Chapter 39 Ada
Ada
Mr. Stribling must take her arm, though Ada can’t feel him. Nor can she tell if she’s placing one foot in front of the other
or if the cameras around her are flashing. Nothing is happening, no one fills this cavernous room, only her and her sister.
Her sister.
Ada has misunderstood, surely. Ingrid must be here to support her—although if that were true, wouldn’t she be sitting among
the spectators? She will explain, will ease the constriction closing around Ada with every aching beat of her heart. Except
something deep inside Ada rejects the notion, pummels her with the truth standing before her.
Finding her way back to Ingrid made it worthwhile—the war, the suffering, all of it. Ingrid has always been home, comfort,
acceptance. Until now. The one constant familiarity in her life is unfamiliar. What was it all for if she’s the same abandoned,
rejected soul now that she was then? Aleida, Ada, whoever she is.
She lost her sister to war, to separation, to time. She cannot lose her to betrayal.
When Ada reaches her seat, Ingrid finds her own. Not a step toward Ada, not a second look, nothing further. She might as well have marched across the room and shoved Ada into her chair, given the way Ada’s legs no longer support her.
“Mr. Stribling,” she manages, “do you know Mrs. Van Essen personally?”
“She’s my coworker. A private investigator.” A devilish grin pulls at his lips. “A relative of yours, isn’t she?”
That smirk gives her every confirmation regarding who is responsible for Ada being here. The nausea in her stomach threatens
to overtake her.
Ingrid van Essen, a private investigator.
She could have refused the assignment, warned Ada, anything. Instead she carried it out, so here they are.
No time to dwell on distractions. She must get through this hearing, then she can concentrate on Ingrid.
Once settled, she glances at Vince. His jaw is set as he stares at the committee; if he’s noticed Ingrid, he gives no indication.
He meets Ada’s gaze and offers an encouraging nod. The simple gesture instills her with the comfort she needs. She pushes
aside the ache twisting her heart and faces the men before her.
Maybe she no longer has Ingrid, but she’s not as entirely alone as a girl in Arnhem once was.
First are the formalities—who she is, where she’s from, how she started in the industry, when she began working with Gordon.
Chairman Thomas regards her the way so many in her industry do. As if sitting before him is a young woman he can use to his
advantage. But he, like the others, will learn she’s not so naive when it comes to encounters with powerful men.
When it comes to encounters with her own sister, well, Ada cannot say the same.
“During the war, you were offered a part in a film portraying a soldier’s wife, encouraging Americans to stay American: not fascist, not Communist, but democratic.
An opportunity for a woman like yourself, an immigrant who found refuge in this country, to express her gratitude and patriotism. Instead, you turned it down. Why?”
Ada fights to draw a calming breath. This is really happening, then. She must defend a choice she made years ago to this group
of strangers seeking to demonize her for it.
“My decision was not politically motivated.” Her voice is clear, level. “My experiences during the war were too recent for
me to be comfortable playing a soldier’s wife, that’s all.”
Ada keeps her head forward, yet the flare of red hair is a beacon in her peripheral vision. She shifts her gaze to Ingrid.
Her sister scribbles in a notepad with alarming speed.
“Your Star Society parties are well attended by those in the entertainment industry, including union members and confirmed
Communists. Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? Is that why you refused to partake in aiding
the war effort and why you host a Communist front organization?”
A front organization? Her insides churn, as if she’s been violated but can’t quite make out how.
Aside from the obvious violation of her own sister’s betrayal, of course. All this time, Ingrid has encouraged her to make
a statement, to clarify her views. She did, and as she feared, what she says or does not say never seems to matter. Silence
and statements can both be powerful, both damning. Both useless now.
“With all due respect, Mr. Thomas and the esteemed members of this committee, the parties I host are simply parties.”
A paper rustles, then Chairman Thomas brandishes a document.
“I have a transcript from a conversation between you and a guest at one of your recent gatherings. The guest stated, and I quote: ‘A friend was subpoenaed, but he wants to cooperate.’ To which you replied: ‘Well, I simply won’t stand for this.’” The chairman looks up.
“You claim your parties are innocent, yet you were discouraging cooperation with these proceedings?”
Ada can hardly speak and glances briefly at Ingrid, who is also staring with a look that might be shock or confusion, but
Ada doesn’t evaluate her long enough to decipher it. This is nonsense, all nonsense. Ada vaguely remembers making such a remark
in reference to a guest’s empty glass. Not about politics. She hadn’t even known what the men were talking about when she
stumbled upon them, and now her words have been taken and twisted to serve this purpose.
“Sir, I never discouraged cooperation! Am I not here cooperating with you?”
“Known Communists have also been photographed at these events, gathered together in conversation.” He holds up a collection
of images she can’t make out from her distance. “Given the example previously stated, it’s reasonable to conclude the nature
of such conversations.”
Photographs at her private party? Those would have come from a guest, then—Ingrid, surely, even as the thought makes beads
of sweat form along her brow. Everything Ingrid witnessed—every innocent interaction, every conversation, every party attendee—she
turned into a weapon for her case.
“You reside with your agent, Gordon Sharpe, in Hollywood Hills?”
This change in tactic does nothing to ease the knots twisting her stomach. To ask about her politics is one matter; if they
ask about Gordon’s, what right does she have to answer such questions?
“Yes, sir. I was tired of boardinghouses.”
“Has Mr. Sharpe ever made advances toward you?”
“Of course not.” Ada does not bother keeping the ire from her voice. Were these sorts of questions posed to everyone at these
hearings, or simply to women?
“You mean to tell me this man lives with you, a beautiful young woman, and has never attempted to entice you into his bed?”
“Men are quite capable of maintaining professional relationships, of treating women with respect, of controlling themselves.
Thank God for the decent ones who do so. All you’ve proven is that Mr. Sharpe is a gentleman.”
“Is Gordon Sharpe a homosexual and a member of the Communist Party?” the chairman presses, his face and neck flaring red.
Ada flattens her palms against her skirt to keep her hands from shaking, uncertain if an answer would help her and Gordon
or condemn them. “Sir, is this hearing about me or about my agent? Please don’t ask me to speak to anyone else’s views or
thoughts or opinions.”
“Watch your mouth, miss, or I’ll hold you in contempt.” Chairman Thomas lets the threat sink in. “I’ll make this easy for
you. Tell me about the Communists who attend your gatherings and answer in regard to Mr. Sharpe, then we will be finished
here.”
The air in her lungs turns shallow. All her life, she has played whatever part has been required of her. This is a part she
cannot, will not play. Again, he demands her compliance. She hardly hears him, unable to focus on anything other than the
ache squeezing tighter and tighter in her chest.
She is here because of Ingrid. Because of her own flesh and blood.
And suddenly the pain is too great. She springs to her feet and snatches the small microphone and stand, bringing it close
to her mouth to be heard over the banging of the chairman’s gavel and the orders for her removal.
“I am not a Communist, and I do not run a Communist front organization! Ask me or anyone who knows me, read the exclusives I’ve given to the press—these accusations are baseless, the results of lies or fabricated evidence or whatever it is you used to justify bringing me here.
And I will leave, Chairman Thomas, but first I have a question for one of your private investigators, Ingrid van Essen. My sister.”
The banging gavel stills, the shouts stop, the bailiff surging toward her freezes, and Ingrid stares at Ada in utter shock.
The microphone trembles in her hand, matching the shake in Ada’s voice as she holds Ingrid’s gaze.
“How could you do this?”
The shutters and flashes of the cameras are the only sound as Ada places the microphone back on the table. Her vision blurs
so much she can hardly see as she steps away from the small table. She walks past the bailiff, past Mr. Stribling, even past
Vince, who is on his feet and pushing through the crowd toward her.
Nothing will make Ingrid understand the gravity of what she’s done. Not a statement, not a declaration of their blood relation,
not even a question of her loyalty.
Ingrid might be standing in this room, and Ada might have spent this last year believing she found her sister again. But the
sister Ada knew no longer exists.