When Francel has opened the switch and the body has collapsed for the third time, the two prison doctors walk over and rip the T-shirt down the front. Dr. McCracken puts his stethescope to the bared chest, nods to the others, and, wiping the sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand, says: “I pronounce this man dead.” Whereupon, Julius Rosenberg, taking Judge Irving Kaufman and the U.S. Department of Justice with him, enters the record books as the first American citizen ever executed by a civil court for espionage. More records are set to be broken when Ethel Rosenberg takes her turn in the chair, but this one belongs to Julius alone, and, as such things appeal to Americans, it is duly cheered—less enthusiastically up front, where the disquieting presence of Death can still be felt like a sticky malodorous fog, more warmly as it spreads out toward the periphery, traveling like a happy rumor, merging finally into a drunken exultant uproar out at the far edges, where everyone is having a terrific time without exactly knowing why.
Guards unbuckle Rosenberg’s corpse, offering the public a quick sensational glimpse of his blue tongue, wildly distorted facial muscles, and fractured eyeballs, then they heave the sacklike thing up onto the white-sheeted gurney, grunting as they work. While the cadaver is being wheeled offstage to the autopsy room, the attendant who brought in the ammonia bucket mops up the puddle beneath the electric chair and sponges off the soiled seat, working with self-conscious fastidiousness, aware of all the eyes upon him. The audience with gentle good humor applauds him—he smiles sheepishly, wiping his hands on his pants, and ducks back to his position beside the wall, stage left.
Cecil B. De Mille, meanwhile, using the Paramount Building as a kind of giant magic lantern, the Claridge Hotel as a screen, has commenced to project Uncle Sam’s documentary film on the Rosenberg boys, the idea being to augment the pathos (Americans, as he knows, go ape over sentiment) and to restore a certain monumentality to the event, a bit diminished by the actual human size of the principals and the loss during the blackout of the larger-than-life pageant icons—but they are running behind now with the executions, the Sabbath is rushing up on them, and so hardly has the film faded into the initial first-reel prison encounter between parents and children, the littlest son greeting his mother with “You look much smaller, Mama!” (“No, it is you who are growing bigger!”), when Rabbi Koslowe’s voice can again be heard down at the echoey far end of the Last Mile, gravely reciting, as cell doors clang and steps once more approach, the 15th Psalm: “Lord, who shall abide in Thy tabernacle? who shall dwell in Thy holy hill…?”
Yet, though it begins much the same as the one before, this is, as the people soon realize, no mere repeat performance—no, this is a true second act, a topper, they can feel it, even before Ethel Rosenberg has made her appearance through the Dance Hall door: something very different is about to happen! Maybe it’s simply because she’s a woman—it’s a rare thing to watch a woman being put to death, Uncle Sam was probably thinking of that when he set up the order; or maybe it’s the way they walk this time, the rustling of starched skirts, the click of hard heels coming down the corridor; or the flickering images on the Claridge perhaps, the little Rosenberg boys up there, several stories high, playing horsey on their parents’ backs; or David’s provocative description, recited by the rabbi but chosen by Ethel, of a citizen of Zion: “He that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor doeth evil to his neighbour, nor taketh up a reproach against his neighbour!” This is not a prayer, it is an accusation! She is challenging them all, just as she challenged the press and public with her defiantly political Death House letters, or the President with her unyielding mercy pleas, or the Judge with heated quotations from Shaw’s Saint Joan: “You damn yourself,” she told him, “because it feels grand to throw oil on the flaming hell of your own temper! But when it is brought home to you; when you see the thing you have done; when it’s blinding your eyes, stifling your nostrils, tearing your heart, then—then—O God, take away this sight from me! O Christ! deliver me from this fire that is consuming me!”
By the time they pass under the SILENCE sign and into the heat and stench and glare of the Death House stage, Rabbi Koslowe has moved on to Ethel’s second selection, the 31st Psalm: “… Thou hast set my feet in a large room. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am in trouble: mine eye is consumed with grief, yea, my soul and my belly!” But if Ethel Rosenberg—driving force behind the Master Spy, willing slave of a conspiracy against all humanity, and typist for the Crime of the Century—is consumed by grief, it is not obvious in the way she makes her entrance, walking buoyantly between two white-frocked prison matrons, her hands clasped in front of her, her head held high and her eyes sparkling, her face lit with a serene smile, declaring by her very presence that, unlike Shaw’s Saint Joan, she will not be burned offstage—indeed, even had this been the plan, she would not have allowed it.
She is dressed simply in a green cotton dress with white polka dots and loafer-type terrycloth slippers, her hair close-cropped on top, a tiny creature, just five feet tall, pert, full-breasted, and disturbingly pretty, with none of the puffy puckery-mouthed sag of the newspaper photos—maybe it’s the haircut, the loose springlike dress, the color in her cheeks; probably, though, it’s just her commanding style. There are some out in the audience who have been feeling they’ve seen all there is to see the first time around—you just plug them in, they twitch and jerk awhile and shit their pants, then you unplug them and cart them off, ho hum—and who have become a bit restless, distracted, looking ahead already to the Bobo Olson-Paddy Young bout to follow, laying their bets, getting into arguments, or else, especially if they’ve got their kids with them, contemplating the quickest route out of the pack-up—but Ethel’s entrance has changed all that. She’s got every one of them on the edge of their seats or the balls of their feet. President Eisenhower sits hunched forward, his eyes wide open for a change, and Mamie too is watching now. Vice President Nixon is white as a sheet, gripping the seat of his chair, sweating profusely. Julius shared his terror with them all, and so they were able to sympathize with him, get inside and suffer what he suffered, then survive—but Ethel is insisting on being herself, forcing them to think about something or someone other than themselves, which is both disquieting and exciting. She gazes around the set and out into Times Square with a kind of fierce delight, enjoying what she sees, meeting each of her accusers with a bold steady stare, smiling at the people beyond, daring them all to watch and listen…. “For I have heard the slander of many,” reads the rabbi, “fear was on every side: while they took counsel together against me, they devised to take away my life!” Her husband’s voice enters almost as though, with a flick of her short curls, she has cued it—“It’s the warmth and comradeship of decent people, it is the compassionate heart of good people and the fraternal solidarity of mankind—this is what is really worthwhile and this is what is good in the world!”—but at the same time, though her lips remain closed in their gently taunting smile, her own voice is present, too: “All my heart I send to all who hold me dear—I am not alone—and I die ‘with honor and with dignity’—knowing my husband and I must be vindicated by history!” Joe McCarthy is grinning broadly in frank admiration, and even Darryl Zanuck seems impressed. “Let the lying lips be put to silence,” reads the rabbi, “which speak grievous things proudly and contemptuously against the righteous!” She has not only stolen the atom bomb—she has stolen the Bible as well!
The two matrons accompanying her—Helen Evans and Lucy Many—hesitate. Ethel turns to them, smiles warmly, shakes Mrs. Evans’s hand and kisses her cheek, shakes Mrs. Many’s hand—they flee, genuinely touched, dabbing at their eyes with clutched handkerchiefs. Then, unassisted, Ethel walks directly to the electric chair and plumps herself down in it with all the familiarity of a daily commuter taking her seat in the subway. Her husband’s voice meanwhile, accompanied by friendly street noises from the Lower East Side of their childhood, is speaking of June and love and how happy they were as young radicals, first as lovers a
nd students, then as man and wife…. “I look up at the calendar and June 18th catches my eye—hoir vividly I remember that lovely Sunday in June! We were so full of joie de vivre, so happy and so much in love—I never dreamed I could love anyone so much! Remember the photos from our honeymoon at Spring Glen? In many ways, my bunny, you are prettier and lovelier now even than then!” She shifts her body to make it easier for the guards strapping her in, helping them place the leather bands across her chest and lap, smiling at their embarrassed awkwardness. She is so tiny she had to scoot down in the seat for her feet to reach the footrests and the electrode there. “And the many wonderful summers we spent together—do you recall our summer vacations with the boys? Can you picture all of us together in the country or at the beach? You carrying Robbie on your back and Michael on my back, and the big race was on. Do you remember the procession when it came time for the little one to be put to bed? You led the way holding his feet. I held his shoulders and Michael marched in the middle with his brother’s back resting on his head. By now it seems so far away, but the beauty of it lingers…. Gosh, how sad without you…” Up on the Claridge, Julius is zooming the little one through the prison visiting room like an airplane. Ethel tips her head to one side to help the Executioner attach the electrode to the shaved place on her scalp, wincing briefly when the wet sponge touches it. Her husband’s voice has begun to whine…. “The days are lonely, sweetheart, and the dark long nights are empty without you. Many times during the day I ask myself over and over why and I have to put it out of my mind because it doesn’t make sense. Somehow it seems so long ago that I saw you and everything is strange and distant. An empty feeling grips me and everything seems so unreal and out of focus. Tears fill my eyes as I—” She shakes her head as though shuddering and interrupts him. When his voice returns, it is once again deep and proud and reassuring: “You and I must steel ourselves, my love, although our hearts are breaking: the approaching darkest hour of our trial and the grave peril that threatens us require every effort on our part to avoid hysterics and false heroics! We will have to call on the great strength of the solid union of our hearts and souls to find the stamina to face what is in store for us!” Her smile returns. She watches the guards strap her arms in, flexing her fingers to show them she’s comfortable. “We can face the lies, the pain and even death, as long as we are united in heart and soul, in love and truth. What we are and all that we have no one can take away from us even though they keep us apart and threaten us with death. And come what may I am sure that our name will eventually be cleared….” She looks straight ahead at all the people in the special section down front as the black strap is placed across her mouth, gazing at them above the leather gag without hatred, without malice, but not letting them forget either what they are doing to her. Her eyes are open and shining brightly as the black leather hood comes down, covering her face. “Be of good courage,” the rabbi is saying huskily, “and He shall strengthen your heart.” Above her Julius and the boys are looking through a barred window at a tugboat pulling a string of barges on the Hudson River. “Nobody welcomes suffering, honey, but as long as we do the right thing by our children and the good people of the world, nothing else matters!” The guards exit. Warden Denno checks the connections. Up on the Claridge, her sons are being taken to a baseball game. Executioner Francel returns to his alcove. “Oh my darling, how beautiful you look! I want to sit beside you, my love, stroke your hair, I want to look into your eyes while I hold your hands in mine. Ethel, you are just my girl and nothing on earth can change that. I can only say that life has been worthwhile because you have been beside me. Good night, sweet woman! I caress you tenderly and send all my love. I am happy that you have made my life so—“
There is a sudden harsh metallic rattle, as before, and Ethel leaps against the straps, her body lifting clear of the seat, her dress fluttering as though caught in a wind, her hands balling into fists. Again there’s the odor of burning meat and smoke curling up from her scalp, as her body temperature pitches up to 140 degrees. Francel opens the switch and she falls back into the chair like a soft Raggedy Ann doll with its face wiped away. Before the crowds can swallow and catch their breath, Francel pulls the long handle again, holds it, releases it, then pulls it down again, her delicate white throat gorged twice over by the driving current, her body plunging against the leather straps each time, the air filled with a fierce crackling whine: they’ve heard it six times now, but it’s not something you can get used to. Then, as suddenly, it is over. Her body slaps limply back into the chair, all its poise, all its proud strength and compelling tension expunged.
Executioner Francel glances out briefly at the body from his alcove. Then, wiping his hands with a dustcloth, he makes a cursory examination of his switch panel and prepares to shut the system down. A guard steps forward, brushes his hand in front of his face as though sweeping away something unpleasant, and unbuckles the black leather strap binding Ethel’s breasts. She’s fallen so limp now: she seems almost childlike. While a second guard proceeds to unstrap her arms and legs, the two prison doctors approach, extracting their stethoscopes. Out front, there is a soft rustle and a deep communal sigh, as the people settle back, gazing around them as though in some surprise at finding themselves where they are, exchanging perfunctory but sympathetic church-lawn smiles, murmured remarks, a few whispered jokes—just to loosen up a little—about what they have seen, or think they might have seen. Someone points up at the clock on the Paramount Building and they all watch the second hand sweep past the uppermost star: 8:13. Just in time. The Sabbath has begun. You have to credit Uncle Sam, they all agree. The houselights are already starting to come up. Newsmen have left their places and arc running, as they have been assigned to do, toward the bank of telephones inside the Times Tower to cable their stories in, although above them the news of Ethel’s death is already being flashed around the tower in moving lights. Up at the far ends of the VIP aisles, Paddy and Bobo are already in their fighting togs, puffing and snorting and punching the air, warming up for the big fight due to begin shortly.
The guard unstrapping Ethel’s limbs apologizes to the doctors for holding them up and steps out of their way, leaving one leg still bound. Dr. Kipp routinely rips her dress open down the front, and Dr. Mc-Cracken applies his stethescope to her bare chest. It seems to take him longer than usual. He frowns and asks Dr. Kipp to have a listen.
What’s happening? An uneasy murmur ripples through the crowd. Warden Denno and Marshal Carroll look startled. Herb Brownell is on his feet, Irving Saypol as well, Tom Clark, some of the jurors—the President gropes absently for his field glasses and, not finding them, grabs Brownell’s elbow instead: what’s wrong? The people look up at the images of the Rosenberg boys being projected onto the Claridge, but the film has got caught in the projector, and all they see is a frozen shot of Ebbetts Field with a gaping hot hole in the center, melting its way horrifically out toward the edges—
“This woman,” gasps the doctor, “is still alive!”
Now they’re all up on their feet! This is impossible! Executioner Francel steps out of his alcove scratching his head in stupid bewilderment. “Want another?” he asks, but he seems confused, indecisive. The Warden, too, seems to have lost the initiative, and the doctors, thrown into this ad lib situation, are lost. There’s but a moment’s hesitation—long enough to reflect perhaps that it’s too late, the Sabbath has already begun—and then, as a gaunt hoary figure rises up from the front-and-center section in his familiar star-spangled plug hat to cry, “A little more grape, Captain Bragg!”, they all rush forward, led by young Dick Nixon, followed by Joe McCarthy, Herb Brownell, Bill Knowland, Lyndon Johnson, Foster Dulles and Allen, Engine Charlie, and Estes Kefauver, virtually the entire VIP section, scrambling up over the side of the stage, fighting for position as though their very future depended on it, racing for the switch—it’s hard to tell who gets his hands on it first, maybe the Vice President with his head start, maybe Francel himself, or young S
enator Kennedy, more athletic than most, or perhaps all of them at once, but whoever or how many, they throw themselves on it with such force they snap the thing clean off! The guard nearest the chair, seeing what was about to happen, has been frantically trying to belt Ethel up again, but he only gets one of the straps done up, and loosely at that, when the charge hits, hurling him backwards off the stage and cutting a wide swath through the VIPs as he flies by. Ethel Rosenberg’s body, held only at head, groin, and one leg, is whipped like a sail in a high wind, flapping out at the people like one of those trick images in a 3-D movie, making them scream and duck and pray for deliverance. Her body, sizzling and popping like firecrackers, lights up with the force of the current, casting a flickering radiance on all those around her, and so she burns—and burns—and burns—as though held aloft by her own incandescent will and haloed about by all the gleaming great of the nation—
EPILOGUE
Beauty and the Beast
“You shall know, my sons, shall know
why we leave the song unsung,
the book unread, the work undone
to rest beneath the sod…”
Public Burning Page 66
