“What on earth are you talking about?” The color had crept back into Maxine’s face, and her usual look of annoyance had returned.
“My brother was named Ben Ripley. I’m sure I remember him introducing you around to his gang at a coffee shop downtown, his friends joking that you were way above his pay grade. And another time, when we were all at a demonstration in New York. Something against fascism, I’m pretty sure. Or maybe against the Spanish War. There were so many protests back then.” Along with her brother and all of their friends, Hazel had marched practically every weekend, signed every petition. Anything to stop the wave of authoritarianism sweeping the world. Ben had shown up to one rally with the exotic-looking redhead. The crowd had been rowdy, and after a short while, the girl had yanked Ben away. Hazel hadn’t seen her since.
Maxine cocked her head. “I dated a guy named Ben, an actor, for a New York minute. You’re his sister?”
“I am. I knew it! That’s where I know you from. It’s been bugging me since I arrived.”
For a moment the boys in the square were forgotten. Maxine let out a bark of a laugh. “Ben Ripley. Sure thing. I thought we were going out for a picnic in the park, but the guy dragged me to some demonstration. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He was way too full of himself for me. Still is, I’m guessing?”
Hazel wasn’t sure how to respond. She shook her head. Even though it had been three years, the words never came out right.
“No. Not anymore.”
CHAPTER TWO
Hazel
April 1945
Maxine stayed silent for a moment, before putting her arm around Hazel. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. My big mouth.”
Hazel finally got the words out. “Ben was killed soon after he enlisted, in a plane crash.”
“If I remember, he was a talented guy, right?”
What an understatement. Ben had been the boy wonder, a natural mimic. He took after their dad, a former vaudeville star brought down by a stroke when Hazel was twelve. Ben, always up for a challenge, had entertained their father, enlisting Hazel as his stooge in skits that made him laugh, although it only showed on the good side of his face. Even before their father’s stroke, it was assumed that Ben and Hazel would go into acting, that the Ripley name would carry on through the children. After all, this was the family legacy. While other families passed down a dry-cleaning business or a hardware store, their inheritance was their father’s brilliance in the footlights, and his name.
From the fading glory of their vast Upper West Side apartment, where scripts and old newspapers littered the living room, Ben—older by three years—worked on auditions and scenes for his acting classes. Hazel dutifully signed up for the same ones as soon as she graduated from high school. Ruth, who had managed her husband’s career from the very beginning and liked to take full credit for his success, was determined that the family become as famous as the Astaires or the Lunts. “The Ripleys of West End Avenue,” she’d proclaim.
The first time Hazel performed a scene in acting class, she worked on the role with her mother until late the night before. Her head spinning from exhaustion, yet jittery with excitement, Hazel had waited with her scene partner as the teacher—an elderly Russian man with wild hairs sprouting from his ears and nose—reminisced for a good five minutes on Ben’s uncanny take on O’Neill before allowing Hazel and her scene partner to proceed. From the corner of her eye, she’d noticed the instructor slumping farther and farther into his seat as they stumbled through the scene, which made her forget all the coaching her mother had given her. Once they’d finished, the instructor had focused all his commentary on her acting partner, before dismissing Hazel with a mere three sentences: “That was a perfectly fine interpretation of the scene. The problem with ‘fine’ is that it’s boring. You bored us.” While she knew she wasn’t the best actress in the room and had a lot to learn, it wasn’t fair to compare her first attempt with that of her brother after three years of intensive study. Hazel had scurried out as soon as class was over to avoid the sympathetic-yet-gleeful looks of her classmates. She’d been resigned to living in the shadows ever since.
But her brand of boring appealed to producers casting for understudies. They preferred a chameleon who’d blend seamlessly into the production, who wouldn’t dare tamper with the blocking or line readings in an effort to outshine the star. Secretly, Hazel didn’t mind waiting in the wings, watching the best scenes before retreating to the understudies’ dressing room with a good book. But to say so out loud would tarnish her father’s legacy, as well as her brother’s lost dreams. She had to do more, be more.
She’d first heard about the USO tour from a couple of actors at the counter of Hanson’s Drugstore on Broadway, where she was killing time before slinking home after yet another pointless understudy rehearsal. She’d signed up to audition for the tour on a whim, figuring that it would make her parents happy to see their daughter follow in Ben’s footsteps, both on the stage and in service to the country. How wrong she’d been: Her mother had hated the very idea, terrified that she’d lose her daughter as well as her son, and said she prayed each night that Hazel would be rejected.
The day that Hazel was to depart on her tour, she’d stepped into the kitchen, wearing her uniform, only to see the ghost of Ben reflected in her mother’s eyes. Her father’s naturally lopsided countenance slid into a grimace as her mother ran from the room, one hand clutching her mouth as if she was about to be sick. No matter what Hazel did, it turned out terribly.
Maxine rubbed Hazel’s back. “Sorry to have spoken ill of your brother. I barely knew him.”
The major returned, accompanied by a wiry man with a pipe sticking out of his mouth.
Maxine and Hazel exchanged looks. No doubt Maxine had overstepped her place by advocating for the two boys.
“Which one of you speaks Kraut?” asked the wiry man.
Maxine raised her hand, as though they were in elementary school. To see Maxine cowed made Hazel even more nervous.
“Come with me. Both of you.”
As they walked deeper into the building, the man introduced himself as Colonel Peterson, the head of radio programming. “We’re in charge of all the music the soldiers listen to, as well as propaganda broadcasts. That’s where you come in. What’s your name again?”
Maxine introduced herself, then added, “And this is Hazel Ripley.”
“Maxine, huh? This way.” The colonel didn’t even look at Hazel. But she was used to that by now, and she’d already noticed that being in close proximity to Maxine was the equivalent to disappearing into thin air.
They entered a small soundproofed room where a microphone sat on a desk, next to some fancy equipment with lots of dials.
The colonel picked up a bundle of papers. “The soldier who’s been doing the propaganda broadcasts got transferred, and we’ve been looking for a German speaker to fill in. Radio waves, unlike newspapers or television broadcasts, aren’t deterred by borders or front lines, which gives us a direct line of communication with the enemy population. You’re a girl, but I figure it might be even better that way.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” asked Maxine.
“Make your voice nice and pretty, and read off this list of German POWs.” He pointed to a single piece of paper beside the microphone. “Then say that the boys are safe and sound, in German. Once that’s done, pick some articles from these”—he tossed down a few copies of The Stars and Stripes—“and condense it for a German audience.”
“Condense it? I’m not sure I understand.”
He pointed to a headline. “Choose three or four articles that emphasize American values, American strength, and summarize them. We want to plant doubt in their minds. Make them wonder if the Fuehrer is not all that he’s cracked up to be, if they’re not being told the whole truth.”