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Authors: Daphne Kalotay
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the revolution, but—”
“According to official records, yes.”
“Terrible, just terrible.” June Hennessey shook her head, the waves of her carefully set hair moving stiffly side to side. “And when you defected, these absolutely gorgeous jewels came with you.”
“They came with me from Russia, in a situation of great danger and hardship.” Nina could hear the light hum of the first cameraman’s lens moving in for a close-up.
“In a way they’re mementos, aren’t they?” June Hennesey’s brow rose into a hopeful expression. “Not only are they incredibly rare, and completely gorgeous , not to mention extremely valuable. But for you they have an emotional value, too. They were from your husband’s family, and when you lost your husband, the amber that he had passed down to you was all you had left of him.”
June Hennessey seemed thrilled with her own insight. In a small voice Nina said, “Yes. All I had left of my husband.”
I N 1947 SHE is twenty-one, and has been in the company three years. Five counting wartime, when she was one of the group that stayed to dance at the Filial; the rest of the Bolshoi had been evacuated to a town by the Volga. Back then Nina was one of just two new graduates hired for the corps—a dream come true, if not, perhaps, a surprise.
After all, Nina excelled from the moment she entered the ballet school, never questioned the grueling repetition, ten years of pliés and relevés and holding her buttocks tight. (“Imagine you’re gripping a tram ticket there,” the teacher said in the very first class, “and don’t ever let it drop!”) Ten years of chassés across a raked wooden floor dark with wet spots from the watering can, ten years of studiowindows steamed with sweat. Always some ache or pain. From that first year with the other little girls dressed all in white, having to curtsy each time an adult passed in the corridor, to the years of black leotards and pale tights (to reveal every shadow and line of the leg muscles), Nina has withstood the exacting comments of her ballet instructors, their constant minute corrections, the light, uncompromising touch of a fingertip here, there—shoulder back a bit more, chin tilted just so—and been buoyed by their approval, the glimpsed delight in their faces at her quick turns and jumps, asking her to demonstrate a saut de basque : “Nina, please show the class what I mean.” The very fact that they always remembered her name revealed that she had impressed them. Even as a small girl, with no family connections to pull strings for her, she was always selected for dance scenes in the Opera, or for the ballets with children’s roles—a mouse or a flower or a page. Meanwhile her muscles strengthened, tendons elongated, she grew lean, her spine supple, every movement imbued with poise and sense of space. But it was her devotion, her ambition, her strict self-discipline that set Nina apart. An intensity of concentration that could draw rivulets of sweat down her face, neck, arms, chest, no matter how seemingly simple an exercise. The tyranny of her own perfection, of wanting, always, more , of knowing the limits of her body even as she sought to push beyond them, her limbs trembling with fatigue. Always dancing full-out, her diagonals across the floor nearly sending her into the wall. Staying on after class until she learned to land her tours jetés without a sound, practicing triple pirouettes until her face turned a purplish red. Practicing her autograph, even—as if that too might ensure her future. By the war’s end she was a soloist.
Yet when she thinks of all the hurdles she has cleared, the sometimes humiliating classes, the sternly judged exams, the frustration of injuries (tender right kneecap, and a recurring corn between her fourth and little toes), it seems nothing short of miraculous that,from the dusty courtyard of the building where she still lives with Mother, she has somehow, finally, arrived here:
“According to official records, yes.”
“Terrible, just terrible.” June Hennessey shook her head, the waves of her carefully set hair moving stiffly side to side. “And when you defected, these absolutely gorgeous jewels came with you.”
“They came with me from Russia, in a situation of great danger and hardship.” Nina could hear the light hum of the first cameraman’s lens moving in for a close-up.
“In a way they’re mementos, aren’t they?” June Hennesey’s brow rose into a hopeful expression. “Not only are they incredibly rare, and completely gorgeous , not to mention extremely valuable. But for you they have an emotional value, too. They were from your husband’s family, and when you lost your husband, the amber that he had passed down to you was all you had left of him.”
June Hennessey seemed thrilled with her own insight. In a small voice Nina said, “Yes. All I had left of my husband.”
I N 1947 SHE is twenty-one, and has been in the company three years. Five counting wartime, when she was one of the group that stayed to dance at the Filial; the rest of the Bolshoi had been evacuated to a town by the Volga. Back then Nina was one of just two new graduates hired for the corps—a dream come true, if not, perhaps, a surprise.
After all, Nina excelled from the moment she entered the ballet school, never questioned the grueling repetition, ten years of pliés and relevés and holding her buttocks tight. (“Imagine you’re gripping a tram ticket there,” the teacher said in the very first class, “and don’t ever let it drop!”) Ten years of chassés across a raked wooden floor dark with wet spots from the watering can, ten years of studiowindows steamed with sweat. Always some ache or pain. From that first year with the other little girls dressed all in white, having to curtsy each time an adult passed in the corridor, to the years of black leotards and pale tights (to reveal every shadow and line of the leg muscles), Nina has withstood the exacting comments of her ballet instructors, their constant minute corrections, the light, uncompromising touch of a fingertip here, there—shoulder back a bit more, chin tilted just so—and been buoyed by their approval, the glimpsed delight in their faces at her quick turns and jumps, asking her to demonstrate a saut de basque : “Nina, please show the class what I mean.” The very fact that they always remembered her name revealed that she had impressed them. Even as a small girl, with no family connections to pull strings for her, she was always selected for dance scenes in the Opera, or for the ballets with children’s roles—a mouse or a flower or a page. Meanwhile her muscles strengthened, tendons elongated, she grew lean, her spine supple, every movement imbued with poise and sense of space. But it was her devotion, her ambition, her strict self-discipline that set Nina apart. An intensity of concentration that could draw rivulets of sweat down her face, neck, arms, chest, no matter how seemingly simple an exercise. The tyranny of her own perfection, of wanting, always, more , of knowing the limits of her body even as she sought to push beyond them, her limbs trembling with fatigue. Always dancing full-out, her diagonals across the floor nearly sending her into the wall. Staying on after class until she learned to land her tours jetés without a sound, practicing triple pirouettes until her face turned a purplish red. Practicing her autograph, even—as if that too might ensure her future. By the war’s end she was a soloist.
Yet when she thinks of all the hurdles she has cleared, the sometimes humiliating classes, the sternly judged exams, the frustration of injuries (tender right kneecap, and a recurring corn between her fourth and little toes), it seems nothing short of miraculous that,from the dusty courtyard of the building where she still lives with Mother, she has somehow, finally, arrived here:
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