Chapter 10 Ada
Ada
The war is over. Everything from that time is over. By God, Ada has tried to forget it, changed her country, her name, her
life, everything to separate herself from what Aleida de Vos endured. Except she can’t detach, not entirely. The war is a
brand seared upon her skin. Even if she cuts it off, its scars will remain.
Perhaps she can’t forget because she has spent these past years knowing, if he is alive, Dietrich will be looking for her.
For what she took from him. She feels the book against her chest with the documents tucked inside, smells the charred, burning
letter from her sister as she stands alone in a filthy New York City alley on her first night in her new country.
Aleida de Vos would have been far more likely to disappear than to become Ada Worthington-Fox.
Still, if he is seeking her, of course he will likely see through her attempt to fool him.
Initially, Ada resolved to forget about Dietrich, but reuniting with Ingrid has prompted her to reconsider.
She should find out what happened to him before he has a chance to find out what happened to her.
Then, with Ingrid’s help, she will hold him accountable for every war crime he perpetrated and leave that time firmly behind her.
The past will not, cannot distract her from her career.
Downstairs, she proceeds down the galleria with its elaborate frescoed ceiling and intricate oak-paneled walls. She’s nearly
reached the music room, where the event is to take place, when she’s intercepted by the familiar flash of a camera bulb and
an eager male voice.
“Miss Worthington-Fox! In light of the upcoming November elections, care to share your thoughts on Communism?”
Ada never treats invasive journalists any differently: Keep walking, offer a brief smile, single remark, or polite “no comment”
until she’s out of sight or they stop harassing her. This one nearly makes her falter.
They ask about her career, love life, industry gossip. Never has one been so bold as to ask about her political opinions.
She considers a clever reply to avoid a real answer but refrains when a member of hotel security hastily intervenes. She walks
without looking back. The light from the chandelier overhead is suddenly too harsh.
Ada has seen enough of divisive politics, witnessed everything an oppressive government could do. If one comes to this country,
she knows too well what might follow. Last time, though, her efforts to combat it led to loss. Her best was not enough.
With a breath to banish all distractions, she enters the music room with its herringbone floors and colorful glass ceiling
panel glittering like a massive jewel. This is no time to worry about anything except her job. She spent three years working
and hoping for a role like this one. This is her opportunity to prove herself before she must do so for the camera. To flatter
the guests, charm the producers, leave everyone confident in her ability to lead. Including herself.
“Pardon me, are you Ada Worthington-Fox?”
The question comes from an attractive dark-haired man in a tailored suit lingering near the elegantly carved doorframe. Someone involved in the film, perhaps? She awaits him, hoping her smile hides her nerves.
“I’ve heard a lot about you—your talent, your parties, your beauty.” Although she laughs, the approving look he gives her
quickly disappears when he steps closer. “And that you turned down an anti-Soviet film in 1944. Why did you refuse the part?”
She remembers the job clearly; she was tempted to accept it. But a role in such a film meant engaging in politics and war
after she had fled a country torn apart by both. Doing so would have transported her back to that time, might have left her
shattered and shaking in the middle of the shoot, and then the new life she was curating would have fallen apart. So she said
no, gave some excuse as to why the part didn’t appeal to her.
What sort of producer or investor—if this man is either—would ask such a question now? This is not the time to discuss past
career decisions. His light brown eyes are focused too intently on her, but she gives a dismissive chuckle.
“You mean the part playing a soldier’s wife? You tell me, darling: Do I strike you as a convincing girl next door?”
In truth, Ada has nothing against housewives or playing one, but a subtle reference to the sultry past role that earned her
acclaim is certain to distract. Instead, her companion persists.
“Answer the question, miss. All I want is an explanation, then you can enjoy your party.”
His East Coast accent—New York, perhaps—indicates he’s not from here. Ada glances around. Plenty of people fill the room,
though she and this man stand away from the crowd. Attracting attention discreetly will be impossible if she needs assistance,
and she doesn’t wish to disturb the event. She can only hope he’ll go quietly.
“This is a private event.” She lifts her chin, holding his gaze. “Unless you have a right to be here, you may leave, or I
will ask for your removal.”
He says nothing. Very well, then, if he won’t leave, she will.
Yet when she turns, a grip finds her forearm.
Suddenly this man’s grip is the one that found her in Arnhem when the cold burned her lungs, when the air once fragrant with tulips now smelled of blood, gunsmoke, death.
A time she cannot, will not remember. Certainly not tonight.
“Being a star requires winning the hearts of your public. The public wants a true American, not a Red.” The stranger tightens
his hold, emphasizing his point. “Be careful, Miss Worthington-Fox. Of the company you keep and the roles you do or do not
accept.”
Her blood races. To anyone else, he probably looks like a man leaning close to be heard over the din, not one threatening
her for reasons she can’t fathom. Like that June day in Arnhem when the Orpo officer cautioned her against associating with
her dance instructor.
The grip relaxes. She pulls free while he tips his hat, as if this were a cordial exchange, then slips out.
Ada stares after him, her cheeks burning. Had this man accused her of being anti-American because she had turned down a job
opportunity?
Drawing a breath, she steadies herself. Past roles, past lives, and strange conversations with strange men will not disturb
her when so much relies on this evening.
A featherlight touch brushes against her shoulder. A young woman—hotel staff, judging by her uniform—regards Ada with the
adoration often directed toward celebrities, a look Ada is experiencing more often now that the public is taking increased
notice of her. Venturing a generous guess, Ada supposes she can’t be more than eighteen. The girl makes no attempt to school
her face into something more professional. Instead she beams, blushes, looks down, and offers a small envelope.
“A message for you, Miss Worthington-Fox.”
Nodding, Ada accepts it. Perhaps Gordon called to wish her luck and express his regrets over missing the evening. She breaks
the seal, extracts the paper, and reads.
You cannot hide.
Nothing more. No name, no signature, nothing. A single typewritten note. She looks at the envelope again, confirming the name
typed on the front is hers. Her breaths sharpen, just as they did the last time she found an envelope with her name and a
message addressed to Aleida de Vos.
It was not him that time. This time might be different.
The employee is already exiting, so Ada rushes after her and touches her arm. When she turns, that same mixture of terror,
elation, and disbelief crosses her face; this is hardly the time to behave like the self-appointed president of Ada’s fan
club.
“Did someone deliver this in person?” Ada demands. “Did you ask for a name?”
The girl blushes. “No, ma’am, I . . . well, I guess I got distracted watching all the celebrities arrive for this event. I
just moved here from down South and it’s my second week on the job, but I want to be in show business, so—what I mean is,
I found the note on the desk. I didn’t notice who delivered it.” Her lip quivers; any moment now, she’s bound to burst into
tears. “Is something wrong? Whatever it is, I’ll fix it, and I’ll pay more attention next time. Please don’t tell my boss.”
Next time hardly does Ada any good. And if this aspiring actress wants a speaking role in anything other than westerns, she’s got to
smooth out that twang. Still, recently Ada was a starstruck girl fighting for her place in Hollywood. She tucks the envelope
into her handbag, settling the current racing through her.
“No, you needn’t worry. Everything is quite all right.” Once the employee departs, Ada feels like every word from the note
is burned into her chest.
She is hiding so many things. And whoever sent this note is aware.
She must not jump to conclusions after she’s already been interrogated about her political views and criticized for turning down a previous job.
The article Gordon was reading about exposing Communists returns to her mind.
Are others similarly concerned about Ada’s views?
She looks around, seeking someone who might settle the uncertainty in her chest, until she locates a portly, middle-aged fellow—Russell Hendrix, head of Hendrix Productions, the studio behind her upcoming film. When she joins him, he beams.
“Miss Worthington-Fox, don’t you look ravishing?”
“Only the best for you, Mr. Hendrix,” she teases while he takes her hand and kisses it, then she drops her voice. “Sir, I’ve
noticed the industry has taken a growing interest in certain . . .” She searches for a way to phrase it delicately. “Political
matters. I’ve been questioned about my own views, so if this is a concern of yours too, or something I should—”
“Not at all, my dear, not at all.” He pats the hand still in his grasp. “If the public has a problem with me, my pictures,