Scripts and Subterfuge

The Quiet Art of Resistance: Chapter 8

The basement of the Lorraine Hansberry Theatre had been transformed over the past week. What was once storage for forgotten props and dusty scripts now resembled a war room from another era. Maps of New York City covered one wall, annotated with red marker. The opposite wall displayed a timeline stretching from now until April 19th—Lexington and Concord Day. In the center, a large oak table salvaged from the theater's original green room dominated the space, its surface scattered with drafts, sketches, and coffee cups.

Riley hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. As the theater's artistic director, she moved between creative and administrative roles with practiced ease. Her Schiaparelli suit had been exchanged for black jeans and an oversized sweater, though the oxblood T-strap heels remained. She paused, pushing back a strand of hair that had escaped her messy bun.

"If we're using the American Revolution as our framework, we need to be careful," she said, not looking up. "The regime has co-opted patriotic imagery. We need to reclaim it without seeming like we're playing into their hands."

Vivian stood by the timeline, her silver-headed cane tapping thoughtfully against the concrete floor. "That's precisely why it works," she replied. "During the occupation, the Nazis encouraged French theaters to perform classical works—they believed these showcased 'traditional values.' But the performances became coded messages of resistance."

She moved to the table, elegant despite the basement's dampness, the emerald-and-diamond brooch catching the light of the industrial lamps overhead. "The trick is to make them believe they're watching their own triumph while the audience recognizes a call to action."

Mark entered, carrying a cardboard box filled with technical equipment. "Found these old lighting gels in storage," he said, setting the box down. "Pre-digital. Harder to hack than the new systems."

Riley looked up, her green eyes bright with inspiration. "What if our 'Washington Crossing the Delaware' scene is actually a metaphor for digital border crossing? Each character could represent different resistance tactics—the boats becoming servers, the river becoming firewalls."

"Too obvious," Vivian countered, though her eyes sparkled with approval at Riley's thinking. "But what if instead..."

She was interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. Everyone tensed until Claire appeared in person, having already arrived from Les Deux Canards, followed by a young woman with a portfolio case.

"This is Eliza Thompson," Claire announced. "The lighting designer I mentioned from Los Angeles. She got the last flight out before the storm grounded everything."

Eliza stepped forward, her smile confident as she surveyed the room. "I've admired your work for years, Ms. LaFarge," she said, extending her hand to Vivian. "I flew in specially for this project. Your production of 'The Crucible' during the first Trump administration made waves even in LA. The parallels were... illuminating."

Vivian's handshake was cordial but reserved. "Welcome to our little resistance," she said, watching the young woman's reaction closely.

"Claire showed me the concept," Eliza replied, opening her portfolio on the table. "I've been experimenting with lighting techniques that appear conventional but create subliminal effects. For instance, this pulsing pattern seems like standard dramatic lighting, but it can actually convey Morse code to anyone who knows what to look for."

Mark crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "And where did you learn that particular skill?"

"My grandfather was a radio operator in Vietnam who later worked in Hollywood lighting," Eliza answered without hesitation. "He taught me Morse code before I could read, said it would come in handy in the entertainment industry."

"The weather back in LA must seem mild compared to a New York February," Mark continued casually, watching her reaction. "How are you finding it?"

"A shock to the system," Eliza replied with a slight laugh. "But worth it for a project like this." She turned back to her portfolio, missing the skeptical glance Mark exchanged with Vivian.

---

The rehearsal space upstairs was cold, the heating system struggling against February's bite. A dozen actors moved through blocking for what appeared to be a stylized version of the Boston Tea Party.

Riley sat in the third row, making notes, occasionally calling out directions with the natural authority of someone who had led this theater through multiple artistic transformations. Beside her, Vivian watched with the focused intensity of a chess master.

"It's still too literal," Vivian murmured. "We need another layer."

Riley nodded. "What about incorporating elements of absurdism? It would give us cover for the more radical messages."

"The way Ionesco used absurdity to make nonsense of fascism," Vivian agreed. "But we maintain enough narrative cohesion that the regime sees only what they expect—a historical celebration."

From the stage, an actor playing Samuel Adams delivered a passionate speech about taxation and representation. With each rehearsal, the words had evolved, taking on new meanings. What had begun as historical quotations now carried subtle references to contemporary surveillance, to the erosion of privacy, to the quiet ways resistance could take root.

Eliza worked in the lighting booth, running cues. Through the glass, Riley could see her frequently checking her phone between changes, typing rapidly.

"I don't trust her," Riley whispered.

Vivian's expression remained neutral. "Trust is a luxury we cannot afford to give freely. But suspicion without cause is equally dangerous. We will test her, as my mother tested new recruits. Feed her specific information, see where it leads."

After rehearsal, the core group reconvened in the basement. Mark secured the door while Claire took a seat at the table, finally able to participate fully in person instead of through a screen. Her scar seemed more pronounced in the basement's harsh lighting.

"I've been monitoring the message boards," she said, her voice low despite the privacy. "There's increased chatter about April 19th. We're not the only ones planning something."

"The anniversary creates perfect cover," Vivian noted. "One cannot ban celebrations of American independence without revealing one's true nature."

Riley rubbed her eyes. "I received word about my appeal today," she said, her voice tight. "Columbia's board denied it. My adjunct position in the theater department is terminated—teaching 'divisive concepts that undermine national unity' is apparently cause for immediate dismissal now. At least they can't touch me here at the Lorraine Hansberry. Not yet, anyway."

Claire reached across the table, squeezing Riley's hand. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It just confirms what we already knew," Riley replied. "The purges are accelerating. Three more departments lost faculty this week. History. Literature. Political Science."

Mark's jaw tightened. "Any word about Thomas?" he asked, referring to his brother.

Riley shook her head. "The detention center still claims to have no record of him."

The weight of their personal losses hung in the air, making the work before them all the more urgent.

Vivian broke the silence. "I have something to show you."

From her handbag, she removed a small velvet pouch. Opening it carefully, she extracted what appeared to be an antique makeup compact. The gold case was tarnished with age, its surface engraved with an art deco pattern.

"This belonged to my mother," she said, her accent thickening with emotion. "It appears to be a simple vanity item, yes?" She pressed a hidden catch, and the compact opened to reveal not makeup, but a folded piece of tissue-thin paper and what looked like a miniature camera lens.

"The Resistance used ordinary objects as their tools. This compact concealed microfilm and a lens for reading encrypted messages." Her fingers trembled slightly as she touched the paper. "This contains the names of collaborators in her district. She carried it with her every day, right under the noses of those who would have killed her for it."

She looked up, her gaze intense. "We must think as they did. The theater itself must become our compact, concealing what really matters within what appears to be merely entertainment."

---

The following evening, the group held their first small performance—a "friends and family" reading for a carefully selected audience of twenty. The theater's smallest performance space, normally used for experimental works, provided the perfect setting. Intimate enough to control who attended, but public enough to maintain their cover as a legitimate production.

Vivian greeted each guest personally, her expression revealing nothing as she evaluated potential allies and risks. Riley watched from near the stage, cataloging reactions, noting who leaned forward during certain lines, who exchanged glances at particular moments.

The reading progressed smoothly until midway through the second act, when the lights flickered and died.

Eliza's voice came from the darkness. "Sorry! Minor technical issue. Emergency lights should kick in—"

Before she could finish, the room plunged into complete blackness. Murmurs of confusion rippled through the small audience.

Mark moved silently through the dark, finding Riley by touch. "This isn't a technical issue," he whispered. "Someone cut power to the whole block."

Riley's heart hammered. "Coincidence or—"

"There are no coincidences anymore," Mark cut in.

The emergency lights finally activated, casting the room in an eerie blue glow. Vivian stood calmly at center stage, appearing completely unfazed.

"When the theaters in occupied Paris lost power," she announced to the confused audience, "the actors continued by candlelight. The show, as they say, must go on."

As if on cue, Claire appeared with battery operated candles, distributing them throughout the space. The reading resumed, the slow flickering light lending an unexpected intimacy to the performance. What had been planned as a simple reading transformed into something more powerful—a gathering of shadows and whispers that felt ancient and revolutionary all at once.

Afterward, as the small audience dispersed into the night, a middle-aged man approached Riley.

"The lighting failure was fortunate," he said, his voice low. "It emphasized the line about darkness being where the real work begins."

Riley studied him cautiously. "That was unplanned."

"Perhaps. But effective." He handed her a business card. "I work at Columbia University's quantum research center. Some of us have been looking for ways to... participate. Your approach is intriguing."

Before Riley could respond, the man disappeared into the night, leaving her holding a card for Dr. Julian Reeves, Quantum Computing Division.

---

Later that night, the core group gathered in Vivian's Upper West Side apartment—a pre-war building with thick walls and no smart devices. The power outage had rattled them all, though no one would admit it. For Riley, it represented another threat to the theater she'd fought so hard to preserve through funding cuts, real estate pressures, and now political hostility.

"We need to discuss our digital vulnerability," Claire said, her laptop open before her. "Our communication system isn't secure enough."

"I might have found us a tech ally," Riley replied, sliding Dr. Reeves' card onto the table. "But we need to vet him carefully."

Mark paced by the windows, periodically checking the street below. "We also need to discuss the Eliza situation. She was on her phone right before the blackout."

"Correlation isn't causation," Claire countered.

"In the world my mother inhabited," Vivian interjected, "coincidences were treated as warnings. However, false accusations destroyed as many resistance cells as infiltration did."

She moved to an antique secretary desk in the corner. From a hidden compartment, she removed a slim leather portfolio.

"These are copies of actual codes used by the French Resistance," she explained, laying out yellowed papers covered in seemingly nonsensical phrases. "What appears to be a recipe for bread contains instructions for sabotaging rail lines. A poem about spring describes drop locations for weapons."

Her finger traced the faded writing. "We will adapt these methods. Our play will contain similar layers—what the regime sees, what our allies recognize, and what only we know."

Riley studied the papers with reverence. "And for our modern challenges? The surveillance is far beyond what your mother faced."

"Which is why we need both her wisdom and your generation's understanding of technology," Vivian replied. "Musk's systems may seem impenetrable, but consider this—his satellites must maintain predictable orbits. His algorithms seek patterns. We will create anti-patterns, communications that make no sense to artificial intelligence but speak clearly to human intuition."

Claire leaned forward. "What about the April 19th coordination? We've received inquiries from three other theater groups across the country. They want to stage simultaneous performances."

"Perfect," Vivian said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "A nationwide performance art piece celebrating American independence. Who could object? And beneath it, a network activates."

"If we're going to coordinate that widely, we need better security," Mark insisted.

Vivian nodded toward the window, where the city grid remained dark for blocks. "Perhaps," she mused, "we don't fight the darkness. Perhaps we use it."

Riley's expression sharpened with sudden understanding. "The blackouts. They're going to increase as the infrastructure fails. What if we time our most sensitive communications to coincide with power failures? No cameras. No monitoring."

"Predictable unpredictability," Claire murmured. "Using the regime's failures against it."

Vivian's eyes gleamed in the candlelight, the same determination that had driven her mother decades before now burning within her. "For our next rehearsal," she said, "we will be prepared for darkness."

Outside, the power grid flickered back to life, street lamps illuminating a city that felt increasingly foreign. But in Vivian's apartment, in the brief moment before electric light erased the intimacy of candles and shadows, the four of them existed in a bubble of shared purpose—a resistance taking shape, finding its voice in whispers and coded text, preparing for the day when the stage would become a battlefield, and the final act would begin.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A Note on Reality

The OSS Simple Sabotage Field Manual is not fiction. Declassified in 2008, it was created by the Office of Strategic Services in 1944 to teach ordinary citizens how to disrupt enemy operations using nothing but inefficiency and frustration. Its lessons in bureaucratic warfare remain startlingly relevant today and it sits in the CIA's archives, a testament to how people just like us once changed the course of history through simple, daily acts like a lovely compact mirror with a microfiche camera.

The complete manual can be found in the CIA's own archives:

CIA.gov - OSS Simple Sabotage Field Manual (1944)

THE ART OF QUIET RESISTANCE

Chapter by Chapter

Chapter 1 The Art of Quiet Resistance

Chapter 2 The First Test

Chapter 3 Invisible Movements

Chapter 4 How to Fight the Monsters Under Our Beds

Chapter 5 The Best Disguise is No Disguise

Chapter 6 Midnight and Blue

Chapter 7 The Stage Is Set: A Coup in Three Acts

Chapter 8 Scripts and Subterfuge

Chapter 9 The Secret Code of Us

Chapter 10 The Language of Risk

OSS BRANCH — SIMPLE SABOTAGE FIELD MANUAL Strategic Services

(Provisional) STRATEGIC SERVICES FIELD MANUAL, No. 3
Office of Strategic Services
Washington, D. C.

17 January 1944

This Simple Sabotage Field Manual Strategic Services (Provisional) published as a typewritten manual for the first time, is the information and guidance of all concerned and will be used as the basic doctrine for Strategic Services training for this subject.
The contents of this Manual should be carefully controlled and should not be allowed to come into unauthorized hands.
The instructions may be placed in separate pamphlets or leaflets according to categories of operations but should be distributed with care and not broadly. They should be used as a basis of internal radio broadcasts only for local and special cases and as directed by the theater commander.
AR 380-5, pertaining to handling of secret documents, will be complied with in the handling of this Manual.

William J. Donovan

Section 1. INTRODUCTION
Section 2. POSSIBLE EFFECTS
Section 3. MOTIVATING THE SABOTEUR
Section 4. TOOLS, TARGETS, AND TIMING
Section 5. SPECIFIC SUGGESTIONS FOR SIMPLE SABOTAGE

---

William J. Donovan had a habit of showing up exactly where history needed him. Soldier, lawyer, diplomat, spymaster—if he’d taken an interest in the culinary arts, we’d probably be crediting him with inventing the CIA and the martini. Best remembered as the founder of the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) during World War II—the blueprint for today’s CIA—Donovan was the sort of man who made life interesting for both his allies and his enemies.

He was born in Buffalo, New York, on New Year’s Day, 1883, because of course he had to arrive at the start of something. The first-generation Irish-American son of a working-class family, he grew up with the kind of tenacity that makes for great war heroes and absolutely maddening children. At Columbia University, he played football with a level of aggression that probably had his opponents considering career changes. One of his classmates was Franklin D. Roosevelt. One imagines they got along well enough, though FDR likely had the sense to avoid competing with Donovan in anything—a wise choice, given that Donovan approached life like a man who refused to lose.

After law school, he set up shop in Buffalo, where he became a formidable lawyer. He was sharp, ambitious, and had the kind of legal mind that made judges either admire him or reach for the aspirin. But then came World War I, and Donovan was not the type to sit safely behind a desk when there was a war to fight.

He joined the “Fighting 69th” Infantry Regiment, later reorganized as the 165th Infantry of the 42nd Rainbow Division, and—because it was simply how he operated—quickly rose to the rank of colonel. He fought on the Western Front with the kind of courage that makes battlefield legends. At Landres-et-Saint-Georges in 1918, he earned the Medal of Honor for sheer, audacious bravery. He didn’t stop there. He also picked up the Distinguished Service Cross and a handful of foreign decorations, because if Donovan was going to do something, he was going to do it all the way.

After the war, he returned to law, this time serving as U.S. Attorney for Western New York under President Calvin Coolidge. He spent a lot of time prosecuting Prohibition-era bootleggers, though one suspects he had the occasional pang of sympathy for their ingenuity. Later, he became a high-powered corporate lawyer and an international businessman, which sounds ordinary—until you realize that this meant spending a great deal of time in Europe, rubbing elbows with powerful people, and, oh yes, getting very friendly with British intelligence.

By the time World War II rolled around, Donovan was the man who knew everyone, understood everything, and could make himself indispensable in about three sentences. He advised President Roosevelt on intelligence and covert operations, and in 1941, FDR made it official: Donovan became the Coordinator of Information, a fancy title that really meant “America’s first spymaster.” A year later, he transformed that office into the OSS—the United States’ first real intelligence agency. It was the stuff of wartime thrillers: espionage, sabotage, guerrilla warfare, and the kind of psychological operations that would make an enemy lose sleep.

Donovan didn’t just set up the OSS; he reinvented how America did intelligence. He collaborated closely with Britain’s MI6 and the Special Operations Executive, because if there was one thing Donovan knew, it was the value of working with people who’d been in the spy game longer than you. Under his leadership, the OSS trained operatives to infiltrate Nazi-occupied Europe, supported resistance movements in France, Yugoslavia, and China, and turned psychological warfare into an art form. In short, Donovan made sure that American intelligence didn’t just enter the war—it made itself necessary to winning it.

And then, just as he was riding high as America’s top spymaster, the war ended—and Truman, who was deeply suspicious of centralized intelligence, dissolved the OSS. Donovan fought for the creation of a permanent agency, warning that the world didn’t get less dangerous just because the guns stopped firing. In 1947, Truman finally relented, and the CIA was born. But in a classic case of Washington politics, Donovan—who had built the damn thing—was passed over as its first director. The irony must have been bitter, but if he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. Donovan had done what he always did: built something that would outlive him.

He died in 1959 and was buried with full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery, having lived the kind of life that most men would need three lifetimes to accomplish. His legacy remains in every intelligence operation the U.S. runs, in every covert mission, in every agent trained in the dark arts of espionage.

And let’s be honest—he would’ve loved that.