Chapter 17 Ada
Ada
In the middle of Gordon’s library, Ada stands half naked, exposing that dreadful mark that has violated her body for the past
four years. She watches as her sister’s face contorts—first with confusion, then open-mouthed shock as she presses a hand
to her own chest.
Such a reaction is not unexpected yet confirms what Ada already knows: No one, not even her sister, will view her the same
way after knowing her body has been desecrated at a Nazi’s hand.
This was a mistake. To involve Ingrid in her past, to show her this scar, all of it.
At last Ingrid speaks unsteadily. “Dietrich did this to you?”
“To the other women in my cell too. Likely many more.” Ada looks down, suddenly unable to meet Ingrid’s gaze. “When Mother
arranged my release, Dietrich told her it was a misunderstanding. She believed I was held, nothing more.”
“Mother arranged your release?”
The surprise is apparent in Ingrid’s voice, but the usual scowl at the mention of Mother is not present. Mother did try to be a decent parent at times, even if Ingrid never expected as much.
“I couldn’t contradict Dietrich, so I never corrected his lie to tell her what really happened. I’ve never told anyone until
now.” The silence is crushing. Ada dresses, her eyes downcast, then she continues with a wry chuckle. “Thank God it’s not
somewhere obvious. Between my brassiere and makeup, it’s always covered, even around my dressers on set. And I only allow
them to dress or undress me up to a point.”
Ingrid is quiet, absorbing the information. At last, a gentle hand finds Ada’s.
“Never be ashamed of a sign of your resilience. Your survival. And I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
After returning from the Oranjehotel, it was all she wanted: reassurance and comfort. All these years later, she has it, despite
every unwarranted fear to the contrary. She gives Ingrid’s hand a grateful squeeze before releasing her. Perhaps no one else
will ever know of this scar. The fact that her sister does somehow makes the weight less crushing.
“When you were together, did Vince—?”
“That is hardly your business.” Such a rational question doesn’t deserve the snap that comes out unbidden. Indeed, Ingrid
startles in response, then Ada looks away. “We never . . . I never . . . let him.”
Even now, the reminder of her greatest struggle during her time with Vince brings heat to her cheeks. Every kiss, every touch,
every caress left her aching for more. Yet every time more became a possibility, she felt the scar as acutely as if it were being seared into her flesh again. And every time, it led
to some excuse to keep him from anything further.
Perhaps that was partially why she ended things. Because he deserves someone who can love him and be loved by him in every
possible way.
“Right,” Ingrid says softly. “Well, with your documents and”—she falters, as if seeking a way to phrase it delicately—“and this, and potentially other women who had similar experiences, we might have enough for a case.”
Ada nods, breathing a little more easily. It’s a start, anyway.
“Do you need copies of the documents? Take them, if so, then return the originals once you’re finished. I don’t want anything
submitted to the authorities until we’re certain something will be done; otherwise my documents will end up in some forgotten
file. Don’t show them to anyone without my consent.”
Ingrid agrees, so Ada excuses herself to fetch an envelope from her office, Sowerby following at her heels. This is the first
time she’s spoken so openly of the past to anyone. Now she can almost sense the ache in her feet after a blackout performance,
feel the resistance funds as she tucks them into her pointe shoes, smell the crisp night air as she delivers the money on
her way home.
She will never know if Madame Bellamy survived. The night of her release, she went underground and explained her circumstances
to trusted contacts, who immediately sent a hefty bribe to a willing guard at the Oranjehotel. She waited for a few hours
until she heard Madame Bellamy had been smuggled out, then she could afford to wait no longer. As for whether her former instructor
survived beyond that night, she does not know. Such a weight will never grow lighter, shouldered by a strength and endurance
it is her responsibility alone to find. There are worse things to live with than uncertainty.
When she reaches her office, she stops. The door is ajar. Last night she left it closed—didn’t she?
“Am I going mad, Sowerby?”
The little dog cocks his head, as if pondering how to phrase his opinion tactfully.
With her heart suddenly pounding, Ada eases the door open. Nothing is amiss. The artwork is on the walls, her desk organized,
her script for Lady Bella Donna open to the scene she rehearsed yesterday.
Then she notices something on the pages—a sealed envelope. Like the one she received at the Biltmore. She extracts the message as everything inside her grows heavy.
I know your secret.
Someone found her first at the Biltmore, then here. Someone who claims to know her secret—perhaps her true identity or what
she took from Arnhem.
With the note and the envelope for Ingrid in hand, Ada returns to the library, her heart aching against a chest that tightens
with every step. Unless an uninvited guest breached security to leave this note, only two people from last night were new
additions to the group: Ingrid and Archie Stribling.
Her sister couldn’t have done this. What cause did Ingrid have to leave menacing notes? She’s never been shy about asking—or
demanding—answers when she wants them. Not Ingrid. She does not make sense.
Archie Stribling, on the other hand, might.
“Do you remember the man from the announcement party who asked me about the role I declined?” she asks when she rejoins Ingrid.
“He bullied his way into last night’s party, and I just found this.”
Ingrid takes the offered note, then reads it silently. “Might he have been a reporter? If your politics have become a topic
of interest among the press, perhaps he was seeking information and got cunning with his methods. Parties are an excellent
opportunity to pry unnoticed.” She indicates the note. “Maybe he believes you’re a Communist but has no proof, so he’s trying
to frighten you into an admission.”
It’s a possibility. But a stronger possibility has taken root in Ada’s mind ever since the note from the announcement party.
Mr. Stribling threatened his way into the event; of course there was a reason for his eagerness, something beyond a simple
bluff.
“If someone sent him?” she asks quietly.
Surely Ada would have noticed Dietrich himself at the Biltmore event, certainly in Gordon’s home. But if Dietrich is alive,
he might have hired Mr. Stribling, might have sent him to both the Biltmore and Gordon’s with messages meant to frighten her.
To let her know he had found her. Perhaps even to steal the evidence, though clearly Mr. Stribling did not find it if he was
looking for it.
Guilt presses upon her chest, shortening her breaths. Her past might have brought evil to her agent’s house, just as she did
to her dance teacher’s in Arnhem. She can’t tell Gordon about Dietrich, though, certainly not with the uneasiness present
in his warm brown eyes ever since the incident at his party meeting. Ada can’t have him worrying about her too.
She takes the note back from Ingrid. These are efforts to frighten her, to silence her, to control her, the same as he did
in Arnhem. No more. She has protected her new life with everything she has, but if fear controls her, she will be no freer
now than she was then.
“I want to make a public statement. About my views regarding the industry.”
Ingrid stares at her. “You do?”
Ada nods. “Not until filming is over so Mr. Hendrix won’t replace me.” Her gaze falls to the note again. “A statement won’t
make a difference in my career, I don’t suppose, because the industry controls how I’m portrayed, so there’s only so much
I can do to influence such matters. An offensive image can be rehabilitated, or a spotless one can be ruined, all depending
on what those in power decide. If the film does well, Mr. Hendrix will want me, so he’ll forgive me for going against his
advice even if he’s not happy with me. Or conversely, even if I obey his every whim, the film could fail, or he could decide
not to sign me on to anything else. So I might as well do what I want.”
Ingrid considers a moment, then she nods. “I realize this isn’t a decision you’ve made lightly, and I’m proud of you. If you don’t want to speak to anyone directly to make the arrangements, I’ll do it. As your assistant,” she adds with a faint smile.
“That would probably be best. If I call a reporter to arrange a statement, they won’t let me off the phone until I give it.”
Ada chuckles, then she draws a steadying breath. “Speaking freely in Arnhem meant getting yourself or your loved ones killed,
so we resisted in silence. But the war taught me I’m never as protected as I think I am. Whether I speak out or I’m silent,
if someone wants to hurt me, he will. And I’m tired of letting him keep that power over me.”
Ingrid’s brow furrows. “What are you saying?”
“Being more open to the public will show Dietrich I’m not trying to hide from him. If he can’t keep me silent, he’ll come
for me and the evidence I took.”
“No, you can’t bait that man. Let me talk to my contacts, then we can lure him into a controlled setting.”
“He won’t be predictable enough for something like that. We have the evidence, don’t we? That’s our case. All we need is him.”
She places a reassuring hand over Ingrid’s. “If these messages are from him, he already knows where I am, doesn’t he? He could
confront me at any time. The only reason he hasn’t yet is because it’s more fun for him to taunt me first.”
“Right, antagonize the man who tortured countless women and did God knows what else. Brilliant idea,” Ingrid retorts sarcastically,
turning aside as she begins to pace.
“Isn’t the advantage of being a public figure to make a difference with my influence, my position, my celebrity? If I expose
him as a war criminal, he can’t disappear. Even if nothing comes of it, or if the government offers him a deal, I’ll have
shown the public and my fans who I really am, and who he is. That will be stronger than any statement.”
Ingrid’s jaw clenches, but she seems to realize Ada is right. “Hattie works for the FBI. I’ll see if she can find any information about him. And if there’s anything else I should know that might help, please tell me.”
Ada nods, then she tucks the evidence into the envelope and offers it to Ingrid—her hands steady, unlike the night when she
held these documents for the first time.
Following her arrest, Dietrich had made one critical mistake: He left her alive. That night, after her release, she lay awake,
listening until long after the sounds of his and Mother’s lovemaking grew quiet. Then she rose, changed into a dress, and
slipped into their bedroom.
There, they slept soundly, their clothes on the floor. He lay on his back, his head toward Aleida. Any moment now he would
open his eyes, catch her, finish what he started in the Oranjehotel.
Her bare feet muffled her footsteps, then she knelt beside Dietrich’s trousers and slipped a hand into each pocket. Nothing.
She moved on to his tunic and felt it—a solid piece of metal.
A key.
Dietrich shifted.
Aleida didn’t breathe, didn’t move, didn’t release the key. Not until his breathing regulated. Then she returned to her bedroom,
grabbed a small bag of belongings, her coat, shoes, and her copy of The Secret Garden, and proceeded downstairs to the study, where she unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Through the darkness, she crept to the desk drawers and file cabinets. No time to delay. She opened one, rifled to the bottom
of the stack, and examined the documents. She stifled a gasp. Orders for a mass execution of Jews that, according to the date,
had been carried out a few months ago. Too late to prevent, she realized with sickening dread. She grabbed a few more slips
of paper, then found a list of names in Mother’s handwriting.
At this, she paused. What if he had forced Mother to betray people the same way he had ordered Aleida to list resistance members?
Mother might not have had a choice. But if Mother was posing as a Nazi supporter to earn Dietrich’s trust, leaving evidence of Mother’s guilt would indicate Aleida did not want to incriminate her, perhaps even did not believe her actions were authentic.
To keep her protected, Aleida had to pretend she believed Mother was a fascist.
Except she did not know what she believed anymore.
So she took the list.
One last drawer, then she could afford no more time. There, she found a camera.
Aleida took pictures of the office and her documents, pulled out the film cartridge, replaced it with a new one, and returned
the camera. She left everything exactly as she found it, tucked the papers and film into her copy of The Secret Garden, and hurried to the front door, where she pulled on her coat and shoes. With shaking hands and painstaking movements, she
eased the door open, certain the creaking hinges would awaken the two upstairs. When the gap was wide enough for her to pass
through, she looked around her childhood home one last time, hid the book under her coat, and slipped out into the night.
Perhaps she should have left the documents; the camera film was enough. But she wanted Dietrich to notice the missing paperwork
someday. To know someone had proof of his crimes no matter how this war ended. To live in fear.
To know that, as long as she had evidence, his life belonged to her.