squeezed her arm as they exited the building. “Quick thinking, Hazel.”

“I hope I can pull it off,” said Hazel, settling on a bench to wait for their ride back.

“What do you mean? You flew through those write-ups for Lina.”

“That was just rewriting. Here I have to come up with something from scratch. I’m an actress, not a writer.”

“You kidding? You’re our secret weapon. Besides, I know tons of writers and they all feel the same way you do, that they’re not up to snuff. Goes along with the territory.”

“How do you know tons of writers?”

“From when I was in New York, living at the Chelsea Hotel.”

“That’s the one on Twenty-Third, right?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s full of artists and people like us, a Shangri-La for new bohemians. You can’t turn a corner without running into a poet or a playwright or a novelist, the place is simply bursting with wordsmiths.” She counted on her fingers. “Thomas Wolfe, Edgar Lee Masters. Trust me, you’re just as good as they are.”

Maxine was being generous, but Hazel appreciated the support. The idea of a hotel filled with creative types was certainly appealing. “How long did you stay there?”

“A couple of years. There’s an actress named Lavinia Smarts, who brought me into the fold. She’s like the den mother of the place.”

“I’ve heard of her, she’s an amazing talent.”

“Sure is.”

Hazel sighed. “I just wish there was something more we could do to help Paul. The colonel didn’t seem very interested in us getting involved.”

“Well, since our ride back to camp is nowhere in sight, how about we take a quick walk?” Maxine gave her a long look. “He said the jail was only a couple of blocks away.”

They asked the guard out front for directions, and hustled over as fast as they could.

An Italian soldier stood at the entrance of a massive three-story building dotted with small, barred windows. Maxine explained in a mixture of mime, English, and a few words of Italian that they wanted to see the tedesco—the German. The Italian soldier didn’t speak much English but, by making the universal sign for a bottle of beer, made his point clear. Maxine promised to bring some alcohol back the next week, although Hazel wasn’t sure how she’d pull that off.

As they walked away, Maxine glanced back, then gripped Hazel’s arm hard. “Look.”

Hazel turned around and followed Maxine’s finger. A pale face stared down at them from the third floor, hands tight around the bars of the window.

Paul. They waved with both arms, and he responded with a lift of his chin and a wave of his own before retreating from view. They couldn’t explain that they’d be back, or that they were trying to help, but at least he’d seen them. Paul’s defiance, his proud bearing, reminded Hazel so much of Ben. But she didn’t want to think about that.

That evening at dinner, the soldiers had a surprise waiting for the acting troupe. As the men clapped and whistled, the five actresses were escorted to a table in the middle of the mess tent that had been laid with a white tablecloth, a bouquet of flowers, and cloth napkins. Hazel turned beet red but the other girls whistled right back.

“What’s all this for?” asked Maxine.

“For reminding us of our girls back home,” said one of the men. “For giving us hope.”

Hazel looked about. So many of these men had never ventured out of their small towns before they were shipped off, and she could imagine the depths of their homesickness. How horrible it must’ve been when their idealized versions of the war, of heroic feats and brotherly love, were twisted by reality into fatigue, hunger, and grisly sights that would never fade from their memories.

After dinner, the women sat around the table, now joined by ten or so soldiers and a young kid with a sketch pad who offered to do caricatures of the men.

“Who is that?” Hazel asked Betty-Lou.

“Floyd. He was sent over, like we were, to entertain the troops.”

“With art?”

“You should see him, he can whip up a portrait in no time. I kept mine. I’m going to frame it when I’m home. He gave me a waist to die for.”

Hazel laughed. The boy had red pimples on his forehead, while his feet and hands were way too big for his thin frame. “He looks like he’s about twelve.”

“Kid’s got a gift.”

The boy ripped a page from his pad and handed it to Maxine. She held it up so the rest of them could see. In the drawing, her curves were slightly exaggerated, but not enough to be crass, and her red hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of lava. She came off as voluptuous and tough, her lips pursed together and her eyes peering off to the side, as if a lover had just walked into the room.

Hazel’s attention was soon taken up by the man to her right, who hailed from Kansas. He talked so fast sometimes she wasn’t sure what he was saying, but that didn’t seem to matter to him at all. Something about sending home letters to his girl and did she think she’d still be waiting for him.

“Of course. What’s your girl’s name?” Hazel asked.

“Eileen. I write to her every week, without fail. But I haven’t heard from her in three months. Do you think I’ve done something wrong? Or maybe she hasn’t gotten my letters and thinks I’m dead? I don’t know if I could stand that.”

Hazel thought of her brother, who hadn’t had a girl back home. Who hadn’t had time to send even one letter to his family before they got word of his death. Her mother had opened the door to the two men in uniform and brought them into the living room, where Hazel sat reading to her father in his wheelchair. She remembered thinking that she hoped the soldiers weren’t shocked by what they saw, the scripts and books lying about, the missing button on her father’s cardigan, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. That’s what she remembered most about that moment. The dust motes, as she willed the men not to speak.

“Benny’s all right, yes?” Her mother’s chin wobbled.

They’d launched into a prepared speech. Said he’d been killed in a plane crash behind enemy lines. Said that he had not survived. Said that he was a hero.

“Where did it happen?” Ruth asked.

“We’re not at liberty to say, ma’am,” answered one of them.

“Was it quick?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

But Hazel could tell the answer was a lie. They didn’t know the circumstances, any more than she and her parents did. It was all a haze, like the stifling air inside the room.

The family came apart without Ben. He was the glue, the silly clown, the sweet prince that Ruth doted on. Hazel’s father didn’t show much emotion, and his disability made it difficult in any event. But Ruth emoted enough for the three of them put together, except for once at the wake, when Hazel looked up from pouring out cups of coffee to see her mother studying her intently, her eyes clear and dry. “I guess you’ll do, God help us,” Ruth had said, before retreating into the living room to weep in the arms of strangers.

As if he’d picked up on her thoughts, the boy from Kansas began to tear up. Hazel shifted her chair closer, asking him questions to distract him from the girl Eileen. About his favorite K rations, and what made him laugh. What were his favorite films? Who did he look up to and admire?

As they talked, she realized that this was how she could create the soldier hero for the broadcast. By interviewing the men and summing up their stories of bravery and humility. She couldn’t wait to get back to the tent, pull out her notebook, and jot down some notes from the conversation.

“Hey, look, Hazel!” Verna pointed from across the table. “Floyd’s done you, too.”

Hazel hadn’t even noticed the kid had pulled up a chair nearby. He carefully ripped the paper from the pad and handed it over.

He’d gotten the basics right. Her shoulder-length blond hair, with its curled tips. Her blue eyes and arched eyebrows, which she had to pencil in. Unlike Maxine’s portrait, hers was not even a caricature, because nothing about her stood out.

What surprised her was that she didn’t mind, really. The work she and Maxine were doing for the army, as well as their personal mission to get justice for Paul, was suddenly bigger and more vibrant than everything else in Hazel’s life. She had never been the type of girl to fixate on her appearance, but now it was an afterthought at best; she was far more interested in what she was doing than what she looked like.

She smiled and thanked the boy for his drawing, rolling it up just as Maxine wandered over, carrying a box that clinked as she carefully set it down.

Their bribe had been procured.