Chapter 12 Ada
Ada
A few days later, after a dress fitting for the outfit she plans to wear at next Saturday’s Star Society gathering, Ada visits
the Biltmore to invite Ingrid downstairs for a drink. In a far corner of the bar, they find a secluded leather banquette,
“Politics and law,” Ada says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Some things never change.”
Ingrid nods, chuckling. “To Mother’s great disappointment, if she were here to know as much.” Then she looks to her drink,
as if to find the confidence to continue. “Do you know if . . . if she . . . ?”
No need to finish. Ada shakes her head.
“I’m not certain.”
When Ada fled, Mother was alive. She doesn’t know what happened to her throughout the war’s remaining years. Perhaps she never
will.
How strange it is, contemplating what happened to someone who might not deserve her sympathy or concern.
Yet so often people are misguided; they face choices that are not real choices at all, do what they feel they must. People can change.
Perhaps Ingrid is right about Mother’s fascist leanings, or perhaps Ada is right to cling to hope, to believe Mother wanted to do the right thing even when her choices seemed to reflect the opposite.
Maybe she was just trying to survive, the same as everyone else.
“And Opa?” Ingrid continues, her voice barely a whisper.
“Arrested in May of 1942 for his anti-Nazi views,” she replies quietly. “I never heard more.”
Ingrid swallows hard, so Ada takes her hand, providing what meager comfort she can. It is one of the worst parts of survival:
not knowing the fates of those most dear. After a moment, Ingrid smooths an errant lock of hair before attempting to speak
more brightly.
“Are you still dancing?”
“If the part requires it. Not ballet anymore.”
“No? Ballet was your favorite.”
Indeed it was; part of her misses it terribly. The rigorous training, the elegant movements, the power within her own body.
Another part can’t bring herself to step into pointe shoes. Not since Arnhem.
The silence, once comfortable, now feels like pinpricks across Ada’s skin. Ingrid, too, shifts in her seat.
“You really haven’t told anyone?” Ingrid lowers her voice. “About your past? Not even your agent?”
“Him least of all,” Ada replies, matching Ingrid’s tone. How could she risk destroying such a lovely relationship? “Have you told anyone?”
“Nobody cares about my life. I’m not in the public eye, so it doesn’t matter as much. You’re a celebrity. Everyone wants to
know everything about you, and if we hope to find”—Ingrid pauses—“him, I thought you might have mentioned something to your agent about it, in case word gets out.”
Finding him is even more reason to keep the truth from becoming public knowledge. If the press finds out Gordon represents a woman who spent the war in a household of fascists, hers will not be the only ruined career. Which is why Ada and Ingrid must handle it quietly.
“It’s not a bad idea, you know. To address your views regarding certain matters.” When Ada sighs, knowing exactly what her
sister is implying, Ingrid leans closer. “I’m asking you this because I care about you, so please answer me honestly and don’t
get angry: Are you a Communist?”
Ingrid’s eyes are bright, filled with something more intense than concern. A genuine fear Ada has so rarely seen in her. Ada
glances around to ensure no one is eavesdropping.
“This really is not the place to discuss such things,” she whispers. “No, I am not. Now can we please change the subject?”
Visible relief sweeps over Ingrid. “Well, then, it’s simple: Give a statement to clarify your political opinions. You don’t
have to talk about the war, but remember the man who asked you about the role you declined? Out of concern for your reputation,
you should eliminate cause for speculation.”
“People will speculate no matter what I say, so why bother?”
“For your sake, not theirs. Yes, people might form their own theories, but they will also listen to you.”
Despite a sigh, Ada can’t prevent the warmth brought on by her sister’s words. Leave it to Ingrid to be worried about how
politics might affect her. Concerns of Communist influences have overtaken her industry; Ada is well aware. And Ada does not
like the idea of speaking about her private life simply because of public pressure.
Ada Worthington-Fox has built a reputation for privacy so she can avoid such topics.
No one will wonder why she’s keeping quiet.
But Aleida de Vos watched suspicions and accusations tear through her community in Arnhem.
If speculations begin to circulate, her carefully curated persona cannot protect her from everything.
Certainly not from the man who might have found her, who might have sent her the anonymous note at her casting announcement party, who will be seeking to take back what she took from him.
“Until any of this gets worse—if it does—there’s no need to say anything, nor will it even make a difference if I do,” she
says.
“Do you want to be mistaken for a Communist, or for people to assume you’re a sympathizer?”
“I told you, the studio and those in power are the ones who control the narrative in Hollywood. Mr. Hendrix already told me
to keep quiet and he’ll keep me away from controversy. If I disobey him, he can easily put me in the middle of the controversy
instead.”
“Don’t let fear silence you. Maybe the studio can protect you from certain issues, but if concerns about Communist influences
spread, the government will get involved, and then what power will the studio really have?” Ingrid takes Ada’s hand. “A statement
would be wise. Promise me you’ll think about it?”
Clarifying her position will hardly make a difference in the eyes of those who control her career, and if the government does
indeed get involved, perhaps the studio would be powerful enough to keep her safe from them too. Perhaps not. Either way,
it won’t matter as much as Ingrid seems to believe. What matters is whether anyone in Hollywood wants her to continue working,
so she must focus on making the best film possible to ensure she is too valuable an asset to lose. Yet that look in Ingrid’s
eyes—fear, true fear—leaves her inclined to do anything to assuage the one person who knows her, past and politics and all,
to keep that look from overwhelming her again.
“For you, my dearest sister, I will think about it,” Ada says, then she finishes her drink while Ingrid flashes an appreciative
smile. “Well, I’m afraid I must rush off, but this was lovely. And don’t forget about next Saturday.”
After Ingrid nods, Ada proceeds toward the exit. Ahead, a man steps around another patron. When she glimpses his face, she stills. That nosy fellow from Mr. Sternberg’s party, the one who asked her about the anti-Soviet film.
Did he follow her? Whatever this is with him and her career, she’s not going to tolerate it a moment longer. She pursues him
as he crosses the galleria and passes through the archway, then heads down the bronze staircase, across the lobby with its
travertine walls and elaborate arched ceiling, and through the heavy bronze door.
Outside, clouds impede the sun’s warm rays. Ada catches up to the man, who turns at the sound of her approaching footsteps.
“Do you want to know why I turned down that film? Is that why you keep coming around? Because if you want an answer, I don’t
owe you one.” She doesn’t break his gaze as she steps closer. “Leave me alone.”
“Says the woman who came to the hotel where I’m staying and followed me outside.”
His homburg remains low over his face, but not low enough to hide the eager spark in his brown eyes. Undeterred. Confronting
him has not yielded the results she intended. It appears she’s only led him to recognize a new opportunity. When Ada turns,
he moves to block her path.
“Listen, doll, I have ways of finding information, the sort preferably kept quiet. About you. Your agent. That gorgeous redhead
you were visiting.” He dips his head toward the Biltmore. “If I can’t find something useful, I can—embellish, let’s say, if
you catch my meaning.”
Ada glares even as her blood stills. Is he resorting to threats simply because she avoided his question about a past job opportunity?
Yet this can’t be a bluff. He found out about her previous career decisions somehow. He could find out much more. About Arnhem,
even. Or he could fulfill his threat. Embellish is nothing more than a pretty word for lie.
The only thing more ruinous than a lie is the truth.
“Let me attend your next Star Society gathering—just one, unless you wish to extend future invitations, should you find my company irresistible. Or it’s your reputation, Mr. Sharpe’s, and Mrs. Van Essen’s.”
She can’t risk refusing; she’s about to star in a film, for God’s sake. If he’s threatening to start rumors—or uncover worse
than rumors—about her, Gordon, Ingrid, she can’t allow it. And, as Ingrid said, if she’s going to assuage concerns about her
loyalties, it should be through a public statement. Information fed to a stranger can be too easily warped and altered.
“If you attend, you’ll leave us alone?” she asks. “And you won’t pester my friends or make a nuisance of yourself?”
“You have my word.”
That leaves her with little confidence. Still, whoever this man is, she can’t afford to make an enemy of him.
“I will send an invitation with all the details,” she concedes at last. “Bring it with you to be permitted entry. Do we have
an agreement?” She extends a hand, which he accepts.
“Archie Stribling. Now you know the name to add to your guest list.” Mr. Stribling kisses her hand before she can snatch it
away. “Until then, Miss Worthington-Fox. I have no doubt you’ll show me an excellent time.”
Then he continues down the street, whistling a jaunty tune while Ada hails a cab and slips inside, where she closes the hand
that shook his into a fist.
Whatever Mr. Stribling wants can’t be worse than the harm he threatened upon her loved ones. Yet as the car begins its journey,
the deal she’s made stretches over her like the clouds stretching across the sun above. Soon to envelop it completely, to
snuff out the light, to wash the world in darkness.
The public wants a true American, not a Red, he warned her at Mr. Sternberg’s party.
If Mr. Stribling suspects her of Communist leanings, perhaps he’s a reporter or someone hoping to expose her.
Maybe Ingrid made a valid point; maybe she should clarify her views before any rumors begin.
Except, if she defies Mr. Hendrix’s instructions, how will he retaliate?
If she goes against his wishes before filming has even begun, he would have time to cast a replacement, could even slander her name to prevent her from working anywhere else.
If she keeps silent, his promised protection might or might not prove authentic.
If she speaks up, she relinquishes the option entirely.
All she can do is put her faith in Mr. Hendrix, do her best on her film, and hope he meant what he said: He protects his assets.
Until then, she’s protected herself, Gordon, and Ingrid from Mr. Stribling’s threats. For now. Yet she feels no different
than she did the last time she tried to shield a loved one from harm.
As if she herself brought evil to their doorstep.