Laughter. Briggs exhaled hard through his nose. But she answered a barrage of questions honestly—she had read no subversive literature (“The Times and Herald Tribune’s crime pages”), signed no petitions (“If people want to complain about something, that’s their business”), attended no meetings (“When I wasn’t working, I was reading or talking to my sister”).
A white-haired man scowled at her.
“Your friend and neighbor in New York was a woman who was not only a registered Communist, she deceived landlords and employers as to her race.”
Anne. Intelligent, warm, beautiful Anne. It was indecent, bringing her up here. Phoebe marshaled her rage. Briggs had warned her about this.
“Anne was my friend from our days at the airfield,” Phoebe said. “I knew she was a staunch supporter of Roosevelt, and that she paid attention to the news. But she knew I hated politics so we never discussed it. As to her race, well if you saw her, you wouldn’t guess she was part Negro.” Phoebe took a breath, feeling Briggs tense beside her. He knew what she wanted to say. She wanted to say it didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter, it was crazy that anyone thought it mattered. But Washington, DC, was not just the seat of government, it was also the South. Phoebe forced breeziness into her voice. “Though I suppose it explains why she never took up any man’s offer of a date.” It was sickening, playing into the committee’s and audience’s prejudices this way, but Briggs’s grunt of approval comforted her.
The bulgy man waved this aside and glared down at her.
“Charles Morrison said there were numerous blacklisted writers working on The Adventures of Robin Hood. Can you name any?”
“Just myself,” Phoebe said.
“His charge was very serious. This show is targeted at children. You ought to understand, Miss Adler, that if you can confirm the allegation and provide us with names, all charges against you will be dropped. Your record will be expunged and your passport returned.”
“I understand, sir. All I can say is that Mr. Morrison and I were neighbors, and he discovered I had been able to sell a script. I believe he tried to do the same, and was turned away. In his disappointment, he might well have assumed that I was one of many.”
“Those writers could be using fronts!” Jimmy shouted from the audience.
The chair gaveled for silence. Phoebe panicked that this would be the next question—how could she be sure no one else was doing what she said she’d done? Instead, the bulgy man glared at her again.
“Why did you embark upon such a deception? It was very wrong.”
Naughty girl. No cookies for you. But this was a game she could play.
“I was desperate,” she said plaintively. “I wasn’t able to get married, and I had to support myself and my sister. I needed work after I was blacklisted, and no factory would hire me again. I went to London—I didn’t know what else to do—and, well, I thought I might as well try. No one was more surprised than I when I succeeded.”
“Robin Hood is a show aimed at young people. Were you attempting to sway them to a radical point of view?”
“Not at all. I wrote an adventure story. I was only thinking of my sister.”
She told the story of the woman who spent her whole short life ill, most of it in the hospital, but yearned for life. The woman now dead, though still so very, very much in Phoebe’s heart. Little sighs erupted from around the audience.
“Miss Adler, this is all very well, but you left New York after receiving a subpoena, which you never answered. This is contempt of Congress.”
“I’m sorry,” Phoebe whispered. “I was frightened. It was all so quick. I knew it meant I’d have a hearing and was maybe supposed to say if I knew Reds, and I didn’t—or didn’t know I did—and all those men who were so much more important than me didn’t give names and went to prison. If I went to prison, Mona would suffer, and I couldn’t have that.”
“Those men went to prison because they refused to answer questions.”
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She could feel just how ready they were to cite her for contempt of Congress, turn her over for trial. Why had she ever thought it would be any different for her? No one here got out alive.
Though Lillian Hellman had. It was time to try her tactic. Phoebe steeled herself as the bulgy-headed congressman locked eyes with her—a cobra gazing unblinkingly at its petrified prey.
“You led us to believe you were happy to answer any questions, Miss Adler. So we ask again. Can you name any other known subversives, either in America or abroad, of whom the committee should be aware?”
“I’m so sorry, I should have clarified,” Phoebe said. “I’m happy to answer any question about myself that someone has the right to ask.”
Pandemonium. The photographers snapped pictures, the audience shouted that a sweet girl like this shouldn’t have to suffer more, reporters shouted questions. The chair slammed the gavel again and again until order was restored.
“Miss Adler, Agent Glynn claims to have seen you in company with a great many subversives, both in New York and in London. Do you really expect us to believe you knew nothing of their activities?”
“I was friends with other Americans, that’s true, but to me, they were just Americans. I was homesick. As to the rest, I try to mind my own business. That’s more than enough to manage. I swear, once my sister died and I didn’t have to worry about her anymore, I was going to come home and do right. Mr. Glynn never gave me the chance, what with breaking into my apartment and beating me—”
A fresh cry of outrage arose. The FBI was understood to do what it needed to do in pursuit of dangerous Communists, but beating a defenseless young woman?
The chair gaveled again.
“We understand the agent had clearance to capture people of interest abroad.”
Briggs spoke in his silky boom. “It does appear, sir, that he may have overstepped his bounds in both destroying Miss Adler’s property, and visiting damage upon her person.”
The crowd shouted, but Glynn was louder. “She was trying to resist arrest! Of course she’ll say anything. How can you believe anything a named Red says?”
“I agree,” Phoebe said. “All of it’s my word against his. But I swore to tell the truth, and that’s what I’ve done here.”
The chair gaveled again.
“If the agent’s methods were unorthodox, he will be properly reprimanded. He was correct, however, in apprehending Miss Adler, who has admitted her deception. I’m given to understand we also have a statement from CBS, saying they’ve taken further steps to make sure nothing like this happens again.”
Phoebe held her breath. Please. Please let this be over. Please be all right.
“However,” the chair went on. “The flouting of a subpoena will not be allowed to stand. I move your case to trial. You should be aware the usual sentence is up to twelve months in federal prison, plus a fine.”
Phoebe gripped the table. Prison! So she was going to prison. She’d never been so grateful that her family was dead and didn’t have to see this.
Briggs put a hand on her shoulder, then stepped away, consulting with a congressman. She could see Glynn, shaking hands with Jimmy. They were so pleased with themselves for accomplishing . . . what, exactly?
“When’s the trial?” she choked out when Briggs returned and gathered his papers. He held out a hand to help her up.
“There won’t be one,” he said. He smiled at her. “You’re not worth the trouble. You’re too small, and you’ve been publicly punished. The rest is private. They’ll keep your passport and you’re blocked from working as a writer. They agreed on a fine of two thousand dollars, and then you will be free to go back to New York.”
Phoebe gaped at Briggs. Surely he knew she didn’t even have two hundred dollars, let alone two thousand. But he seemed pleased with himself and the deal he must have stru
ck. So that was it. It was over. But so was her career. And Reg, Hannah—everyone and everything she now loved were farther away than ever. They might as well be leading her off to prison after all.
* * *
• • •
Nigel met them back in her room. As soon as they were all inside, he held up his hands and began snapping his fingers rhythmically. Briggs joined him, and they both indicated for her to do the same. Baffled, she started snapping.
“Snapping interferes with any bugging,” Nigel whispered. “They’ll hear this and some buzzing. The odd words, but not enough to hurt us.”
“But . . . it’s over, isn’t it?” Phoebe asked.
“Come now, Phoebe. Do you think it’s ever really over?”
She couldn’t speak, just snapped harder and angrier.
“You did very well,” Nigel complimented her. “Your Miss Wolfson directed me to pay any fine that might be incurred, that she would guarantee it, so that’s settled. In fact, it’s a small enough sum that I see no reason not to pay it myself.”
“Nigel!” Phoebe cried. “That’s too much. You can’t, you’ve already done more than I could ever repay.”
“There’s no point in being married to an absurdly wealthy woman who despises me if I can’t occasionally spend some of her money in a manner she’d find appalling, though she’ll never discover,” Nigel said happily. “And anyway, you can repay me very well by continuing to do good work and living a happy life.”
He sounded like Mona. Phoebe’s eyes stung, both because he was so kind and generous and because that work and that life seemed so unattainable. She had no idea how to even begin again. Floyd and Leo might let her sleep on their sofa for a while, and there must be some sort of job she could get somewhere, but she knew she’d have to start writing again. She couldn’t not write, it was too much a part of her. And it would mean still living in shadows, sneaking about. For no good reason, except people were afraid. She was sitting in this room, snapping her fingers like a rhythmless Carmen Miranda, because everyone was so very afraid. Phoebe didn’t want to live in a world run by Soviets, but she didn’t want to live in fear either.
“Nigel. Your diplomatic passport. It allows someone to travel with you?”
Nigel raised an eyebrow in wary assent.
“Phoebe,” Briggs said, his voice serious but his eyes twinkling. “You understand that if you leave the country now, in such a manner, you’ll never be able to return?”
“Unless the blacklist ends someday,” Phoebe said.
“Maybe,” Nigel said, his voice thoughtful. He snapped on, looking hard at Phoebe. “I don’t know that I’d be within my privilege, getting you out like that,” he said. Phoebe’s heart sank. “But let me make a few calls. I might have another idea.”
* * *
• • •
Nigel instructed her to be ready whenever he might return. Briggs took over, changing her hairstyle and watching as she put on more and more makeup. She didn’t look different, perhaps, but she didn’t immediately look like the woman from the hearing, which Briggs, through snaps, said would help.
Then there was nothing to do but wait. Phoebe paced nervously, trying to make sense of everything.
“I can’t write, not officially,” she said. “So I’m still on the blacklist? Even though I testified and all?”
“You were polite, but you weren’t a friendly witness,” Briggs explained. “They won’t reward that.”
“What a thing,” Phoebe said. “What a thing.” She pointed to the phone. “It’s bugged, isn’t it?”
“That’s a fair assumption.”
“Let’s wait downstairs,” Phoebe said. Briggs smiled, interested, and carried her bag down to the lobby. He gave her some quarters and she went to the enclosed phone booth in the corner.
“Floyd? It’s Phoebe Adler here. Yeah, yeah, it’s a doozy of a story all right. Listen, remember my neighbor, a slimy, stinky, would-be writer?” She spoke carefully. The pay phone was safe, but Floyd and Leo’s phone stood a good chance of being bugged. Luckily, Floyd was too savvy to mention any names, and he knew Jimmy by description. “Turns out he’s playing a heck of a game with big dogs, and even making extra dough off anyone he sends to hanging.”
There was probably better lingo that she didn’t know, but the bile in Floyd’s voice told her he understood that “big dogs” meant the FBI Hounds, and that Jimmy was playing quite the double game. Word would get around the Village by the drinking hour, and Jimmy would be friendless. Writers would switch to a more deserving front. She hung up, satisfied.
Nigel arrived half an hour later. She wanted to hug Briggs, but kept up appearances and shook his hand formally.
“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Adler,” he told her. “I’ll have our friend keep me up to date on your progress. I have no doubt it will be impressive.”
“That’s my plan,” she said.
Nigel guided her to a big black car with British flags flapping proudly above the headlights. She would feel so elegant and important, getting in such a car, if she wasn’t so worried, hoping whatever they were doing was going to work.
“Hey, Adler!” a voice called. It was all Phoebe could do not to vomit. Jimmy. Again. He strutted forward, not noticing Nigel or anything other than her, the woman whose wings he’d clipped.
“No hard feelings, huh?” he said, grinning. “We all have to eat, after all, and come on, you weren’t exactly on the up-and-up, were you?”
“Gee, Jimmy, I guess I wasn’t, but you sure showed me.”
Nigel cut in. “I’m afraid we really must be going.”
Jimmy noticed the accent, then took a good look at the car. “Where are you going? What’s happening here?”
“For Pete’s sake,” Phoebe snapped. “What did I ever do to deserve this from you? You did a heck of a job ruining my life already, can’t you just leave me be?”
But it seemed he couldn’t, because though Nigel practically threw her into the car and they sped off, they both turned and saw Jimmy running for a phone booth.
“Rather a spiteful little squit, isn’t he?” Nigel observed.
“I guess he really hated my being better than him.” Phoebe shook her head.
“You’d be surprised how many do,” Nigel said. “Let’s pick up the pace, please.”
The driver was even more impressive than the cabdriver who’d gotten Phoebe to the docks, all those months ago. As they reached the airport, Nigel advised her to put her glasses in her bag. Anything to look even less like herself.
Phoebe obeyed with a pounding heart. Taking her glasses off made the world blurry. She clung to Nigel, hop-skipping beside him as he strode through the expansive space. She registered nearly nothing other than the gleam and smell of newness. The way the air shifted as an expensive suit zipped by her, a leather briefcase swinging along. The overwhelming smell of aftershave and brilliantine and power. Nigel ducked and weaved through it all, a man who knew where he was going and expected others to move aside for him.
“Good afternoon, sir, the evening plane?” a man greeted Nigel respectfully.
“Indeed, that’s correct, thank you so much, and I expect you can accommodate my guest as well,” Nigel said. Phoebe saw the flash of something green. Her first thought was he was bribing the agent, but then she recognized the shape. A passport. Her passport! Somehow cleared, restored, and allowing her free passage again. She couldn’t believe it. She was so happy, she felt as though she were floating as they moved along, heading for a plane that someone like Nigel could always get on when he needed to. What an extraordinary life it must be, to command such privilege. She wished she could see people’s faces, see the wonder and envy in their expressions. It would be a great story for Reg. Then, even in the blur, she saw the looming figure of a man in a green hat.
“Nigel!” she hissed, trying not to shriek. “Nigel!
”
“Ease up a bit, darling, my arm is losing sensation,” he warned. “We’re quite all right, nothing to worry about.”
But there was most definitely something to worry about. Glynn was going to catch them, and the most she could hope for now was that Nigel would wriggle free.
“Nigel, behind us. Glynn!”
“I say, do let us through, will you, important business,” Nigel called, parting a small crowd.
“FBI, let me through,” Glynn’s voice snapped behind them. Much too close.
Phoebe flashed hot and cold. Sharp white spots rose before her blurry vision. “Leave me alone,” she heard herself whisper. “Just leave me alone.”
“Important business for the British government,” Nigel’s voice rang. They were on the tarmac, and she could see the plane.
“That woman is not cleared to leave the country!” Glynn shouted. “There’s been a mistake!”
Phoebe saw a hand reaching out to stop Nigel.
“I’m sorry, sir, we should probably investigate this.”
Nigel spoke with the entitled authority that had built an empire.
“The lady is a legal British resident for the next ten days. After that, she will be returned to American soil should her presence be required. In the meantime, I am escorting her back to Britain. Thank you very much, good day.”
And they were climbing the steps into the plane.
“You limey bastard, you can’t take her!”
“Sir, that language is not appropriate,” someone scolded Glynn. Phoebe didn’t dare smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to return to the terminal.”
“I’m FBI!”
Phoebe heard hesitation. Nigel propelled her into the plane, but she knew the debate outside was still going strong. She put on her glasses to watch.
“He can get me, can’t he?” Phoebe squeaked. “The FBI has more sway here than you.”
“Oh, under other circumstances, that’s perhaps correct,” Nigel said airily, calling for a drink. “But he doesn’t have the friends I have, and didn’t make the right calls. He’ll have his little tantrum, but he’s lost.”
Red Letter Days Page 35
