Chapter 37 Ada
Ada
If Gordon doesn’t stop swimming laps, Ada will drag him out of the pool herself. It’s practically all he’s done since her
subpoena, as if he can’t look at her without imagining that dreadful pink slip.
Sighing, she tosses her magazine aside, rises from her chair, and sits on the edge of the pool. When he passes, she stretches
her leg as far as it can reach, far enough to tap her foot against his shoulder. He stops, breathing heavily and scowling.
“Don’t interrupt me.”
“Then stop ignoring me. Must I remind you that this is not your fault?”
“No? My job is to protect my clients—their images, their careers, and them most of all.” He wipes the water droplets from his face. “I should have mentioned my changed views sooner, never should have
believed my hearing would be the end of it. Of course they’ll come for all of you next.”
Why she was called to a hearing, Ada still can’t understand.
Nor does she like the way it’s provoked memories of the last time she was questioned by authorities—entirely different circumstances, perhaps, considering last time was under occupation by an oppressive regime, but such rationalizations do little to assuage her.
She will soon find out the reason, though.
She leaves tomorrow, and her hearing is Monday morning.
Gordon emerges from the pool, sighing. “Is it better or worse if I offer to go with you?”
“Better, of course.” Ada stands and kisses his cheek, which does little to erase his dubious frown. “But I want you to be
safe, and Sowerby will be much happier if he’s with you while I’m gone, so it’s best if you stay.”
Despite her reassurances, the prospect of traveling leaves Ada’s skin prickling. Appearing before HUAC in Washington, DC,
seems far more undesirable than doing it here, in the comfort of her own city. There, everything is unfamiliar, everyone unknown
to her.
Except Ingrid. Thank God she will have her sister. Ingrid told her not to worry, but Ada’s nerves won’t settle until her twin
is by her side and this is all over.
The back door opens and Vince emerges, wearing swim trunks and carrying a tray with the three martinis he prepared. Gordon
accepts his with a nod of thanks, wraps a towel around his waist, scoops up Sowerby, and disappears inside. Giving the couple
privacy or, more likely, fleeing from Ada’s presence.
Vince watches him go. “Still blaming himself?”
“Naturally.”
Not even Sowerby’s company has been enough to settle Gordon over these last weeks. The thought of leaving him like this makes
Ada’s heart ache as she accepts her drink and returns to her chair.
“He’ll be all right,” Vince says, likely guessing her thoughts. “And even better after you come home.”
He stretches onto the lounge chair beside Ada’s, the muscles across his chest and stomach rippling as he settles. She rolls onto her side to face him.
“You think it’ll be all right, then?”
“How could it not be? You’re not a Communist. Maybe you’ve worked with some, but who hasn’t?” He brushes a lock of hair from
her face—a touch that almost makes her forget her concerns. “They must want confirmation of your views to assuage any remaining
concerns.”
“Then why must it involve a hearing when I’ve already given multiple statements?” She sighs. “This is all so dreadfully extreme.”
Vince chuckles. “Now there’s a suitable slogan for HUAC: ‘Dreadfully extreme.’”
One hearing on Monday, hopefully time for a quick visit with Ingrid, then Ada will come home, Gordon will stop worrying, and
they can forget this ever happened. Until then, she’ll have Vince by her side. Upon hearing about her subpoena, he immediately
volunteered to accompany her. An offer she couldn’t resist.
He glances at her with the look of concern she’s noticed ever since he caught her with a gun and a mysterious note, but he
says nothing. Since the radio program, they haven’t spoken of those messages or who sent them; to Vince’s credit, he hasn’t
pressured her for details. Ada has simply allowed him to infer what he wants to infer. And technically, the messages have
stopped.
As for whether Ingrid is right and they stopped due to Mother taking possession of the evidence, Ada does not know. It’s the
most logical conclusion, yet it still doesn’t feel right.
When the glasses are empty, she climbs onto his chair, straddling him, bringing an immediate spark to his bright blue eyes.
She takes his face in her hands and kisses him deeply, tasting gin, vermouth, brine from the olives he added to his own beverage, salt from the droplets of sweat left by the August sun.
For a moment, just a moment, she can forget everything to come and lose herself in him.
But they have an early flight and Ada still needs to pack, so with a final kiss and a promise to meet her at the airport in
the morning, Vince bids her farewell. Once he’s gone, Ada continues barefoot across the lawn, enjoying the soft grass beneath
her feet, and knocks on the guesthouse door.
“I’m leaving before dawn, so I wanted to tell you goodbye,” she says when Mother answers.
“You’re certain you don’t want me to accompany you?”
Ada shakes her head even as a pang of confusion and hurt and uncertainty constricts in her chest, one she hasn’t been able
to let go. Would a mother who had threatened her daughter be concerned about supporting her through a difficult time? Although
Mother has not behaved any differently since the last exclusive, Ada must know.
“Did you send them?” she asks quietly. “The messages.”
Mother’s brow furrows. “Messages?”
“To discourage me from pursuing a war crimes case.”
“Are you still considering such things? Darling, you must let it go. You’re worrying me. Why did you give me the evidence
if you still intend to use it?”
“Because I intend to use it against him, not against you. Once the hearing is behind me, I need to know what happened to him.”
Mother’s confusion and concern are evident. The reaction Ada expected because Dietrich is certainly responsible for the messages,
even if Ingrid does not agree. Why he hasn’t threatened her since the last exclusive, she does not know, but it’s giving her
time to get through her hearing. Then she’ll tell Ingrid to move forward with the FBI.
When Ada returns to the house, noise down the hall catches her attention. She follows the sound. Gordon is in his office on
the telephone—his voice getting louder, harsher.
“You know I’m right, and if you don’t believe me, believe the fans who couldn’t get enough of her last film. I’m not asking you, Hendrix; I’m telling you: Sign her.”
She pauses near the closed door, her heart pounding. He’s on the phone with Mr. Hendrix, having a conversation that is presumably
about her. And clearly not going well. Recently there was talk of signing her on to an upcoming romantic drama from Hendrix
Productions, so that must be what this is about.
Footsteps sound across his floor, then the pacing stops.
“You begged me to keep Ada’s schedule open for this project, and this is the thanks I get?” A pause, then: “Who told you she
was going before HUAC? And until she’s condemned for something, you can’t drop her just because of— Hello?” The clang and
ding of the receiver as he slams it down, then a heavy sigh and a muttered “goddamnit.”
Without making noise, Ada retreats. Word of her pink slip has reached Mr. Hendrix, apparently. If he’s already decided not
to hire her for anything else, other studio heads will surely hold the same opinions, and then what of her career?
Except she hasn’t been accused of anything. Summoned, nothing more. Ada fights the tension in her stomach. The public knows
she is not a Communist, yet negative impacts to her career are already coming to fruition.
All over a hearing. All when Ingrid said there is nothing to worry about.
Maybe there is still time for Ingrid to be right. Maybe when the hearing is over, those worried about associating with her
will realize their concerns were unnecessary.
Or maybe the outcome doesn’t matter, not when this will follow her. Even if the outcome is favorable, people will whisper
about her, will wonder what sort of secrets Ada Worthington-Fox harbors to have been brought before HUAC.
And once it starts—the talk, the whispers, the rumors—there will be no stopping it. No undoing the damage. A simple suspicion is all it takes to irrevocably alter a life.
Something Ada knows far too well.
When Monday morning comes, stifling in its August heat, Ada and Vince stand before the imposing white marble and limestone
colonnade, entablature, and balustrade of the Cannon House Office Building in Washington, DC, where the hearing is to take
place. Spectators and journalists surround them, but Ada can’t hear anything they say. She can only thread her arm through
Vince’s, lift her head with the confidence that she looks both marvelous and professional in the dress she chose for the occasion,
and walk inside.
There, the shuttering cameras and bellowing voices fade. The quiet is almost unnerving.
With the quiet come memories of booted footsteps, forceful thuds of heavy objects against bodies, desperate pleas and sobs
as guards ushered her down the halls of the Oranjehotel. She bites her lip, needing the pain to keep her present, grounded,
focused. This is not the war. Not the same as last time. She is not under arrest, not facing torture, not alone.
Outside the Caucus Room, more people eagerly await photographs and information. Some spectators even approach Ada and Vince,
asking for autographs, until a young woman who looks like an assistant ushers the actors into another room, instructing them
to wait until summoned.
They take their seats. Ada keeps her hand in Vince’s, his strong, assured grasp slowing her pounding heart. After a few minutes,
the door opens, followed by the same woman’s voice.
“Miss Worthington-Fox, the committee is ready for you.”
Except then the woman’s voice is overtaken by the German one echoing around Ada’s mind: On your feet, Aleida de Vos.
She closes her eyes against a shudder. She can do this, must do this. This is not a Gestapo interrogation; this is a hearing.
Only a hearing.
Once they reach the Caucus Room, the doors open to welcome them into a massive space glittering with crystal chandeliers and
grand marble pillars, thick with heat from the crowds packed inside and the klieg lights alongside the newsreel cameras. Ada
draws a deep breath, channeling not the actress she portrays but the woman she is, the one she allowed the world to see in
her exclusives. Herself, honest and open, because only that woman has the power to assuage whatever concerns will be presented
today.
“Mr. Hart, you may sit there, and Miss Worthington-Fox, follow me.”
A man’s voice. One Ada recognizes.
After Vince kisses her cheek and departs, Ada doesn’t move. The dark-haired man now grinning at her is none other than Archie
Stribling.
What a fool she is. She never trusted this man after he inserted himself into her world, although she never fully explored
her suspicions, perhaps too afraid of where they might lead.
“It was you. My agent, me, these hearings, you’re responsible for all of it.”
“All of it?” He laughs. “You give me too much credit, doll. If I had been responsible for you, you and I would have gotten
much better acquainted.”
He offers a salacious wink, then gestures for her to accompany him, but she doesn’t.
“Why am I here? If not because of you, who is responsible?”
Mr. Stribling won’t reveal that answer even if he knows it, a realization almost as infuriating as the arm he offers her.
Glaring, Ada refuses and turns toward the seat he indicated: a table, a chair, and a small microphone in a stand, facing the chairman.
She only takes a few steps before she stops.
A woman stands at the far end of the room, engaged in a fervent conversation with another man. Ada cannot tear her gaze off
the woman, the one wearing a neat, tailored skirt and jacket with her red hair pulled back into a tight bun. The woman who
doesn’t notice Ada until the man walks away. Then she stares with wide, piercing blue eyes while everything inside Ada turns
too delicate, too fragile, preparing to shatter completely.
From across the Caucus Room floor, Ada stares at Ingrid, who stands among countless men in suits—members of the FBI, without
a doubt, and the House Un-American Activities Committee.