Last dance
Mit keresek, en itt? Azt monjak hogy a hires lakem lefogta a ferjement en meg lecsaptam a fejet. De nem igaz, en artatlan vagyok. Nem tudom miert mondja Uncle Sam hogy en tettem. Probaltam a rendorsegen megmagyarazni de nem ertettek meg.
January 1926
I hear the heavy steps of the matron's thick shoes long before I see her. My breath catches, and I look up desperately at the image of anya Mária on the wall. But in those steps, I hear the answer. I shake my head, wince as the beads of the rosary cut into my hand. Kiss the crucifix as one last offering.
A shadow crosses the harsh light from the block, and I look up through the bars into the matron's dour face. "Halenszky Katalin," she thunders, and meets my eyes. She still speaks no magyar, but knows how to address me as if she did. I see in her fathomless eyes the only ounce of sympathy she has ever shown. I know now she tried to help me. And I know she was unsuccessful.
"No," I say, one of the only English words that has any meaning to me. "No no no. Not...guilty." Even I hear the pleading in my voice, feel pathetic for it. "Please. Not guilty."
Miss Morton turns her head away quickly, nodding curtly at the guard. He unlocks the cell door and brings me to my feet, with surprising gentleness.
"Katalin Halenszky," the matron says then, and I know the rest is what Uncle Sam requires her to say. Many long words in English, and then she produces a small piece of paper from her pocket. I accept it with a shaking hand. Here there are no words, only a number and three small, crudely drawn pictures. The following day, the first day of a new month. A clock, hands at twelve, with a full sun over it. A noose. And a heart, struck through with an X.
The rosary slips from my fingers, falls to the floor. I follow shortly thereafter.
Tomorrow. Noon. My neck will break. My heart will stop.
As if it hadn't stopped long ago.
May 1921
Sun drenches the room when I finally awake, stretching like a cat and smiling at Adrián singing a jaunty tune in the kitchen. Before my feet touch the rug, there comes a loud rapping at the door. "One moment," Adrián calls cheerfully in English, but the rapping immediately comes again.
"Nemeth!" a man's sharp voice yells through the door in German, then more pounding. "I must speak to you immediately!"
The blood drains from my face as I instinctively pull the quilt over my nightdress. Herbert Voss was a stage manager so famous, he’d been sent all the way from Vienna at the theatre’s behest, and a segghej so profound, not a single hotel on Michigan Avenue would put him up. He had been boarding in our basement for just a few weeks, more than enough time for me to hate him.
Voss would find any excuse to come outdoors as I hung laundry. Then I caught him peering through the window as I practiced for an opening of Coppélia. Adrián eyed him with concern, and I tried to keep my distance, but we didn’t dare protest; we were lucky to be in Chicago at all, and living so well at that. One wrong move could mean deportation, or worse.
Then, just two days before, Voss had clumsily run into me as I came home from the market, cupping my breast as he pretended to help me gather my dropped shopping. “Herr Voss,” I said sharply in German, batting his hand away. “I will thank you to unhand me. I am a happily married woman.”
He shrugged sourly, eyeing my rear end as I rose and stepped backward. “Married, unmarried. Happy, unhappy. I shall have what I please.”
I gaped in shock, then rushed toward our door. “Once my husband hears…”
But Herbert Voss gripped my arm so hard I squeaked, then spoke low and fierce. “Tell him, you Hunyak whore, and I will have him back on a boat to Budapest before sunrise tomorrow. I shall have what I please.”
I didn’t doubt that Voss had power enough to get my husband kicked out of the country, keep us apart forever. But Adrián was no fool; I told him everything, made him promise to leave it be. Now my terror was complete.
I jump at footsteps on the stairs, but it’s only Adrián. “Don’t worry, angyalom, I’ll get rid of him. Stay here,” he says, and leans in to kiss my cheek before he walks down to answer the door.
“Herr Voss, how can I…” he starts, but I hear a scuffle and know that Voss has pushed past him into the entryway.
“Tell your slut of a wife to keep her mouth shut,” he shouts. “Tell her I don’t screw ballerinas.”
Is he mad? I pull on my dressing gown and edge out of the bedroom to peer downstairs. Voss is bright red and sputtering as Adrián shoves him back out onto the front step. “You miserable bastard,” Adrián growls. “I’ll see to it that you’re all over your beloved papers. Get out of my house.”
A raging yowl rings through the air, and Adrián falls backwards through the open door, Voss kicking and punching atop him. I scream and run toward the stairs.
“No, Kati, run!” Adrián yells, managing to hit Voss in the face as I distract him. “Out the back, run!”
I haven’t time to think. I dash to the back staircase and start to run down, but my dressing gown catches under my feet, and I tumble…down and down…German and Hungarian and English forming a terrible cacophony in my head…until I thud to a stop, and hear nothing more.
February 1926
How did I find myself here? They say my famous lover held down my husband and I cut his head off. But it's not true. I am innocent. I don't know why Uncle Sam says I did it. I tried to explain at the police station but they didn't understand.
I say this to them over and over - the other prisoners, the guards, Miss Morton - but no one cares, no one ever has. I woke up in a hospital, blood across my face, my hands, my nightclothes. I was cleaned up and sent to the police, but no one questioned me in any language I spoke. The ten words I knew in English were less than useless.
Only when I’d been in the Cook County Jail a few days did someone - a captured Russian spy, no less - tell me. About Voss’s lies. What the papers were saying about the prima ballerina and her mad Austrian lover.
What he did to my Adrián.
I begged her to help, but I had nothing to offer in return. And so I repeated myself to anyone who could hear me, who might take pity. But those who had pity had no power. Through gestures and drawings, some of the Americans taught me what to say to the judge: Not guilty.
My English never improved much past that. I was just the Hunyak to the other prisoners, just some immigrant. Men in crisp suits took me before judges time and again, telling me when to say Not guilty.
I have said it for the last time now. At a quarter to noon, Miss Morton unlocks the door of the holding cell, takes my elbow gently, and leads me out into the snow. A crowd has gathered on the street to gawk, held back by policemen. The other prisoners watch from behind the fence as my shoes leave tracks behind me.
Step one, two…I am dancing Swan Lake, dancing the Nutcracker Suite. Step three, four…I am in Adrián’s arms, lifted, laughing. Anya María has been as merciful as She can, showing me only the happiness in my life as it ends.
My feet are on the platform, but I have only counted twelve. Twelve? But everyone knows a gallows has thirteen steps. Our fathers tell us this when we’re children, whenever we are bad; it’s thirteen steps into hell, they say.
And then our mothers say: But only twelve steps into heaven.
Through my frozen tears, I smile, hearing Adrián sing my favorite song in the distance. I slide my foot forward into a tendu, slipping one toe over the edge…then the other…and once more, I’m falling free.
Not guilty.
January 1926
I hear the heavy steps of the matron's thick shoes long before I see her. My breath catches, and I look up desperately at the image of anya Mária on the wall. But in those steps, I hear the answer. I shake my head, wince as the beads of the rosary cut into my hand. Kiss the crucifix as one last offering.
A shadow crosses the harsh light from the block, and I look up through the bars into the matron's dour face. "Halenszky Katalin," she thunders, and meets my eyes. She still speaks no magyar, but knows how to address me as if she did. I see in her fathomless eyes the only ounce of sympathy she has ever shown. I know now she tried to help me. And I know she was unsuccessful.
"No," I say, one of the only English words that has any meaning to me. "No no no. Not...guilty." Even I hear the pleading in my voice, feel pathetic for it. "Please. Not guilty."
Miss Morton turns her head away quickly, nodding curtly at the guard. He unlocks the cell door and brings me to my feet, with surprising gentleness.
"Katalin Halenszky," the matron says then, and I know the rest is what Uncle Sam requires her to say. Many long words in English, and then she produces a small piece of paper from her pocket. I accept it with a shaking hand. Here there are no words, only a number and three small, crudely drawn pictures. The following day, the first day of a new month. A clock, hands at twelve, with a full sun over it. A noose. And a heart, struck through with an X.
The rosary slips from my fingers, falls to the floor. I follow shortly thereafter.
Tomorrow. Noon. My neck will break. My heart will stop.
As if it hadn't stopped long ago.
May 1921
Sun drenches the room when I finally awake, stretching like a cat and smiling at Adrián singing a jaunty tune in the kitchen. Before my feet touch the rug, there comes a loud rapping at the door. "One moment," Adrián calls cheerfully in English, but the rapping immediately comes again.
"Nemeth!" a man's sharp voice yells through the door in German, then more pounding. "I must speak to you immediately!"
The blood drains from my face as I instinctively pull the quilt over my nightdress. Herbert Voss was a stage manager so famous, he’d been sent all the way from Vienna at the theatre’s behest, and a segghej so profound, not a single hotel on Michigan Avenue would put him up. He had been boarding in our basement for just a few weeks, more than enough time for me to hate him.
Voss would find any excuse to come outdoors as I hung laundry. Then I caught him peering through the window as I practiced for an opening of Coppélia. Adrián eyed him with concern, and I tried to keep my distance, but we didn’t dare protest; we were lucky to be in Chicago at all, and living so well at that. One wrong move could mean deportation, or worse.
Then, just two days before, Voss had clumsily run into me as I came home from the market, cupping my breast as he pretended to help me gather my dropped shopping. “Herr Voss,” I said sharply in German, batting his hand away. “I will thank you to unhand me. I am a happily married woman.”
He shrugged sourly, eyeing my rear end as I rose and stepped backward. “Married, unmarried. Happy, unhappy. I shall have what I please.”
I gaped in shock, then rushed toward our door. “Once my husband hears…”
But Herbert Voss gripped my arm so hard I squeaked, then spoke low and fierce. “Tell him, you Hunyak whore, and I will have him back on a boat to Budapest before sunrise tomorrow. I shall have what I please.”
I didn’t doubt that Voss had power enough to get my husband kicked out of the country, keep us apart forever. But Adrián was no fool; I told him everything, made him promise to leave it be. Now my terror was complete.
I jump at footsteps on the stairs, but it’s only Adrián. “Don’t worry, angyalom, I’ll get rid of him. Stay here,” he says, and leans in to kiss my cheek before he walks down to answer the door.
“Herr Voss, how can I…” he starts, but I hear a scuffle and know that Voss has pushed past him into the entryway.
“Tell your slut of a wife to keep her mouth shut,” he shouts. “Tell her I don’t screw ballerinas.”
Is he mad? I pull on my dressing gown and edge out of the bedroom to peer downstairs. Voss is bright red and sputtering as Adrián shoves him back out onto the front step. “You miserable bastard,” Adrián growls. “I’ll see to it that you’re all over your beloved papers. Get out of my house.”
A raging yowl rings through the air, and Adrián falls backwards through the open door, Voss kicking and punching atop him. I scream and run toward the stairs.
“No, Kati, run!” Adrián yells, managing to hit Voss in the face as I distract him. “Out the back, run!”
I haven’t time to think. I dash to the back staircase and start to run down, but my dressing gown catches under my feet, and I tumble…down and down…German and Hungarian and English forming a terrible cacophony in my head…until I thud to a stop, and hear nothing more.
February 1926
How did I find myself here? They say my famous lover held down my husband and I cut his head off. But it's not true. I am innocent. I don't know why Uncle Sam says I did it. I tried to explain at the police station but they didn't understand.
I say this to them over and over - the other prisoners, the guards, Miss Morton - but no one cares, no one ever has. I woke up in a hospital, blood across my face, my hands, my nightclothes. I was cleaned up and sent to the police, but no one questioned me in any language I spoke. The ten words I knew in English were less than useless.
Only when I’d been in the Cook County Jail a few days did someone - a captured Russian spy, no less - tell me. About Voss’s lies. What the papers were saying about the prima ballerina and her mad Austrian lover.
What he did to my Adrián.
I begged her to help, but I had nothing to offer in return. And so I repeated myself to anyone who could hear me, who might take pity. But those who had pity had no power. Through gestures and drawings, some of the Americans taught me what to say to the judge: Not guilty.
My English never improved much past that. I was just the Hunyak to the other prisoners, just some immigrant. Men in crisp suits took me before judges time and again, telling me when to say Not guilty.
I have said it for the last time now. At a quarter to noon, Miss Morton unlocks the door of the holding cell, takes my elbow gently, and leads me out into the snow. A crowd has gathered on the street to gawk, held back by policemen. The other prisoners watch from behind the fence as my shoes leave tracks behind me.
Step one, two…I am dancing Swan Lake, dancing the Nutcracker Suite. Step three, four…I am in Adrián’s arms, lifted, laughing. Anya María has been as merciful as She can, showing me only the happiness in my life as it ends.
My feet are on the platform, but I have only counted twelve. Twelve? But everyone knows a gallows has thirteen steps. Our fathers tell us this when we’re children, whenever we are bad; it’s thirteen steps into hell, they say.
And then our mothers say: But only twelve steps into heaven.
Through my frozen tears, I smile, hearing Adrián sing my favorite song in the distance. I slide my foot forward into a tendu, slipping one toe over the edge…then the other…and once more, I’m falling free.
Not guilty.