Murder at the Met

I am to dance the last ballet of the evening. A short ballet called Miss Julie. The story of a young aristocrat who falls for the advances of her father’s valet. The ending is her being haunted by her fall in stature by the ghosts of her family line and committing suicide. I am one of the six ghosts that are to haunt her mind and drive her to suicide.
It is not a big part at all.
But we are at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City on a tour with Rudolph Nureyev, Eva Evdokimova, Galina Panov, and Valery Panov. A star-studded lineup that makes us worthy of standing on such an auspicious stage.
This show is a mixed bill of three ballets, and mine is at the end.

I arrive late because I am not on until about 9 pm, and so I am in the dressing room, getting makeup and hair on, getting dressed to go do a warmup backstage before the show.

I leave the dressing room, and all things seem relatively normal. I go backstage … but it is very crowded with the sets for the varied productions that the Berlin Ballet is doing over our run in New York.
We will then go to Washington, DC, and from there, the company has a break. Herman Jiesamfoek and I are going to his home in Paramaribo, Suriname, to dance for his home crowd and to make money for the school of ballet that he started with before he was on scholarship to Holland as a teenager.
This series of performances have been stressful for obvious reasons. Being in New York at the Met is a big deal, and everyone knows how important it is. Everyone wants to do their best, and we have big names with us on the stage. Add to that, I am (in my limited spare time), rehearsing with Herman to do our performances in Suriname.
We intend to do Don Quixote Pas de Deux and the Second Act of Giselle. And I get to be the lead ballerina. It is very exciting, and both Herman and I have been taking this very seriously.
All the dancers seem very tired. It has taken a lot to get here and then to deal with the huge egos, such as Nureyev doing temper tantrums in rehearsals.

Dancers like to keep emotions in check and in control, but this run has been difficult to do as we have the ego of Gert Reinholm, the Director of the Berlin Ballet, at odds with what Rudi wants, and then again at odds with what the choreographer Valery Panov wants.

Such things will naturally boil over in moments. This particular cycle had been stressful.

As I go backstage, there is just no room to warm up. The lighting backstage is very dark, I can’t see what I am doing, and I just feel as if I am in the way of the dancers performing at that time.
I go back into the dressing room to reconsider my options for warming up.

I change my strategy.

I decide to go down to the lower studios in the theater.

Now, all theaters have a bit of a dark and spooky feeling about them. The ghosts of all the previous performances linger in the rafters and in the audience.
I have always been able to feel such things. But most of the time, they don’t bother me.
But this night, I decided that peace and quiet is a good idea and the lower studios, below the stage, would be great. I tell the other dancers what I am going to do and why because I think that they might also want to warm up down there rather than on the crowded stage.
Then I go to the elevator and punch the button to the lower level.

Suddenly something does not feel right. I begin to feel frightened! I think that this does not make any sense. There should be no one down there. The skin all over my body gets that prickly feeling and goosebumps on it.

Something is not right. My whole body goes into an alarm response. My heart rate increases, and I feel that horrible feeling of “fight or flight.” Something is very wrong!

Just before the elevator door opens, I hear the angels firmly say, “Do not get out of the elevator! Do not make a sound, and do not even breathe! Once the elevator door closes on its own, then punch the button to go up to the stage level again and warm up on the stage! Do NOT get out of the elevator!”

I stand in the corner out of view of the door, the large elevator door opens slowly, and there is a terrible feeling down on that level. It feels like death. It feels like there is no air to breathe.
I wait, but I hear nothing. I want to peek out, but I stop myself. The door slowly closes, and only then do press the stage level button.
As the elevator ascends, I begin to be able to breathe again. I feel like an animal that had almost been trapped. Something down there was hunting, and I was not going to be its prey.

I go back to the dressing room in a bit of shock and very confused. I remember one of the dancers saying, “I thought you were going to go to the studio to warm up?”

I turned towards her and said, “I got a super creepy feeling as the elevator descended. I felt there was something very bad down there. And that I was in some sort of danger. I don’t think anyone should go down to that studio this evening. Something told me not to get out of the elevator. I had that weird prickly feeling on my skin and goosebumps. I think I will just warm up backstage, and so should all the rest of you. Something is not right down there.”

Some of the women looked at me a bit funny but did not say anything.

I went out to the stage and warmed up in the crowded wings of the stage.
The performance went fine and was uneventful.

We all left the theater and went to our hotel to rest.
The next morning, I got up early to take a company class with New York City Ballet.

I was excited to go to the studios that were my home at SAB. Even more excited to take a company class. A luxury that I never had … being a student rather than a professional. I hoped some of my favorite teachers would be there and I could say hi.

As I cross Columbus Ave, I see a lot of police cars in front of Lincoln Center.

That seemed odd but not something that I was completely worried about. After all, when I was there at school, New York City seemed to have constant sirens going off for one reason or another.

I go through the stage entrance, but oddly, no one is at the front to check the badge that allows me in.

I think, “Oh well, never mind!”

And make my way to the dressing rooms.

I take off all my clothes, and I am “butt” naked, sitting in a chair to put on my tights (which just happen to be around my ankles), when three police officers storm in with guns drawn and them yelling at me, “Get down. Get Down! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

I raise my hands up, titties … front and center. But politely respond, still sitting, “I am a dancer with the Berlin Ballet. Can I finish getting dressed, please?”

It does not take an intelligent person to spot a naked tall, muscular ballerina putting tights on. Let’s just say that I had nothing to hide!”

The guns lower, and I quickly pull up my tights and put on a leotard.

Once I am dressed, they demand to know why I am there.

I reply, “I am picking up my stuff to go take a class with New York City Ballet this morning. It is just around the corner. And all my dance gear was here at the theater. What is going on? Why are there all the police cars out front?”

They said in astonishment, “Didn’t you hear the news? There has been a murder!”

Stunned, I sit back down and say, “Who died? Did one of the dancers die?”
They said that they had to question me, and suddenly, my dream of taking a class with the New York City Ballet is out the window.

The next thing I know is that I am in another room, being questioned by three different detectives.

One at a time, they come in and ask questions.

The first detective asked me, “Where were you at this particular time last night?”

I told them that I only had the last ballet, Miss Julie, and so I came in late, and they could check my tag that registers when I got into the theater. I explain that I was in the dressing room getting ready and how I started to go down to the lower studio, but I got a bad feeling and instead warmed up on the stage.
That detective takes my tag and goes to verify the time I arrived.

The next detective comes in and asks all the same questions.

Then the third detective comes in and says, “You said you had a bad feeling getting in the elevator. Can you tell me more about that? I want to know everything that you were feeling and sensing on that lower level.”

Instantly that felt intuitively affirming, and I liked this detective. He was asking about a more subtle feeling, and I was astonished that a New York City detective would even ask such a thing.

So, I told him the whole story, every nuance, and he was riveted to it while looking intently at me.
Suddenly, there is a flurry of officers, and something is happening, but I am not sure what is really going on.
I am told to stay where I am, and I have no intention of doing anything that would upset these officers, that is clearly stressed.
They take down my name and hotel room number. They ask for my passport, and I, fortunately, had it with me.
Then I am told to go back to the hotel until someone comes to contact me.

And like a good ballerina soldier. That is exactly what I do.
I am feeling bad about missing the class with New York City Ballet. It felt like one of those rare opportunities that will never come again.
And I would be right. That moment passed, and I never had that opportunity again.
I am more concerned that I have learned through the officers that who died was one of our pickup musicians for our performances, a woman who played the violin.
They had asked if I knew her … but I did not.
They asked if I had seen her … but I had not.
Then they ask if I knew a particular dancer with the Berlin Ballet who was also from Dallas, Tx, and I, of course, did.
They asked what my relationship with her was.
I said that we were friends and that her sister was dating one of the male dancers in the company. I said that we all did hang out together and knew each other well.
At this point, I am clearly a bit out of my body and ungrounded. Being grilled by the police is not a fun beginning to anyone’s day. Now, I am concerned about the safety of all of us.
I get back to my hotel room, and suddenly the phone starts ringing.

Thinking it might be the police, I answer, “Hello?”

Instead of the police, it is a New York Times reporter asking me if I am the one that saw the violinist getting in the elevator with the other man.

I say to them that I do not know what they are talking about.

They ask me if I am a dancer from Dallas, Texas.

I say, “Yes, I am from Dallas, Texas.”

They ask me if I and the one that is the witness.

I say again that I don’t know what they are talking about.

Then they offer me $5000 for an inside scoop on the story about the murder.

Now, I get it. Clearly, the other dancer with the company, that also just happens to be from Dallas, is some sort of witness to the violinist getting in the elevator with some unknown man. They thought that I was that person.

I tell them that I am not interested and to please stop calling.

I hang up the phone, and within 15 minutes, I get another call from the Washington Post with the same offer and questions.

At that point, I ask the front desk to hold all calls unless they are from the police or from my family.
Clearly, I was a target, and I did not want to put the other dancer in danger by continuing to answer any questions.

It was not worth the money offered. Even though that was a lot of money to me at that time. I would never put another person in danger and take money for it.
I go back to the theater. It is still crawling with police and detectives.

We are told that they are concerned for our safety and that we cannot go anywhere inside the theater or outside the theater alone. We need to have a minimum group of three or more to go anywhere. No one is to do anything alone.

There are police backstage for our security and at the entrance to the theater and the hotel.

Then the next issue arises. The police come up to me and ask if I would be willing to be the translator for the stage crew and the costumers because most of them do not speak English well.

I agree, and the next thing I know is that I am the official German-to-English translator for the police and detectives.

They had to interview everyone.
Quickly, I learned from all the questions that it had to be someone in the theater. Because she was murdered inside the theater. And you need a badge to get in.

Seems that the time I tried to go to the downstairs studio, they believed that the violinist had been taken down there where all the sets for productions are stored and the ballet studios. They found that the perpetrator had tried to rape her. Unfortunately, she was on her period as they found her tampon down there, and they believed that that is when the killer decided to murder her. He then threw her from the roof into the huge air ducts trying to hide her body. Her body had become caught on the cross beams inside the air ducts.
Ugh! Such a terrible way to die. What kind of monster does such things?

They had also a picture like a sketch of the face of the man. They showed it to me and everyone else, asking the same question, “Do you know this man?”

What was weird and very creepy was that almost everyone recognized the person … but they did not know exactly why or where.
Including me!

The face was familiar, but I could not place it.

That just added to the feeling that someone we knew was responsible for this murder. That person had been around all of us at some point, and we did recognize him, but because we did not know him.
With relief, I realized that it was clearly not one of our crew from Berlin.
But the fear was everywhere. The concern of the police was that because of the dancer that was a witness (and who was removed and in protective custody), the murderer might follow us to Washington, DC.
It was very scary. Everyone was on edge.
The whole rest of my time in New York is a blur. I only remember helping the police when asked and trying not to go into a panic throughout my day.

Sometimes you are so scared and numb that you do not know how bad we really are until another event (that seems related) happens.
That moment for me would happen in Kennedy Center. And I will tell that story tomorrow.

~Suzanne Wagner~