Meanwhile, the entire city pulsated with a strange new energy. The threat of another war, this time with Korea, loomed in the papers and the news. America had slain the fascists, and the communists were next, according to the politicians. Hazel had made some minor changes to the play, subtle parallels with what was going on now, in the hopes that her words might make her audience reconsider this headlong rush into another fight.
One Thursday night after rehearsal, she wished desperately to go back to her room and lie down, but Maxine insisted she join them at Sardi’s. “You have to show the cast that you’re one of us, not just the girl who tells everyone what to do and bosses them about.”
“I’m the woman who bosses everyone about, and that suits me fine,” Hazel couldn’t help teasing, but she agreed to go.
Usually, walking into a room with Maxine set off a quiet roar. She knew how to make an entrance. But not this time. In fact, the entire restaurant was unusually subdued. A smattering of actors and Biltmore crew members had gathered around one end of the bar, and a few glanced over at Hazel and Maxine with tight smiles. Odd.
The group opened up to include them. Maxine nudged Floyd and pointed out the hundreds of caricatures of theater luminaries that hung on the restaurant’s walls. “Maybe I can get you to do mine again when our show is a smash hit, right, Floyd?”
Floyd nodded and smiled, but didn’t answer.
“What’s going on?” asked Hazel. “Is something wrong, did someone die?”
“Just some political inanity,” said Floyd.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Maxine put a hand on her hip. “You all are looking like we got panned before we even opened.”
Brandy Sainsbury handed over a thin booklet. “This just came out.”
Hazel studied the cover over Maxine’s shoulder, an illustration of a red hand about to clasp a microphone. Red Channels: The Report of Communist Influence in Radio and Television. Hazel read the lines at the bottom of the page out loud: “Published by Counterattack, the newsletter of facts to combat communism.”
“Came out today.” Floyd spoke quietly. “It lists people in the entertainment industry who are linked to communism.”
“Like who?” asked Maxine.
Brandy rattled off names. “Aaron Copland, Pete Seeger, Orson Welles, Lillian Hellman, Arthur Miller, Dorothy Parker. A hundred and fifty-one people in all.”
“And you.” Maxine, who had been leafing through it while Brandy spoke, held up a page to Hazel.
“Me?”
Hazel took it from her. Like the other names, hers was followed by a list of “offenses,” all of which had occurred in the 1930s: signing a petition for the Scientific and Cultural Conference for World Peace, attending an anti-fascist rally, being a member of the Actors’ Equity Association, having signed a congratulatory telegram to the Moscow Art Theatre, and donating to a clothing drive for Spanish refugees. A couple of the entries were incorrect, listing organizations she’d never even heard of.
“What was wrong with attending an anti-fascist rally?” Hazel looked to Maxine, confused. “That’s who we went to war against.”
“They say these are all communist fronts.” Brandy again.
“Look at this last one.” Hazel pointed to a line on the page. “It was a clothing drive. I gave away an old coat. This is utterly ridiculous.”
“So it is.” Maxine took the booklet from her hands and tossed it onto the bar. The others stared at it as if it were radioactive. Maxine shook her head. “This will all blow over.”
The more Hazel thought about it, the more outraged she became. “But it’s not right. Who published this?”
“A company called American Business Consultants.” Brandy shrugged. “Their heart is in the right place. They don’t want communists to infiltrate our country and destroy democracy.”
Hazel disagreed. “But you can’t go after people who are innocent in order to scare everyone else out of their wits. It’s just fearmongering.”
Floyd spoke quietly. “They’re not kidding about this stuff. Look at what happened to the Hollywood Ten.” Three years earlier, in a challenge to free speech, a group of Hollywood screenwriters had refused to reveal whether or not they were communists. The case had made its way through the courts, but lost a chance to appeal when two Supreme Court justices died within a couple of months of each other, tilting the Court to the right. Several of the Hollywood Ten had recently begun serving prison sentences for contempt.
“They’re trying to scare us,” Hazel said. She didn’t have to add that it was working. “They’re basically saying that if you wanted to help out with war relief, or if you were for a good relationship with Russia—back when we were allies of Russia fighting on the same side, I might remind you—you’re now an enemy of America. That, my friends, is what’s un-American. Not this stupid pamphlet of rumors and falsehoods.”
The people around them burst into applause. She hadn’t meant to make a speech, but she was their director. If she didn’t speak up, who would?
“That’s right,” said Floyd. “If Hazel’s a communist, then I’m one, too. We must all stand together.”
More cheers.
“Um, Hazel, can I talk to you for a moment?”
Brandy had sidled up to Hazel, and linked arms with her. Hazel allowed her to pull her off to the side, away from the group.
“What’s going on, Brandy?”
“Everything’s great. I love the play, it’s amazing, I mean, you’re so talented.”
“Thank you.”
“I consider myself so lucky to be part of this team, really lucky.”
Hazel waited.
“I hate to complain about anything, but—” Brandy took a breath. “Well, it’s about my costume. Floyd showed me the sketch and I just don’t look good in that color, and trust me, I have a really good eye. I know what works on me and what doesn’t. I tried to explain that, but he said my first choice didn’t fit with the show’s palette.”
“What’s your first choice?”
“Tangerine.”
Hazel smiled. With all the drama going on in the world, it was a strange relief to have to consider the color of a dress. “Well, you know it’s really up to the costume designer. They get the final say, as they have to make outfits that work together onstage. If they allowed every actor to have a preference, the play won’t look as good, it would be visual chaos.”
“I would think you have the final say. As director, and all.”
Floyd was staring at them from across the room, on the alert. Obviously, they’d already had some kind of tiff. Hazel nodded for him to come over. She didn’t want Brandy to think she could bulldoze her way into getting what she wanted. Or Floyd to think she talked behind people’s backs.
“Ladies?”
“Floyd, Brandy was explaining that she has an issue with the color of her costume.”
“You mean the aubergine dress that will fit her like a glove?”
Brandy shook her head. “In the sketch, the dress is purple. I hate purple, it makes me look sallow and fat.”
“It’s a lush, deep hue, I promise,” insisted Floyd. “The color of a sweet plum, just like you.”
The flattery was lost on Brandy. She crossed her arms. “I look much better in bright colors. Like tangerine.”
Floyd shook his head. “Orange? No, I cannot have you parading around in orange. The rest of the cast is in cool tones. You’ll stand out like a garish citrus fruit.”
“Better than an ugly eggplant.”
Hazel had to shut down this verbal food fight. “Let’s wait and see the dress once Floyd is finished with it, all right? If you really don’t like it, we’ll reconsider.”