Chapter 43 Ingrid
Ingrid
Over the last few weeks since the hearing, Ingrid and Ada haven’t spoken. Neither has Ingrid heard news of her being called
to a second hearing, or worse. She must keep her faith in that.
One cool October afternoon, the smell of stale coffee greets Ingrid when she enters the FBI offices in the Department of Justice
building, finds Hattie’s desk, and is met with a frown.
“Some friend you are.” Hattie’s scowl deepens, silencing Ingrid’s attempted explanation. “I didn’t need to know you were investigating
your sister. I didn’t even need to know she became an actress with a new name. But the three of us spent years together at
boarding school, and when you came to America, I missed her, worried for her, prayed she would answer your letters, comforted
you every time she didn’t. Aleida was your sister, but she was my friend. You should have told me she was alive.”
Ingrid drops her gaze, unable to bear the hurt shining in Hattie’s. Somehow she has become a woman who can’t do anything except hurt those closest to her. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ve been terribly unfair to you and an even worse friend.”
“On that we can agree. And I’m not helping you with anything else—not that Nazi, not your sister, not her citation—”
“Citation?” Ingrid nearly chokes on the word. “She received a citation?”
“For contempt. I figured you knew—and if you want details, you’re not getting them from me.”
Rehabilitating Ada’s image after the hearing will be difficult enough. If she’s been cited for contempt, there will be a trial,
if only to continue using her as a scare tactic. After this, a war crimes case might not be enough to encourage the public
to overlook the image HUAC is crafting for her.
“A few coworkers just returned from Hollywood and brought back some gossip rags, so this has been circulating around the office.”
Hattie produces a copy of The Dish and shoves it toward Ingrid. “Enjoy.”
Ingrid barely notices the sarcasm as she stares at the article headline. “Hollywood’s Vixen: Fraud, Fabricator, and Fascist.”
And then, in the first paragraph: Constance de Vos.
Damn it all.
Ingrid reads quickly, then shoves the paper into her handbag and fights the quaver in her voice. “Hattie, let me say this,
and then I’ll go. My findings were manipulated without my knowledge and used to portray her as someone she is not. My sister
is not subversive, and she is not lying about her war crimes case like my mother’s article says. All I want is to show the
public she’s a good person trying to do the right thing. I don’t expect you to keep helping me, but if—”
“Right this way, Mrs. Van Essen.”
The new voice makes Ingrid press her mouth into a hard line. She is here because Agent Stieber summoned her to a meeting,
but she wants nothing to do with him. Not after the way he deceived her. She came only to find out what he wants since it
likely involves Ada.
Wordlessly, she follows him to his office, where they sit across from one another—he as impossible to read as always, she not bothering to hide her frown.
“I’d like to discuss Miss Worthington-Fox’s efforts to pursue a war crimes case, as mentioned in her statements and addressed
in a recent exclusive from your mother. Such claims must be taken seriously, fabricated or not. You were assisting her, I
presume? Without permission while on a separate assignment?”
“Do you intend to manipulate this case too?”
He doesn’t react to the jab, nor does Ingrid regret making it. After the way Stieber and Crenshaw used her, she has no desire
to answer any questions or placate him with politeness.
“You are dissatisfied with the approach taken regarding Miss Worthington-Fox and HUAC’s proceedings, but this matter of war
crimes is greater than your personal feelings. I am a German with regrets. Even though I was not involved in the crimes perpetrated
by so many of my countrymen, I, like many others, joined the party to survive. Help me atone by allowing me to help your sister.”
Accepting his help might move the case forward, but the evidence is not Ingrid’s to submit. Not without Ada’s permission.
And she cannot receive Ada’s permission until her sister speaks to her again. When she finally does, the evidence must be
given to someone committed to honesty, and Ingrid no longer believes that man is Stieber.
“The case is hers to make, not mine,” she says at last.
“You don’t believe she’s lying for attention? Did she give you a name? Proof?”
Ingrid says nothing; he is not her handler anymore. She does not have to explain herself to him.
After a moment, Stieber sighs. “Very well, then. When she’s ready, you know where to find me.”
Ingrid simply nods, rises, and doesn’t wait for him to follow before she exits the office, her heart racing, although she can’t explain why. Only that it’s the same feeling she experienced throughout her assignment, warning her something is wrong.
A few weeks later, Ingrid has had no luck contacting Ada. She has called countless times, and her sister still won’t speak
to her or return her messages. But she will keep trying and will continue reviewing her copies of the documents Ada took from
Arnhem. Hattie has provided nothing new, and Ingrid has gone over the materials so much she’s practically memorized them,
but she keeps looking in case there’s something she missed.
This evening, she conducts her daily review to no avail. When her eyes are too tired to read anymore, she leaves the materials
on her bed for a final look later tonight, makes dinner for one since Lars is out for a work dinner, then slips into a dressing
gown and runs a bath. Ada’s trial is tomorrow, so she’d best turn in early.
She might not be allowed to attend, but she will find a way, will be there, will make things right. She must.
Once the bath is prepared and she turns off the water, a sound captures her attention—the bedroom floorboard that always creaks.
“Home early, darling?” she calls out. “Feel free to join me, then.”
Not that he will. Since her return from California more than two months ago, nothing is as it was—not their conversations,
their lovemaking, them. As they gradually cross the bridge to complete reconciliation, sometimes she fears it will collapse beneath their weight.
His footsteps approach, a promising sound that sends a flutter through her chest. She stacks an extra towel atop her own,
teetering on the edge of the small sink, then the bathroom door creaks open.
“Shall we talk, Mrs. Van Essen?”
Not her husband’s voice. A German-accented one.
Ingrid whirls to face a man standing in the doorway. A familiar man in a neatly pressed black suit with a small pistol glinting
at his hip.
Agent Stieber.
There must be some mistake. Some explanation regarding how and why he is in her home, why this discussion couldn’t wait until
work hours, why the look on his face says his request for a conversation is not a request but an order.
As she clutches the gown’s gap at her chest, he steps back, giving her space to exit the bathroom.
He’s an FBI agent, her former handler. And he is in her home, without permission, holding a stack of documents. Her documents. The copies of Ada’s materials and the execution order Hattie uncovered.
Slowly, Ingrid steps into the bedroom until she faces him—her bare feet against the wooden floor, her back to the wall, acutely
aware of the lamp aglow on her nightstand, of the bed steps away. Of her naked body beneath this dressing gown.
“Is this everything?” Stieber holds up the documents. “All your materials for the war crimes case?”
That’s what this is about? He regards her with an unusual look, one she can’t discern. Unnerving for reasons she can’t identify.
“What are you doing here?” she asks at last. “Those materials are mine.”
“Evidence of this nature belongs to the FBI. You have no right to withhold it, and this is now a government case, so you are
forbidden from pursuing it further. Is this everything?” he asks again, more forcefully this time.
“Yes, but—”
The protest dies when he opens his own briefcase and tucks the documents inside.
Is he really seizing her work? This is her case, the proof she needs to help her sister, and suddenly she forgets his gun and yields to fury as she closes the distance between them.
“Give me my materials and get out.”
When she reaches him, he does not react. Then her pulse quickens while Stieber sets down his briefcase and loosens his necktie,
as though weary, before sighing.
“I wanted to do this the polite way. It seems you require more clarity.”
Sudden pain sparks across Ingrid’s vision while she gasps to recapture the air escaping her lungs, and only then does she
realize he has just driven his fist into her stomach.
She reaches for support to keep herself upright, doesn’t find any, but before she can hit the floor, a grip finds her shoulders.
Everything is too quick, too painful, too shocking. She feels her back colliding with what must be the solid bedroom wall,
writhes futilely until more flares of agony announce a second strike, a third, her cries muffled by the large hand secured
over her mouth.
Everything stills, leaving only the pain pulsing through her body, the strong grip holding her in place, the hand smothering
her, then transferring to her chin, forcing her head up as she coughs and gasps.
“Stop your investigation. If you persist, I will discourage you through Lars or Ada.”
“Stay away from them.” She bites off each word, glaring, straining to break free until another blow ends her struggle.
Spasms of pain and nausea ripple through her. Then, when her next bout of coughing ceases, Stieber tugs the knot at her waist,
unfastening the dressing gown so it falls open.
Acrid bile rises to Ingrid’s throat as he evaluates every exposed part of her. Not this. His gun glints in the lamplight—a
warning not to struggle. She holds impossibly still, every painful, whimpering breath enhancing the agony coursing through
her.
“Stop your investigation. Or I will pay that lovely sister of yours a visit.”
“No, please . . .” How she hates that he knows the threat will subdue her. “I’ll stop, I swear I’ll stop . . . Please don’t
hurt her.”
His eyes return to her exposed chest while the nausea in her stomach threatens to overtake her. Then he brushes his thumb
across her right breast, just above her nipple. Deliberate, the way one might clear a speck of debris from a canvas, leaving
it pristine and prepared.
The firm grip prevents her from pulling away while the gesture prompts her toward something she cannot entirely recall, not
now with his cold touch against her skin or the terror twisting her insides. She will not concede to whatever is next—or perhaps
she has no alternative, because if she fights him, what of Lars and Ada?
A muscle clenches along Stieber’s jaw while something in his gaze shifts, distant yet concentrated. Then he blinks and lifts
his head.
“I trust we won’t need to have this conversation again. Good night, Mrs. Van Essen.”
When he releases her, Ingrid moves only to cover herself, though controlling her shaking hands enough to tie the gown is nearly
impossible, while Stieber picks up his briefcase and leaves the room. Moments later, the apartment door clicks shut.
The sound prompts her unsteady legs to carry her to the door, which she locks, though it hardly matters because it was locked
in the first place. If he wants to come back, nothing will stop him. Then she stumbles into the living room, sinks onto the
sofa, and buries her head in her hands, awaiting a sob or a scream or something beyond her shaking breaths.
He confiscated her materials. Attacked her in her own home. Threatened her husband and sister. This is not the way to seize
evidence, not even if she has no right to possess it as he claimed. During their meeting, he was a man eager to help; here,
he was a threat. This is wrong, entirely wrong—yet if she pursues the case, he will target Ada next.
After an indiscernible amount of time, something jostles the lock on the apartment door. Ingrid springs to her feet, darts toward her bedroom for her pistol—except Ada has it. She pivots toward the kitchen for a knife, but before she gets there, the door opens and a man enters—Lars.
“Goddamnit, don’t do that! It’s late—you can’t barge inside with no consideration for anyone.”
“You’re attacking me for opening the door?”
One hand finds her chest to combat her unsteady breaths while she tidies the newspaper on the coffee table and listens as
he hangs his hat on the hat stand and sets down his briefcase. Another night, another argument. Never in all their years together
have they been so perpetually short with one another as these last weeks. Gingerly, she touches the stomach that will no doubt
be painted with bruises tomorrow. Such effortless, precise blows. Stieber must have done this before—many times, from the
feel of it. She senses Lars looking at her, at his wife who is not normally on the verge of tears after one meaningless spat.
“Ingrid? What’s upset you?”
How she longs to press into his steadiness, his comfort, everything she’s missed for so long because none of it has been as
it usually is. He’s her husband, for God’s sake. Is she really going to let silence and secrets do this to her, to him, to
their marriage?
When he reaches her, she throws her arms around him, forgetting the throb still pulsing through her until his grip applies
pressure to those places where a man’s fist collided with her body. Pain tears across her midsection, and she staggers with
a gasping cry.
He loosens at once, takes her shoulders, meets the tears welling in her eyes. Then his voice nearly trembles with urgency
and terror. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
For a moment she fights the swell in her throat. “My handler.”
“Here? Tonight? He’s hurt you?”
She places a gentle hand on his cheek, silencing the influx of questions.
She’s not under orders of confidentiality anymore.
So she tells him everything—about her sister’s life during the war, Opa’s death, Mother’s presence in Hollywood, Ingrid’s investigation, the war crimes case, and Stieber’s confrontation this evening to deter her from pursuing it.
She omits her handler’s name or anything that might endanger Lars, but she shares what she’s withheld all this time.
Once finished, she is unburdened and her body still aches, but she is better. Not all right yet, but she will be. And she
hopes they will be too.
Yet moments later, as she lies awake next to Lars, she tenses against another man’s fingers on her body, envisions his head
as it lifted to meet her gaze. The way the lamplight fell across him, illuminating the skin exposed by his loosened tie.
As a chill overtakes her, Ingrid closes her eyes, but it’s all she can see: that long, thin scar stretching across Agent Stieber’s
neck.