Chapter 3 Ingrid
Ingrid
A late summer breeze spurs the young couple onward through the dark night, their paces brisk, hands intertwined. Since stepping
off the train, the young woman has not slowed her steps, although she feels the pavement through her thin soles. They have
spent so much of this journey on foot. Walking through woods, concealed in trucks with deliverymen bribed to slip them across
Nazi borders, taking refuge in empty barns, boarding a ship, then a train, and now here.
Theirs had not been much of a plan, really. Only to go. To escape a country overtaken by fascists.
Her hand feels so small in her fiancé’s grasp. So much thinner now compared to when they started this journey—weeks ago? A
month? More? She cannot remember. Her mind is too clouded with fatigue, with hunger, with the urge toward safety that has
sometimes been the only thing sustaining her.
Another couple strolls by, casting a curious glance at the young couple in torn, tattered garments.
Along their journey, they carried little more than whatever food or water they managed to find and obtained changes of clothes when possible, but it had rarely been possible.
Now, all she wants is a hot meal and a bath.
Once she feels like herself again, she will believe they are safe. Free.
That is why this was their chosen destination, because of what this country promises. Democracy. Liberty. Everything her grandfather
once spoke of with such a wistful look in his eyes. She swallows hard, pushing thoughts of him aside before they overwhelm
her. She cannot think of him, of anyone from home, because that place is not home anymore. This is home now, where they can
work and live and be free from the oppressive powers that stole their former country and made it a land she no longer recognizes.
The man’s English is heavily Dutch, the woman’s heavily British, yet they are now Lars and Ingrid, Americans. By this time
tomorrow, Mr. and Mrs. Van Essen—or, if not tomorrow, as soon as possible. The thought nearly brings tears to her eyes, but
not yet. Not until they are safe.
They reach their destination, a small apartment building, where they knock on the door. It opens to reveal another young couple,
who allow them to enter. Only once the door closes and the woman pulls Ingrid into her arms does Ingrid let out a breath and
allow the tears to come.
All these weeks, one hand has spent nearly every moment gripping her fiancé’s while the other has clutched the pistol in her
skirt pocket. At last, she loosens her hold on both.
This is home, the land of liberty and democracy, and this is where their lives can begin—far from the war, from Arnhem, from
those she was eager to escape and those she wishes, more than anything, she had not left behind.
Six Years Later
Washington, DC, 12 August 1946
Arriving on time for work, for luncheons, for any engagement is not so difficult. One commits to being somewhere at a certain
time, then takes the necessary measures to fulfill that commitment. People who are perpetually late are ones Ingrid rather
hates. That is why, over the last six years, not once has she been late to the office.
This morning, after reviewing the newspaper article about the upcoming November elections and the candidates’ positions on
fighting Communism, she goes about her usual routine with the piece heavy on her mind. Since reading about Prime Minister
Churchill’s speech at Westminster College cautioning against a totalitarian regime in a postwar world, Ingrid has spent every
spare moment learning more, as she once sought to understand the threat of fascism. And, since escaping occupied Arnhem, she
has never taken a moment of freedom in Washington, DC, for granted.
She adjusts her cloche and picks up a tube of lipstick, painting her lips pale pink before rising from her vanity and dancing
around her husband as he steps toward the dresser.
Lars ties his necktie and gestures to the apartment door. “Go. You look fine, schatje. Even if you didn’t, it’s a work meeting, not one with President Truman himself.”
Meeting at nine o’clock sharp on Monday was all Crenshaw said when Ingrid left the office last week. She can’t be late, nor can she arrive looking like an absolute
wreck. A woman in a male-dominated field must look her best, do her best, only to be passed over again and again—but God forbid
she do anything less.
Half an hour later, after reaching Crenshaw Investigative Services a few minutes early, Ingrid slips into the meeting room, finds an open chair, and smooths her pale cerulean skirt and jacket.
Others gradually trickle in while Howard Crenshaw takes his place at the head of the long table, where he drops a large stack of files.
Ingrid sits taller, her heart already racing as she anticipates the purpose of this meeting.
Something serious, judging by those files.
“Let’s get right to it,” Crenshaw says. “We’ve been tasked with an investigation into Communism on behalf of the House Un-American
Activities Committee.”
Ingrid scribbles notes—partially because it’s her job at these meetings, partially because she would take them anyway for
her own benefit. As she writes the word Communism, she clenches her jaw. Churchill’s recent concerns aside, she has been in America for six years and has worked in private
investigation long enough to know a rise in Communism has been an ongoing concern. Still, the confirmation of an increased
threat leaves her mouth dry.
She left one country when its potential new government did not suit her. Where will she go if forced to leave this one?
That summer evening in 1940 lives so clearly in Ingrid’s mind, when she and Lars left Arnhem once it fell to the fascists.
What might have happened if they stayed? And what happened to those unable to escape the Battle of Arnhem, the starvation,
the suffering?
“Which brings me to our task.”
At Crenshaw’s announcement, Ingrid startles and looks up. Did she permit her mind to wander? She is at work; this cannot happen
at work. Biting her lip, she refocuses on her notes.
“Hollywood, the Commie capital of the United States.”
Rather exaggerated, Ingrid thinks, but Crenshaw is always one to emphasize a point.
“Our primary focus will be Communist influences within labor unions and the entertainment industry, so I’ll be sending some
of you to California to investigate the identified targets.”
As he goes through his list of actors, directors, producers, screenwriters, musicians, entertainers, and more, Ingrid jots them all down—some familiar, others not, mostly men.
“Next is Ada Worthington-Fox,” he says after he’s been droning for some time. “Age twenty-four, British, has worked in New
York and California and is now based in Los Angeles. A few years back, a gossip columnist said her parties were”—he consults
a document and reads aloud— “‘a veritable constellation of stars, an entire society of celebrities.’ Rumor has it a version
of the description is now used every time she throws a party, which is often. And which could mean nothing, or could imply
Communist ties, given the star symbolism and the many union members who attend. That’s for you to uncover.”
“Anything for the safety of our country.” Archie Stribling, who sits beside Ingrid, folds his hands behind his head and leans
back in his chair. “If that includes parties with a dish like Ada Worthington-Fox—well, a fellow’s got to do what he must.”
A few chuckles and murmurs of assent join his suggestive smirk. Ingrid returns to her notes, stifling the ever-present urge
to retort. Such efforts tend to be futile. Holding her tongue is the most prudent course of action, although someday when
she’s been promoted beyond the role of glorified secretary, she will not be prudent. For now, she presses her pen too hard
against the paper, causing the ink to bleed. She’s not familiar with the actress, but apparently the men will be grappling
over who gets assigned to the poor girl.
One man sitting near Crenshaw picks up the dossier. He scrutinizes the actress’s headshot, then his brows lift. “Say . . .”
He glances from the photo to Ingrid, who stares back even as her jaw clenches with uncertainty. No one ever acknowledges her
in these meetings. “If you changed your hair, maybe lost a little weight, you two would almost look—”
“Up next,” Crenshaw interrupts, picking up the next file and silencing further talk. Her coworker leaves Ingrid with a final look, then he shrugs and tosses the dossier onto the table.
Ingrid touches a self-conscious hand to her auburn chignon and grinds her teeth together to contain a retort. No need to waste
another second considering whatever irritating comment her coworker was going to make. Probably something like you two would almost look—actually, never mind, Ingrid would still look like Ingrid or a similar remark to win a laugh. Her looks are hardly what they are in this room to discuss.
Crenshaw mentions more names, including those he intends to dispatch to Hollywood. Archie’s among them; Ingrid’s absent. As
usual. She writes down the investigators with one hand and drives her fingernails into her palm with the other—another frequent
occurrence to keep from voicing fruitless protests.
What will it take to encourage Crenshaw to assign her to something more? Maybe he won’t allow her to investigate someone important,
but why not someone he considers minor? A lesser-known composer or the newest Screen Writers Guild member, perhaps. The least
important task for the least important of his employees, or so the logic would go in his mind. Better than nothing. Such is
the game Ingrid must play, even if she so rarely wins.
Once the meeting is over, she waits until the room empties before rising. “Mr. Crenshaw, might I have a word?”
He’s already gesturing to the array of documents. “Put these on my desk, Mrs. Van Essen.”