PART III |
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FEDERAL COURTHOUSE, FOLEY SQUARE |
Ethel and Julius in the van that escorts them to their March 1951 trial
THE TRIAL DATE IS SET
It is unsettling to read about oneself
in the pages of The New York Times.
The paper says atomic bomb project leader
Robert Oppenheimer will testify against us.
The date is set:
March 6, 1951.
OPENING DAY
MARCH 6, 1951
“You’re going to wear that?” my new friends at the jail ask.
I don’t care about the photographers, how
the jury sees me. I only know I’m going to see
Julie, and it’s his opinion that matters.
I wear a white blouse, dark skirt,
and a wide-brimmed hat. My friends offer
me a scarlet blouse, but that reminds
me of blood and guilt.
We are innocent. White is purity.
When I enter the wood-paneled courtroom,
it is already filled with reporters
and curious spectators. It is like walking
into the mouths of lions, readying jaws and paws for the kill.
I take my seat at the defense table
next to Julie.
Julie and I have put all our faith in Manny Bloch
and his father. I pray they have the experience
to pull this off. Despite the papers, the radio,
J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI, we have done nothing wrong.
The prosecutor speaks first and reels off a list
of more than 100 witnesses he intends to call.
He accuses us of treason and Communism.
The crowd seems to agree. I know that all eyes
have been on North Korea lately,
and the fight between the United States
and the Soviet Union. But here, in this courtroom,
the lives of two Americans hang in the balance.
MY LITTLE BROTHER IN A NEW LIGHT
The only true statement Dovey makes
is his legal name, David Greenglass.
He’s far more imaginative than
Julie or I ever gave him credit for.
He conjures up meetings and conversations
that never happened.
He makes up a story
about a Jell-O box side panel that Julie
snipped off, that he cut in half,
gave one half to Ruthie so she’d
recognize the messenger spy.
Dovey makes up another story,
that I typed up his notes
about atomic bombs.
We know Dovey is cooperating with
the FBI to protect himself. It takes
all my discipline to appear
unmoved.
SURELY, RUTHIE WILL TELL THE TRUTH
It goes something like this:
“I was too young to realize fully the thing at the time.”
“I was always under the impression
that Julius lost his job
because Ethel
was a card-carrying Communist.”
“Julius knew David was working on the atomic bomb.”
Lies, lies, lies.
PEEK-A-BOO, I SEE YOU
Jell-O is a slimy, shaky, see-through dessert.
Jell-O is a flavored powder mixed with boiling water.
Jell-O comes in a palm-size box.
Ruthie says I served Jell-O one night at our apartment.
Ruthie says Julie tore the side of the box in half
Half for her so the Soviet messenger could identify her in Albuquerque
Half for Julie to keep to give to the Soviet messenger
They’d match up their pieces.
I never served Jell-O, especially not red raspberry.
We’re more of a chocolate pudding family,
we Rosenbergs.
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
There are no 100 witnesses,
no celebrity scientists,
to testify against us.
But the prosecution calls
Ruthie’s messenger, Harry Gold—
who’d worked with Klaus Fuchs—
spy Elizabeth Bentley,
Julie’s City College classmates.
The prosecution wants to pressure us
into some confession
that is not ours to give.
But it is mostly brother against sister,
family against family. And Dovey
holds the smoking gun.
What are my boys doing right now?
JULIUS ON THE WITNESS STAND
He’s lost weight.
He sits, his back against
the chair, legs crossed,
hands in his lap. He looks
handsome, though gaunt,
in his gray suit, white shirt,
and silver-and-maroon tie.
He refutes every claim made against him
over the course of three days. When
he finishes, he is spent. I want to cradle
him in my arms but cannot.
MY TURN AT BAT, NEARLY THREE WEEKS INTO THE TRIAL
It goes something like this:
I answer all my lawyer’s questions:
About marriage
About children
About the monthly rent
About a table bought for $21 from Macy’s.
But when the prosecutor wants to trap me:
“Did you help your brother join the Communist Party?”
I refuse to answer on the grounds
that it may incriminate me.
Manny Bloch objects to the line
of the prosecutor’s questioning.
He moves for a mistrial
based on the flagrant prejudices,
based on the flimsy evidence
the prosecution presented.
Motion denied.
I refuse to answer
I refuse
I refuse.
JUDGE KAUFMAN’S INSTRUCTIONS TO THE JURY
You will consider whether the Rosenbergs
conspired to commit
an act of espionage to assist a foreign power.
As a reminder, a foreign power does not
necessarily mean an enemy power.
Consider the atomic bomb and other classified
information passed to assist a foreign government.
God bless you all.
THE JURY RETURNS ITS VERDICT
Eleven men and one woman deliberate, we’re guilty.
They debate, seven hours and 42 minutes, guilty.
One of the jury found minimal evidence against me.
The judge required them to think again, both Rosenbergs, guilty.
It is all a set-up, a collusion with the FBI.
There was never a chance for a verdict other than guilty.
Judge, prosecutors, witnesses, the press—all see eye to eye.
My brother deceived them to convince the jury we’re guilty.
Dovey plea-bargained protection, created mountainous lies.
Without eye contact, without remorse, he sealed our fate, guilty.
And, I, Ethel—the sister who held him and sang lullabies—
The faithful sister, who committed no crime, am now guilty.
MR. MANNY BLOCH SPEAKS TO THE PRESS
The Rosenbergs will appeal to the highest courts
of this land, and they will always maintain their
innocence. I think
Julius and Ethel Rosenberg
thought that in this political climate
it was almost impossible to overcome
a charge of this kind.
JUDGE KAUFMAN ANDPROSECUTOR SAYPOLADDRESS THE JURY
Your verdict is a correct verdict,
but this is a sad day for America.
I wish to thank J. Edgar Hoover
and the FBI and their cooperation
in this case
and the defense attorneys …
This trial was full, fair, and open.
Every opportunity was given to the defense
to present their case.
This case has ramifications so wide
that they involve the very question
of whether or when the devastation
of an atomic war may fall upon the world.
WE LEAVE THE COURTHOUSE
Julie is handcuffed and led out to his transport.
I am not handcuffed,
and I am returned to the Women’s House of Detention.
I have a new cell on a different floor,
a new cell that directly faces the guard station.
Prison guards don’t know me.
I will not try to commit suicide.
I am more determined than ever.
I will not show weakness.
When I attend Friday night Shabbat services,
more women attend than usual.
They are there to see me, to watch me crumble
under the weight of my verdict.
I will not succumb and I walk down
the aisle with measure and purpose in my step.
It is the Sabbath
and I am the Sabbath Queen.
SENTENCING
Julie is already in the prison van when it pulls up
to the Women’s House of Detention. I sit
as close to him as the mesh screen allows. I
poke my fingers through the hold and place
them on his arrested hands.
The courtroom is standing room only
when we enter. We are summoned
to the bench and someone
places chairs there for us.
The prosecutor and Manny Bloch make their statements.
Manny admits to his inexperience, not the
best strategy.
At noon, the judge speaks at the same time
the bells of a nearby church peal,
as if what he’s about to render comes
from divine providence.
He calls the act we’ve been convicted of
a crime worse than murder. He blames us
for the Korean War
for the loss of 50,000 American lives.
He says, Julie was at the helm of conspiracy. Then he
comes to me:
Ethel is a “full-fledged partner in this crime.”
She should have deterred him from his “ignoble cause.”
He says, cruelly, we placed our devotion to our cause
above our own personal safety,
that we were conscious of sacrificing our own children.
He sentences us
to death,
execution by electric chair
at Sing Sing prison, the week of May 21.
Julie turns to me and nods.
IT’S OVER
Four U.S. marshals surround me and Julie.
They escort us out a side door to holding cells
in the basement.
Julie is silent.
The marshals then usher us into a conference room.
I pass Manny Bloch’s father, in tears. I hug him.
I say, “You did everything you could.”
Julie takes a seat at the head of the table.
He tells the Blochs that
nothing they could have done
would have changed the outcome.
He says, “We will fight this, because we are innocent.”
I hear later that Dovey receives fifteen years
in exchange for his betrayal of us.
I hear later that my mother sobs when she hears my sentence.
I am too numb to feel anything.
We are brought to the holding cells now.
Julie yells out to me, “Don’t worry. Everything will be
all right. We are innocent.” He expects public outrage to turn the tide.
I open my mouth, and a Puccini opera comes out.
THE SOUNDTRACK OF MY LIFE
I could imagine Puccini writing the soundtrack
of my life. I’d be wearing Madame Butterfly’s
kimono, my face painted in white
with red rosebud lips. That one aria
she sings when the ship is in the harbor,
the one that rips your heart open
as the reeds weave into the chords.
I could imagine Mozart’s flutes and violins
guiding my extreme highs and lows
like the Queen of the Night, spewing
staccato bullets
with my long, open mouth.
But if I could commission a composer,
I’d reach out to Romberg and his operettas,
light and fun. I need those operatic
sweethearts of the movies, that
Nelson Eddy march, Jeanette MacDonald
on his strong arm. The pacing,
staccato and determined. Arms swinging,
voices singing. One-two-three-four.
Stout-hearted Ethel Rosenberg
is on the march for freedom!
APPEALS
It may be futile,
but we have to try. They want
to pin the whole Korean War on us.
That without plans for the bomb
in Soviet hands, there’d be no Korean War,
no loss of American lives for no reason.
It may be futile,
but we have to try until they listen to reason.
ETHEL’S BLUES
Eight months without my boys, my arms a nest for no one.
No snuggles or sniffles, no sleep-time song in the night
Not a single giggle, no “Mommy” allowed, my sons.
No phone calls, no visits, Manny Bloch says it can’t be done.
I sit here alone in my cave of cries, my jaw tight
Eight months without you boys, my arms a nest for no one.
I get your letters with fat crayoned lines, flaps undone.
Sometimes in stillness, I hear you, your squeals of delight
Not a single giggle, no “Mommy” allowed, my sons.
No wet kisses, no stubby fingers, no silly puns.
No water to quench dry mouths, no poetry to cite
Eight months without my boys, my arms a nest for no one.
Until we prove our innocence, when our case gets won,
We have to do without each other, endure the fight
Not a single giggle, no “Mommy” allowed, my sons.
Sweet Michael, dearest Robby, one day we will unite.
Your daddy reminds us, he’ll make everything all right.
Eight months without my boys, my arms a nest for no one.
Give a single giggle, I am your Mommy, my sons.