Chapter 32 Ingrid
Ingrid
A few days after the Star Society party, Ingrid wishes she were at Lucey’s—her usual spot, given the number of stars who frequent
the restaurant, making it ideal for eavesdropping on idle gossip—instead of the small diner Agent Stieber selected. It’s for
the best, though, so she won’t risk an encounter with Beverly if Ada’s friend is working today. Beverly would certainly tell
Ada about Ingrid’s clandestine meeting with a strange man, then Ada would ask for answers Ingrid cannot give.
While she waits for her handler, she reads a recent copy of The Dish, rolling her eyes at Mrs. Musgrave's comment implying Vince spent the night with Ada after the film premiere when, in fact,
the celebration lasted all night, so no one left Gordon’s before dawn. Not even Ingrid.
When Stieber joins her, they order lunch, then he steeples his fingers together. “Your initial report was thorough, Mrs. Van
Essen, which is exactly what I asked of you. However, we asked you to resume this case because we still have lingering concerns
regarding the actress and her colleagues, many of whom have questionable associations.”
Never has Ingrid felt so exposed, hearing him discuss her report.
All those names. That’s the purpose of this, though, isn’t it?
To protect the country from subversives.
To protect subversives from themselves before they do something they regret.
So often people are misguided, swayed by pretty words or seemingly convincing actions, unable to recognize lies and manipulation until it’s too late.
This work—her work—and the hearings are meant to help those people. To caution those who need cautioning.
She forces herself to meet his gaze. “Sir, Miss Worthington-Fox’s associates include everyone from registered Communists to
members of the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals. She, like most Americans, has friends who
are left wing, right wing, liberal, conservative—”
“Have you located her Communist Party card number? Evidence of support of Communist causes? Confirmed her front organization?”
His light blue eyes meet Ingrid’s. “She is a Red, is she not?”
Stieber is strict, meticulous, determined. Never this harsh, this critical, this . . . frightening. He looks as if he might
close his hands around Ingrid’s neck if her answer is unsatisfactory. The charged silence fills the space. She holds his unblinking
gaze, keeps her response neutral and professional even as she fights the urge to flee.
“No, sir, Miss Worthington-Fox is not a Communist. As noted in my report, she told me herself and made her public statement,
and I haven’t uncovered evidence to the contrary.”
“Only a subversive would agree to star in a film directed by a Communist Jew.” At such vitriol, Ingrid nearly winces. “The
hearings in Washington will take place in a few months, and I need evidence before then.”
Under the table, she presses her palms into her seat.
Something crosses his face too quickly for her to determine what it is before it disappears.
Why does something about this discussion feel like it’s tarnishing the nature of her investigation?
Her own frustrations are impacting her interpretation of the conversation, she supposes.
The dignity of their work remains intact; he is simply convinced Ada is subversive and believes proof is there, even though Ingrid has failed to find it.
“Did you confirm the front organization at the Star Society event following her film premiere?”
Why is he so insistent on confirmation of the front when disproving it is just as likely? From her briefcase, Ingrid extracts
the guest list, which includes stars of all political affiliations, then a recording and a transcript.
“Any political talk was no different from the other documentation I’ve submitted to you, sir. Talk of Communism is related
to industry discussions, not discussions one would expect at a front meeting. And I’ve looked all over the house and found
no evidence she or her agent are spies or anything other than honest.”
Stieber accepts the transcript, and Ingrid sits while he reads, remembering the two unknown men in conversation before Ada
interrupted.
Do you know anyone caught up in these hearings?
A friend was subpoenaed, but he wants to cooperate.
Well, I simply won’t stand for this! An empty glass at my party? Come along, darling, let’s get you a refill.
Two men remarking on industry circumstances before Ada apparently noticed the empty glasses and approached. Harmless, innocent
conversation. Similar ones took place all night. The next day, Ingrid spent hours painstakingly transcribing to have it all
finished before this meeting. At last, Agent Stieber nods and returns the paper.
“Miss Worthington-Fox has also given another exclusive to further reassure the public of her openness and honesty,” Ingrid
adds. “It will publish next week.”
His expression remains impossible to read, then he nods again. “Get me a copy of the exclusive and gather as much information as you can prior to the hearings in Washington. If you’re correct about her, we must be certain.”
At least he’s willing to consider the possibility that Ingrid’s original findings were accurate—because they were. All she
must do is convince him. Which is proving far more difficult than anticipated.
When Ingrid returns to the Biltmore, she opens her hotel room door to find an envelope on the ground. She freezes, heart racing,
staring at it. No name, no markings, nothing.
Someone must have pushed it beneath the door, or else forced their way inside and left it. She skirts the envelope and looks
around, ensuring nothing is missing and no one is hiding, before picking it up. Inside she finds a couple of documents along
with a letter in a script that brings immediate warmth to her chest.
My darling friend,
Don’t be angry: Remember the agent I’ve been seeing from work? Since secretaries don’t have access to everything, I enlisted
his help in finding information on Gregor Dietrich. I didn’t think you’d mind if I shared your request with him since I needed
the help, and I can’t exactly ask you for permission right now, can I? We’ve been busy with HUAC and the hearings, so we haven’t
had much time for research, but we did find this.
My fellow is part of the same assignment as you and is traveling there this week—don’t worry, he kept everything confidential—so
he offered to deliver our findings when he arrives. I thought you should see them sooner rather than later.
I’ll keep looking, and so will he when he’s able. Call me if you’re permitted, should you want to talk.
And, Ingrid? I don’t really know what to say, except I’m so terribly sorry.
xx,
Hattie
With hands that suddenly shake, Ingrid extracts the first document and sinks onto the bed to read.
Everything is in German, of which she knows very little, but it appears to be orders of some sort. Across the bottom is a
signature that sends a chill across Ingrid’s skin: Gregor Dietrich. Whatever this is, it’s something he authorized.
The second document is a translation of the report—God bless Hattie. Ingrid places the two side by side. An order from the
Ordnungspolizei dated 1942, listing prominent Dutchmen and intellectuals being held hostage in retaliation for resistance
activities, followed by orders for their execution.
Ingrid can hardly read through her blurry vision: The men were taken to a forest, ordered to dig their own graves, tied to
stakes, and shot, then their bodies hastily buried and their graves left unmarked. She must continue until she finds the name
she knows she will find, because Hattie’s closing and this terrible feeling in her chest indicate it will be here. She will
find it because she owes it to him. To his bravery, his sacrifice, his unwavering commitment to his beliefs even to the point
of death.
At last, she moves the papers aside to avoid staining them with her tears. She has found it. The final name listed among those
executed: her grandfather, Bernard de Vos.
The tears steal her strength, her breath, her will to do anything except curl onto the bed and sob. She never told him she went to America, never even told him goodbye before she left Arnhem. And now he’s gone. Taken by the same man who invaded her childhood home and her mother’s bed.
Not only did Gregor Dietrich torture her sister. He authorized her grandfather’s murder.