Two years later, HUAC, citing the Soviet threat, held their first hearings into Communist activity in Hollywood. People throughout the industry were subpoenaed, suspected of Communist loyalty or sympathy, or any sort of “subversive activity.” They were forced to come to Washington to answer the committee’s questions about that activity. There was outrage, of course, and a group of ten screenwriters and directors pushed back. They not only refused to answer questions, they denounced HUAC for asking them. It went against everything America stood for, they said. Hannah and other liberal journalists applauded, and Hannah wrote an impassioned defense of the rights of Americans to hold unpopular political views. But then the “Hollywood Ten” were cited for contempt of Congress. They were tried and imprisoned. It seemed impossible, but it happened. When the other leftist journalists Hannah knew stopped expressing outrage—in fact, stopped discussing it altogether—that was when she became truly afraid. She soon saw that anyone known for being outspoken was likely to land on the chopping block. Rhoda was on the way, and Hannah had no intention of being chopped. Rutherford money helped her and Paul decamp to London and buy a flat in Chelsea, then financed the setup of Sapphire Films after Hannah’s short stints on a few productions proved she had a knack for the quickly growing world of television.
“Daddy helped give me a start, but my company is making its own money now,” she assured Rhoda, ignoring Paul’s snort. Sapphire Films wasn’t quite breaking even. “And you’re right. I have to keep on top of what everyone’s doing, keep track of several dozen things at once, make sure it’s all going well and everyone’s happy.” Being an executive producer was not unlike being a wife and mother; it was surprising that most people thought a woman couldn’t manage it.
Then again, no one had expected Hannah to become a successful reporter either. Low expectations could be useful, she found. They left a lot of space for you to work your way up long before anyone noticed.
“And have you found your ‘something big’ yet?” Paul asked.
“Not in this pile,” Hannah said. She consigned the script to the “rejected” stack and reached for another.
“Well, even my busy bee must break for lunch,” he said, adding: “Shoes.”
Hannah was in her stocking feet—she did her best thinking when she wasn’t wearing shoes. Paul didn’t insist on his parents’ starchy formality, but as Hannah joked to her friend Shirley, he put his foot down on bare feet during meals. Hannah slipped on her shoes and sat at the table, marveling at the glory of her beautiful family gathered for Sunday lunch. Paul, Rhoda, eighteen-month-old Julie. Also Gemma, whom Hannah called the nanny extraordinaire. Hannah had been advised she could pay Gemma half the wages of “a trained English girl,” since she was a Jamaican émigré. Instead, Hannah paid her above the going rate. Hannah had never thought of herself as someone who would “keep help,” but she’d never thought of herself as becoming a mother either.
“All mothers need help,” Gemma had said unprompted, a week into her new job. “Not enough can get it.”
“I suppose I’d do better if I weren’t working,” Hannah replied, surprised enough to be candid.
Gemma eyed her shrewdly. “You’re the sort who has to work or lose your mind. It’s no good for children, mamas without minds.”
Hannah was very pleased to have a strong mind.
After lunch, Julie went down for a nap, and Gemma took Rhoda into the square’s garden to terrorize the neighbor children. Hannah, needing a change from the thrillers in the living room, went into the master bedroom, where comedy scripts were piled on her bedside table and melodramas were on the vanity under her hairbrushes. She chose a comedy—everyone wanted a hit comedy—tossed her shoes into a corner, and returned to the sofa.
“Do you really have to do this reading all the time?” Paul asked. “Even on Sundays? That Scotch guy who works for you, can’t he do it?”
“‘Scottish,’ darling, not ‘Scotch’—that’s offensive,” Hannah corrected, in the gentle lilt that had first captivated him. “Sidney reads too, of course, but I’m the one who’s going to find the show that puts me on the map. And anyway, you know perfectly well that a lot of these submissions are entrusted directly to me.”
Paul frowned worriedly and looked as if he were about to scold her. To her relief, he just asked if the script was any good.
“It would be all right for a film,” she said, scowling at the pages. “I’d sure love it if more writers understood television’s not about shrinking a picture. It’s a whole new medium.”
“I’m sure you’ll be the one to tell them, dear,” Paul said, laughing.
Hannah laughed too. She reached for Paul’s hand, wrapping both of hers around it and drawing it to her lips. He had perfect rounded fingernails, neatly pared always; so unlike her own nails, which were invariably chipped at the corners and uneven. During their brief courtship, one of her favorite things to do was marvel at their intertwined hands. Urban sophisticate that he was, his fingers were nonetheless brown and strong, while hers were small and white and dainty. She loved that he didn’t care if she eschewed nail polish—sometimes she wondered if he even noticed—and that her fingertips were always dimly ink stained. She loved that he loved to hold hands.
He kissed her forehead. “Say, darling, since you’re reading anyway, I don’t suppose you can look at my story?” Paul was a long-form journalist, often spending months on a piece that became a cover story for the New Yorker or Atlantic Monthly. He had made a minor name for himself during the war, writing in-depth pieces on slices of ordinary American life in wartime. His story about the messenger boy who received the wire that his own father had died was made into a film—a would-be weepie that had nowhere to go after the first act and only ran a week, but a film nevertheless. After Paul and Hannah married and she started editing his stories before his editors did, his work became even more popular.
She looked at the pile of scripts she hoped to get through, and into his expectant brown eyes. It was her work, not his—or not yet, as he said—that had spooked them into upending their lives. She hadn’t named her company Rutherford Films as he’d hoped (“so at least people will know we’re related, darling”), but chose “Sapphire”—a cool blue stone that was remarkably hard and resilient. She smiled at Paul. She loved helping him. He wanted a Pulitzer Prize, and she wanted that for him.
“It would make a lovely change,” she agreed. “Speaking of lovely change, let’s get Julie and join Rhoda and Gemma in the square. You can play with Rhoda and I’ll read your story. It’s not too cold. Heck, it’s even downright sunny.”
“Are we sure it’s still London?” Paul asked.
Hannah laughed and went to gather the sleeping Julie, who hardly stirred as she was laid in her pram.