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 Senator 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—