Red Letter Days

by Sarah-Jane Stratford

  Shirley lit a cigarette. “Charlie’s likely to testify any day. I’ll ask Will to send a mindfully worded telegram to some select friends so we get an early report.”

  “Thanks. I suppose it won’t be broadcast.”

  “He’s not famous enough to warrant a major broadcast, no, but HUAC does like its doings known. We’ll find a way to know what we need to know and when.”

  Hannah sipped her tea, which was mostly gin.

  “It could get bad. Sapphire’s reputation could be harmed. Am I even safe? What if they find a way to aim both barrels at me? Never mind blacklisting, they could insist my passport be seized, issue a subpoena, maybe even extradite me. What would happen to the girls? Paul certainly doesn’t want them.”

  “Strife,” Shirley snarled. For all Paul’s condemnation of Hannah’s influence, his new life didn’t include his daughters. He had settled a large chunk of his family’s money on the girls, stipulating that the solicitor, not Hannah, was to manage it.

  “Then again,” Shirley went on, “the Hannah I know finds a crisis stimulating, rather than daunting.” One side of her lips curled upward.

  Hannah smiled ruefully. “That may have been before the love of her life turned out to be a toad. But you’re right. I’d better shore up one hell of a deal on the next show, and shake down Paul for my own settlement before anyone turns my name to mud. If I have to hire a lawyer to rep me before HUAC, I want the best.”

  “Hardly a point in doing things any other way,” Shirley said, pouring out the last of the gin.

  * * *

  • • •

  Will’s contacts acted with admirable speed and thoroughness. Charlie was to testify next week. It would not be broadcast, but it was to be recorded, and a copy of that recording could be sent to England. There were two problems: timing and discretion.

  Phoebe was invited to discuss the problem and, to Hannah’s delight, came up with a solution. “Nigel Elliott! He flies back and forth all the time. Or sails, but mostly flies. He might help if it isn’t too illegal.”

  “Just for now, I can be a reporter again,” Hannah decided. “We’ll call it a leak to the press.” Phoebe composed the telegram then and there. Nigel’s response came to the Sapphire offices the next morning:

  HOW GLORIOUSLY CLANDESTINE = WILL ARRANGE TO BE IN DC NEXT WEEK = LOOKING FORWARD TO MEETING THE ENTERPRISING MISS WOLFSON SHOULD SUCH BE POSSIBLE +

  Good to his word, Nigel Elliott brought the recording back two days after Charlie’s testimony. He came to the Sapphire offices to deliver it to Hannah.

  “Aren’t these premises simply charming?” he marveled as he was shown into the main office, where Beryl regarded him without pleasure. “So this is how a business is run. What an extraordinary thing. Very charmed to meet you,” he said, extending a warm hand to Hannah. “I enjoyed reading your interview in the Spectator. I’ve not seen the program myself, I’ve really not got time for television, but I deeply admire you, creating such a success. Quite a thing for a woman! I daresay it’s your American spirit that does it, and very admirable too.”

  “The British could do more if those with money would provide funding,” Beryl said to the script she was editing, in her broadest Glaswegian.

  “Ah, a lady of Caledonia!” Nigel said with a laugh, turning approvingly to Beryl. “Quite right of you, dear, I’m sure, and indeed something that ought to be done. Now then, I mustn’t linger, my car is waiting—I came directly from the airport to make sure you received this properly. You have the means of listening?”

  “Oh yes, I’m quite established with all the latest equipment,” Hannah said drily. She was grateful to this man, but while she found his patronizing tone amusing, and knew he didn’t intend it as such, she sensed Beryl was barely restraining herself from throwing him through the window.

  “Jolly good, jolly good, I thought you might,” Nigel said cheerfully. “Americans do like to buy all the latest gadgets, and it’s mighty fine of them. Well, I was unable to attend the event and know nothing of what’s in it, but I hope it’s of use to you. Most glad to have been of service in such a scrumptious cause, do call on me again should you wish, though of course I hope you won’t have need. Perhaps someday I might come and view the program being filmed? I should so enjoy that.”

  “Of course,” Hannah said, taking his card. He bowed and, with many “cheerios,” headed back to his car. Hannah and Beryl went to the window and saw a massive black Bentley idling, taking up most of the road.

  “I think less than nocht of the French,” Beryl raged, “but they surely had the right idea in thwacking off the heads of all their namby-pamby blue-blooded bastards. He’s the type who thought the Great War a damn fine idea and sat back during the last one and never suffered for rationing and would nae think to put sixpence into a production started by one of his own countrymen.”

  She was too enraged to ask how Hannah knew him, or what he’d brought her.

  “The whole concept of aristocracy is ridiculous,” Hannah agreed, conveniently setting Beryl off on another long tear. Somewhere in the middle of it, Hannah said she would go home to give Julie lunch—she was stealing as much time as she could for her children now—and Beryl hardly noticed. When Hannah left ten minutes later, Beryl was giving her thoughts on a script for Robin Hood in which the peasants marched into a nobleman’s home and demanded they be given an education just like his, so that they might prove he was no more special than they.

  That’s a start, Hannah thought as she hailed a taxi. The more real information people have, the more power they can wield. She glanced at the bulge the recording made in her bag, hoping it would give her the information to help her retain her power.

  * * *

  • • •

  She’d called Shirley from the office and found her friend already at the flat with Gemma and Julie, readying the reel-to-reel player that Hannah did indeed possess. She liked to listen to completed episodes of Robin Hood before they were locked, to make sure every word was clear. She couldn’t have American audiences struggling to understand anyone.

  “I never liked that Mr. Morrison,” Gemma said with a sniff as she handed Julie to Hannah. “One eye larger than the other, and both of them twitchy. His wife means well enough, I’m sure, but I always thought her a bit of a pretty dunce, if I’m speaking plain.”

  Hannah said nothing. She didn’t know what she thought of Joan right now.

  “Here we go,” Shirley said as the tape began to play. Hannah stroked Julie’s hair and concentrated on breathing.

  “Charles Alvin Morrison,” a crackly voice began. “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”

  “Sir, I regret to say that I was. I joined in 1937 and remained a member until 1946.”

  “You attended meetings?”

  “I did, and I can give you names of people in my chapter . . .”

  Names. Names, names, names. Hannah recognized one or two. A fellow screenwriter. A B-movie director. A press photographer. She closed her eyes, imagining what was about to befall these men. The end of comfort, the end of security. All so Charlie could pick up his Hollywood life again.

  “And when you were in England, you met with other Communists?”

  The listeners exchanged glances.

  “I did, there’s a good number of them there, a lot of them working under different names on movies and television shows.”

  “Can you tell us who they are?”

  “Fred Langham. The director, he’s there, he’s shooting a film right now.”

  Hannah’s heart stopped. Charlie knew all about Langham hiding from Hedda Hopper on the set of Robin Hood, and it would make one heck of a story.

  “Can you tell us the name of the film?”

  “No, I don’t know it. I just heard about it through the grapevine.”

  “Mr. Morrison,” the voic
e scolded, “we agreed to your arrangement on the grounds that you provide us with solid information about Communist activity on the part of Americans at home and abroad. If you are not able . . .”

  “Wait!” Charlie cried. “I can. I know for a fact that at least one confirmed Red has written for that television show The Adventures of Robin Hood!”

  “No!” Hannah cried, sinking her teeth into her fist so hard, she tasted blood. Shirley emitted one ferocious cry of “Merde!” before recovering herself and putting a hand on Hannah’s arm as Julie gazed up at her with big, worried eyes. Hannah leaned her head against Julie’s, waiting for names. But they didn’t come. To her astonishment, Charlie admitted that this was all he had heard. He had no names.

  “They won’t let that stand, they can’t possibly,” Shirley said, her voice full of doubtful hope.

  The committee asked a few more questions, but seemed pleased. They thanked him and promised that this television show would be investigated. The recording ended.

  “Joan,” Hannah said at last. “She begged him not to give us all away directly, and the show only as a last resort. He hates us but loves her. Good for him.”

  “So,” Shirley said. “How will you proceed?”

  Hannah took off her shoes, summoning the Hannah who indeed found crises stimulating. Then she grinned and lit a cigarette. “Easy as pie. Anyone who asks, I’ll show them my list of writers. Most of them have only written for me and some other British and European programs, and they’ve never been anywhere near a blacklist. If anyone asks, well, I’m sorry but I’ve simply no idea what Mr. Morrison is talking about! He must certainly have heard wrong. You know how rumors can be.”

  There was her own private list, of course. A truly enterprising investigator could find that a check sent to Howard McGough, or Eugene Hale, or Roger Ehrlich all ended up at Ring Lardner Jr.’s house. But what were these men’s banking arrangements to her? The questions would come, she would plead ignorance, promise punishment and future diligence, and that would, she hoped, be good enough for CBS. No one wanted to lose a hit television series.

  * * *

  • • •

  Life as a young reporter had taught Hannah that there were some things best kept even from an editor until they absolutely had to know. For now, she held off telling Sidney about Charlie’s testimony. She did tell Phoebe, though, when she came to have her weekly talk with Mona.

  “That louse!” was Phoebe’s blunt assessment. “Of all the times for me to be right about something.”

  “Nothing wrong with being right,” Hannah complimented her. “You’ve got good instincts, you know, you’d make a fine producer yourself.”

  “If my instincts were so good, I’d know what we should do now.”

  “Nothing yet,” Hannah said. Phoebe frowned, but Hannah dug in. “You have to trust me. First, I’m officially not supposed to know anything, so it would be awfully funny to defend myself before an accusation’s been made. Second, loose lips sink ships. No point worrying anyone till there’s reason to worry.”

  Phoebe shook her head, confused. “But you left home when you weren’t even targeted yet.”

  Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “That’s different. I knew how the tide was turning and who my enemies were. I had to get out of sight to be out of mind, so the choices were to come here and reinvent myself, or flit off to Connecticut or some damn thing and be a housewife . . .” She trailed off. If she’d done that, she might still be married. Her eyes traveled the room, seeing Paul’s old records next to hers, his favorite ashtray, his print of New York in the 1920s. It was as if he were just on a trip, due back any day. Maybe he would return. Then she could decide if he was forgiven.

  “I’m glad you came here,” Phoebe said.

  Hannah snapped back to attention. “Me too,” she said. Meaning it, despite everything. “We’ll be all right. Our official list of writers is squeaky clean, and Dale Winston loves Howard McGough.”

  “What did you think of Nigel?” Phoebe wanted to know.

  “He’s definitely the sort of person I want on my side in a jam,” Hannah said. “Though I’d rather meet your fellow Reg.”

  Phoebe’s face clouded. “We . . . aren’t quite talking just at the moment. It’s . . . he’s taking up time when I really need to be writing.”

  Hannah lost patience.

  “Didn’t I also say something about love? For Pete’s sake, Phoebe, the man makes you happy. And you can’t ever have too many friends.”

  Phoebe looked away. “The more time I spend with him, the more I’ll want to spend with him. What’s the point, when the minute the blacklist is over I’ll move back to New York?”

  Hannah poured herself a drink. “This blacklist isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Live your life. And anyway, London’s not so bad, is it?” She squeezed Phoebe’s shoulder. “Make your phone call, then come join me and the girls. We’re building a castle out of matchsticks, and then we’ll put it in the fireplace and pretend Genghis Khan’s come to call. Invite Reg over. If he doesn’t behave, we’ll toss him in the fire too.”

  “He doesn’t have a phone,” Phoebe explained.

  “Another time then.” Hannah headed for the playroom. It had been ages since she’d thought about life after the blacklist. It had stopped mattering, because this was home now. She might still not understand all the accents, and hated the class system, but this was her city now, and even the freedom to go back and reclaim New York had no pull on her heart.

  Or perhaps she didn’t believe that the persecution of anyone who had ever challenged the status quo would ever be over.

  * * *

  • • •

  The call from CBS came a few days later.

  “Hiya, Miss Wolfson.” Dale Winston’s voice boomed. She sat up straighter. “Listen, it’s the nuttiest thing, but can you have your girl send over the list of writers for the show?”

  “Don’t you already have it?” Hannah carefully sounded surprised.

  “They want to see all the names connected with the episodes that haven’t aired yet,” Dale said apologetically. “Look, don’t feel bad, they’d do it for Lucy, too, except it’s only ever the same pair of writers.”

  “Shall I send it via telex?” Hannah asked. “You can have it in an hour.”

  “Nah, it’s not that urgent.” She could hear him sucking at his cigar. “Them crackpots with the feds, they’re always trying to throw their weight around. You know what they’re like, trying to keep a hand in like they think they know better than us how to run our business. Trying to tell us what we should do, like we don’t already have production codes. I tell you, it’s damn Soviet of them, pardon my French.”

  Hannah smiled. There were still some men who thought they shouldn’t sully a lady’s ear with “such language.” As if she hadn’t heard—and spoken—any amount of language herself. She wanted to use some now. She wanted to shout that CBS didn’t have to comply, that they could push back, that they could tell the FBI they would hire whomever they wanted as long as they were good and it was indeed damn Soviet of the government to think it had anything to say about the matter. If Robin Hood could openly hire blacklisted writers and succeed, and democracy was still standing just fine, wouldn’t everyone see that the FBI and HUAC had no clothes?

  “Oh well, I’m sure there’s no harm in it,” Hannah said lightly. “I’ll send it by the next post.”

  “Just so they know we’re playing ball,” Dale agreed. “We don’t have to jump right when they say ‘jump,’ though. They can cool their heels a bit. We fought a war against the folks who expected that sort of jumping, ain’t that right?”

  “We certainly did,” Hannah said, wondering if he could hear her teeth grinding.

  “You’d better believe it,” Dale said again, sounding pleased. “Hey, is Miss McGough writing one of the upcoming scripts? Boy, is that one ever a pis
tol.”

  “Isn’t she just? She’s one of our favorites. I think you’ll love her next one.”

  There was a lot of good-natured joking and laughter, and a warm goodbye. The smile slipped from Hannah’s face the second she hung up, and she reached for the list of writers. She would type a copy at home and mail it herself. In a way, it was a relief. CBS would confirm the names were clean, and the FBI would think Charlie had made up the story to sound impressive. He wouldn’t be the first to do that. Or the last, Hannah assumed, heading home early once again.

  * * *

  • • •

  There were two men’s umbrellas in the stand when Hannah arrived, two hats on the rack, two overcoats. One set belonged to Paul. Hannah’s heart swooped up and down. Gemma was pacing the hallway and looked at Hannah in horror and alarm.

  “I’d put a curse on him if I could, and I don’t even believe that nonsense,” she said in a low voice.

  “What’s happening?” Hannah asked, but she pushed past Gemma to find Paul.

  He was with another man in his office. A room she didn’t recognize. It was empty of absolutely everything. Except dust.

  “Ah, Hannah,” he greeted her. “Home early. Trying to make time for the kids?”

  “I might ask you the same,” she said evenly, turning to the other man. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?”

  The man gave her a pleasant nod and turned to Paul. “I think I have enough to be getting on with. I shall wait in the vestibule.”

  Hannah ignored him as he stepped around her and left the room.

  “Your lawyer?” she asked Paul.

  “No, don’t be silly. A real estate appraiser. Our little place here has gained in value since we moved in, and should be in some demand.”

  His words were more incomprehensible than Beryl’s broadest dialect.

  “What are you saying?” she gasped. “You can’t sell our flat.”