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Authors: Stefanie Matteson
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Picasso, an admitted Communist. It didn’t matter that the person didn’t know Picasso, hadn’t even sat on the same side of the ring. He had been there.
“Did Iris go to jail?” asked Tracey.
“No …”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s a good question.” She was trying to remember. She had repressed a lot from that period. Part of it had to do with her own passive complicity, or what she perceived as her own passive complicity, in the witch hunt. Despite the fact that she too had associated with known Communists, one of her favorite directors among them, she had never been called upon to testify. The reason for this, she was sure, lay with her public image. It would have been impossible to convince the public that an actress who had made a career out of playing idle debutantes and sassy secretaries could ever have been a Communist. The same had been true of the war heroes; they were untouchable by virtue of their public image (except for Linc, she thought).
At the time, she had felt much as a Vietnam-era student who received a high number in the draft lottery must have felt—relieved at not having to take a stand (or rather, the stand). But as the hearings had dragged on, leaving a trail of blighted lives in their wake, she had begun to feel ashamed of this chapter in her life. Yes, she had joined the Committee for the First Amendment, flying to Washington with a plane load of stars to protest the first round of HUAC hearings in 1947, but the committee had folded almost as fast as it had coalesced, and other protest efforts were equally short-lived, especially after friendly witnesses starting naming names.
Iris’ was one of those ruined careers that had left Charlotte with survivor’s guilt. She supposed that’s why she had thought so little about her over the years, despite the fact that her name still came up with some frequency in literary and cinematic circles. What had happened to Iris? she asked herself. As she gazed out the window at the water falling over the dam, it slowly came back to her. “She was subpoenaed,” she said finally. “It was in the winter of 1952, after HUAC had reopened its investigation. I remember the date because several other people I knew got their pink slips at the same time. Her testimony was taken in executive session at a hotel in L.A.”
“Executive session?” said Tracey.
“It meant that the testimony wouldn’t be released. It was a deal that the lawyers were sometimes able to work out to avoid having their clients’ names dragged through the mud. But it only worked for the small fry. The big fish didn’t have that option.”
“What happened to her after that?” asked Tracey.
“She simply disappeared. Went underground, I guess you’d say. Most of the blacklisted screenwriters went to New York; some went abroad—Paris, Mexico, Paraguay; some moved to rural areas where they could live cheaply.”
“Like Old Town,” said Tracey.
She nodded. “The situation was better for writers than for actors or directors because they could change their names or hire fronts and continue working. A lot of them wrote for television. People used to say that there were more aliases in television than there were fleas on Lassie.”
“I like that,” said Tracey with a chuckle.
Having finished their meals, they leaned back in the sunny booth and relaxed, three empty platters on the table in front of them.
“That’s why the early days of television were so wonderful,” Charlotte explained. “The finest screenwriting talent in the world was available at bargain basement prices.”
“Is that what Iris did?” Tracey asked.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Television was my refuge for a while too. I would have recognized her work, or have heard about her. You usually knew that a script had been written by a blacklisted screenwriter.”
For a moment, the conversation lapsed as the waitress cleared their plates. “Any dessert?” she asked.
Tracey checked
“Did Iris go to jail?” asked Tracey.
“No …”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s a good question.” She was trying to remember. She had repressed a lot from that period. Part of it had to do with her own passive complicity, or what she perceived as her own passive complicity, in the witch hunt. Despite the fact that she too had associated with known Communists, one of her favorite directors among them, she had never been called upon to testify. The reason for this, she was sure, lay with her public image. It would have been impossible to convince the public that an actress who had made a career out of playing idle debutantes and sassy secretaries could ever have been a Communist. The same had been true of the war heroes; they were untouchable by virtue of their public image (except for Linc, she thought).
At the time, she had felt much as a Vietnam-era student who received a high number in the draft lottery must have felt—relieved at not having to take a stand (or rather, the stand). But as the hearings had dragged on, leaving a trail of blighted lives in their wake, she had begun to feel ashamed of this chapter in her life. Yes, she had joined the Committee for the First Amendment, flying to Washington with a plane load of stars to protest the first round of HUAC hearings in 1947, but the committee had folded almost as fast as it had coalesced, and other protest efforts were equally short-lived, especially after friendly witnesses starting naming names.
Iris’ was one of those ruined careers that had left Charlotte with survivor’s guilt. She supposed that’s why she had thought so little about her over the years, despite the fact that her name still came up with some frequency in literary and cinematic circles. What had happened to Iris? she asked herself. As she gazed out the window at the water falling over the dam, it slowly came back to her. “She was subpoenaed,” she said finally. “It was in the winter of 1952, after HUAC had reopened its investigation. I remember the date because several other people I knew got their pink slips at the same time. Her testimony was taken in executive session at a hotel in L.A.”
“Executive session?” said Tracey.
“It meant that the testimony wouldn’t be released. It was a deal that the lawyers were sometimes able to work out to avoid having their clients’ names dragged through the mud. But it only worked for the small fry. The big fish didn’t have that option.”
“What happened to her after that?” asked Tracey.
“She simply disappeared. Went underground, I guess you’d say. Most of the blacklisted screenwriters went to New York; some went abroad—Paris, Mexico, Paraguay; some moved to rural areas where they could live cheaply.”
“Like Old Town,” said Tracey.
She nodded. “The situation was better for writers than for actors or directors because they could change their names or hire fronts and continue working. A lot of them wrote for television. People used to say that there were more aliases in television than there were fleas on Lassie.”
“I like that,” said Tracey with a chuckle.
Having finished their meals, they leaned back in the sunny booth and relaxed, three empty platters on the table in front of them.
“That’s why the early days of television were so wonderful,” Charlotte explained. “The finest screenwriting talent in the world was available at bargain basement prices.”
“Is that what Iris did?” Tracey asked.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Television was my refuge for a while too. I would have recognized her work, or have heard about her. You usually knew that a script had been written by a blacklisted screenwriter.”
For a moment, the conversation lapsed as the waitress cleared their plates. “Any dessert?” she asked.
Tracey checked
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