Chapter 9 Ingrid #2
“Pardon? Oh, this . . . I’ve got a little party downstairs, so I can’t stay.” Ada smooths a dark, wavy lock draped over her
shoulder and sets a small handbag on the bed. She remains standing, though, as does Ingrid.
Her sister is the same yet entirely different. Refined and elegant yet, beneath it all, reticent and tormented. The flickering
flame that was once Aleida de Vos was overtaken by Ada Worthington-Fox, a blaze so terribly, painfully bright, distracting
from ash and wreckage and ruin. Except Ingrid sees beyond the brightness to the destruction, to whatever imparted this look
in her sister’s eyes, one Ingrid has no power to take away.
“My life is . . . different. People take pictures of me, write about me, speculate about my public and private lives. Ada Worthington-Fox does not speak of anything personal. Ever.” Ada fidgets with the gold bangles around her wrist. “Do you understand?”
“No one knows you have a sister.” Ingrid nods, though an inexplicable knot forms in her throat. “You want it to stay that
way.”
“Dragging you into the public eye isn’t fair, not when I chose this and you didn’t.”
Indeed, Ingrid wants nothing less than the attention Crenshaw feared she might attract. Dodging cameras will be hard enough
when mingling with celebrities, much worse if the press realizes she’s related to one.
“We differ enough in appearance. I don’t expect it to be a problem, especially if we aren’t seen together.”
“Please don’t misunderstand. We’ll spend time together, of course; we just might have to be clever about it. And if your employer
believes you’re my assistant, we can tell others the same. Then it won’t be a lie.” At the word lie, a little flush of guilt courses through Ingrid while a momentary look so distant and haunted crosses over Ada’s face before
she draws an unsteady breath. “During the war, after you and Lars left . . . it was worse than anyone expected.”
Worse than what little Ingrid had heard of the starvation and suffering in Arnhem? Worse than being the daughters of a Nazi
supporter?
Too much like her father, Mother often said about Ingrid. The father she can’t recall but would have adored, she’s always thought, if they are so
much alike. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to Opa, because he was the connection to Papa she had always been missing.
I did not raise my son to abandon his family, Opa once said with a shake of his head, yet he had become a paternal figure adored by both twins, and Ingrid in particular.
She wrote to him too, and never heard back. Perhaps Ada knows what happened to him. She swallows hard, unable to find the words to ask.
“No one knows about Aleida de Vos, or about Mother. No one can, especially not with my upcoming film. If the press finds out
she was a fascist in the 1930s—”
“Is a fascist, assuming she’s alive. Not was.”
“You don’t know that, nor do I, and the point is you know how gossip works. One scandalous tidbit and that’s all anyone will
talk about, even if it’s something completely out of my control. Then Minnie Musgrave will write an article about me with
one of her ridiculous headlines—something like ‘Hollywood’s Siren or Hitler’s Spawn?’”
Ingrid has never paid enough attention to the gossip rags to know if Ada is being serious. When her sister doesn’t laugh,
she concludes such headlines must exist in her strange world.
The air in the room is dense, the silence thorny as Ingrid shifts from foot to foot. Of all the distasteful conversations.
Ada should know that Ingrid will be the last person to mention anything to anyone about Constance de Vos. Her sister witnessed
every clash between Ingrid and Mother. Over politics, over Lars, over everything. She crosses her arms as if to protect herself from the onslaught of memories, from the heat they bring to her veins. She
never told anyone about Mother’s political views, either, and Lars knows only because he was there to witness it.
“I need our past and the war to remain between us,” Ada continues. “And since I can’t do anything discreetly without someone
finding out, I need your help. Plenty of government people live in Washington, DC, don’t they? People who might help me locate
someone.” She clenches her jaw for a moment of tight silence. “An SS man named Gregor Dietrich.”
Every muscle and nerve inside Ingrid seizes. How could she have left Ada? She should have stayed with her—no, forced her to flee with them. Instead she and her fiancé found safety and security while her sister remained in Nazi-occupied territory. With their fascist mother.
And, perhaps worse, something happened between her sister and an SS man. Something that has left Ada wondering, worrying.
Even after all this time.
Ingrid can barely speak. “I swear to God, Aleida, if you don’t tell me what this is about—”
“You have succeeded. In your studies, your career, your marriage. I have failed. In my aspirations to become a professional
ballerina, in my resistance work, maybe in acting if this film is poorly received. But finding Dietrich . . . I owe this to
our home, to everyone in Arnhem, to my—” Ada breaks off and takes Ingrid’s hands. “I cannot fail. Nor can I succeed without
you.”
Ingrid stares into her sister’s eyes, large and deep gray. She must focus on uncovering Communism, not distracting herself
with fascists, but she cannot reveal her true purpose to Ada; she is under strict orders of confidentiality. And she cannot
work on a separate case without Crenshaw’s consent.
Yet whatever happened to Ada in Arnhem led to this request. To that brief tortured look on her face. None of which would have
happened if Ingrid had convinced Ada to leave, given her no choice in the matter. The courageousness of Ada’s decision and
worthiness of her cause didn’t prevent whatever she suffered.
How easily the old web of guilt captures her. Ingrid did not protect her sister then. She owes her this much now.
She nods.
“I will tell you everything soon, I promise,” Ada says softly. “If Dietrich is alive, he will believe I took something from
him.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
Then, without further explanation, Ada slips from the room.
Ingrid nearly chases after her to demand more. Instead she draws a breath, pushing the information aside for now. A party
downstairs, Ada said. Well, then, it seems Ingrid has a party to attend.
Beyond the understanding of politics and law necessary for her work, this is what drew her to private investigation. Opportunities
to emerge from behind a desk, to gather information, to piece elements together until the truth is revealed. The sort of work
that would have made her grandfather proud. She imagines him in his office, his blue eyes warming in approval as she tells
him of her persistence, of how he inspired her toward this career, of overcoming the obstacles in her workplace, of defending
the values they both admired about this country. Of helping her sister. The image is soothing, calming, even as her throat
tightens with lingering worry over whatever it is Ada has carried since leaving home.
She dresses in a simple skirt and jacket, hides as much of her damp hair as possible beneath a headscarf, puts on her glasses,
pulls the camera from the valise containing her equipment, and grabs the false badge a fellow in the office made for her,
identifying her as a reporter. Enough of a disguise so long as she doesn’t get close to Ada, who will have no trouble recognizing
her. Satisfied, she makes her way downstairs.
Members of the press are lingering outside the Biltmore’s music room, so she joins the crowd. Moments later, the doors open
for them. Drawing a breath to settle the eager shiver racing down her spine, Ingrid follows the others inside.
The beautiful space is filled with women in fashionable gowns, men in suits, a quartet playing jazz, tables draped in white tablecloths with floral centerpieces, waiters carrying silver trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Ingrid has entered Ada’s world, glamour and elegance and excitement.
The infectious energy pulses through her as she follows the press toward a podium, where a man prepares to address them.
Cameras flash as eager press members photograph everyone and everything, so Ingrid follows their example, documenting as many guests as possible.
Once everyone is in position, the band ceases. Near the podium, Ingrid finds Ada—drink in hand, calm and focused.
Even as she watches the actress with her winning smile and stunning gown, Ingrid imagines her sister’s face from her hotel
room moments ago, feels the tightness of her grasp. Telling of darkness, of difficulty, of a past that Ingrid, too, might
come to know.
If she finds the information Ada requested about Gregor Dietrich. And if Ada reveals what she took from him, and what led
her to hunt a Nazi.