If you’re a fan of retro B-horror movies, you may have heard of theRamsay Brothers; a family of innovative filmmakers who pioneered a new wave of Indian horror in the 1980s. Horror films are almost nonexistent in South Asia, but the Ramsay brothers managed to churn out a few sleazy low budget hits that caught the eye of cinephiles all over the world. The most famous of their underrated oeuvre isVeerana/ Deserted Place, a colorful and bizarre 1988 horror extravaganza directed by Shyam and Tulsi Ramsay.
While most Bollywood movies are tame, PG-rated and reserved, Veerana tried its best to be as lurid and depraved as possible without getting censored. It’s almost like an Indian version of The Exorcist, but with Hindu mythology instead. Shyam claims he was inspired by his own alleged encounter with a witch on a highway in 1984. Featuring trippy neon lighting and a disco soundtrack by Bappi Lahiri, the film tells the tale of an evil witch named Nakita; who possesses a beautiful young girl, played by stunning and mysterious actress Jasmine Dhunna.
The witch Nakita was a memorable monster; grotesque in appearance, and based off the Indian myth of the Churel (चुड़ैल), a demonically-possessed sorceress who lives in the woods and who can shapeshift into an attractive woman. The special effects the Ramsay Brothers used to portray the Churel were supplied by British prosthetics artist Christopher Tucker, who had worked on Hollywood films such as The Elephant Man, The Company of Wolves, Star Wars: A New Hope and The Boys From Brazil. Although their movies were patently low budget, the Ramsays spared no expense on their chilling FX and masks.
Jasmine is probably the most obvious reason for Veerana‘s success. In a country where the population is more interested in 3-hour family-friendly musicals than a quickie slasher gore flick, Jasmine packed the theater seats with her seductive dark-haired good looks and charisma. Although she was just a novice actress, her profile blew up after the film’s release, and Jasmine was hot property. So what happened to her career? Why did she just vanish from the public eye without a trace?
It’s because there is scarier shit out there than Churels, and that’s the Bollywood mafia underworld; a group of rather deranged fellows who run the Bombay film industry from behind the scenes. The irony is that in Veerana, Jasmine plays a powerful succubus who seduces and kills depraved men. The movie is one of the rare female-centric Indian films, and it explored uncharted territory in depicting a hypersexual and violent witch who rebels against traditions. But in real life, Jasmine was the one who fell prey to patriarchal misogyny.
Not much is known about Jasmine’s personal life. She starred in two little known movies before the Ramsay Brothers cast her in Veerana, which brought her acclaim and attention. For Indian standards, Jasmine’s role was considered very risqué. Full nudity and kissing aren’t allowed in conservative Bollywood, so directors supplant that with thotty outfits and dance scenes. For her role, Jasmine dressed in black silk nightgowns, bright red swimsuits and dresses, and even appeared in nude in a bathtub music sequence.
The haunting song “Sathi, Mere Sathi” was wildly popular upon its release, and still is even now with 10 mil Youtube views racked up by thirsty Jasmine stans. The supernatural lyrics feature the succubus attempting to seduce her victims with promises of otherworldly love. This tune alone cemented Jasmine’s popularity and perfectly captured her mesmerizing beauty; to the point where people are still obsessed with her to this day, even though she only has three acting credits to her name.
She was on top of the world: a bold new star on the horizon of Indian cinema, unafraid to depict her audacious sexuality in a culture that repressed women. What could go wrong? Sadly, everything. Jasmine caught the eye of some unwanted simps who wouldn’t leave her alone. And they weren’t just your average beta orbiters, but legit criminal underworld dons. It was said that they noticed her resemblance to the tragic 1950s actress Madhubala, often called India’s Marilyn Monroe due to her premature death at age 36.
Jasmine had not anticipated this bullshit. In a bravado-filled interview from 1987, she seemed cocky and full of zeal. Her measurements are described as 36-26-36 and her height 5 ft 5.” After Jasmine starred in her first movie Sarkari Mehman (1979) and it wasn’t a hit, she went back to schooling and worked as a model. When the interviewer alludes to her being a has-been, Jasmine matter-of-factly points out that “I was barely 13 then. I wasn’t fully grown and was pushed into the industry. Today I am 18 and know what’s what in tinsel world.” However the timeline doesn’t add up, so she may have been around the age of 21 at that time or even older.
Jasmine goes on to state that “if the leading man is able to excite me, I don’t mind kissing him. I’m even willing to shed my clothes if I get a director like Raj Kapoor.” In Veerana, Jasmine canoodles with Tarzan star Hemant Birje, which she probably didn’t mind. The article also mentions her doing a film with Dharmendra, but that never materialized. The vibe one gets from this interview is that Jasmine was a free-spirited, open-minded and ambitious girl who was probably too young to be pushed into acting, but who wanted to shoot her shot regardless.
Sadly, creeps were lurking. After Veerana was released, Jasmine was bombarded with daily solicitous phone calls from the Indian mafia. There was a Bombay underworld figure who was obsessed with her, and just straight up harassed her for sex. Although she contacted Bombay police and asked them to help, the cops were corrupt and useless. Jasmine was on her own and afraid for her safety. And she wasn’t just being pursued by just any two-bit thug. Infamous drug lord, mob boss and terrorist Dawood Ibrahim was after her!
Ibrahim and his violent D-Company gang were very well known in India for their lethal brutality and ready willingness to slaughter their enemies. Despite the fact that Ibrahim is only 5 ft 3″ and looks like a silly Mario Bro, he is guilty of some of the worst crimes in Indian history. Through his wealthy criminal empire, Ibrahim monopolized control of Bollywood by providing funding for movie productions. The industry was under his thumb, and actors, producers, and directors all did what they could to keep the manlet thug happy.
Jasmine was totally repulsed by the situation. If having a Bollywood career came at the cost of being a mob moll escort, she wasn’t interested. It was incredibly brave of her to reject Ibrahim’s perverted advances, as the deranged man was obviously capable of murder. Jasmine clearly had a sense of integrity. Other actresses, however, didn’t mind sleeping with a bite-sized psychopath to further their career.
By 1989, beautiful Anglo-Indian actress Mandakini’s career had gone into a downwards slump. She was in her late 30s, and she wasn’t getting roles. In comes Dawood Ibrahim to save the day! He was thirsty AF for her after seeing her in the 1985 movie Ram Teri Ganga Maili. The pair had an affair after meeting at one of his lavish parties, as Mandakini hoped he could help her land some roles with a bit of blackmail here and there. Unfortunately for her, the association with Ibrahim tarnished her career and ended it for good. Within a year of meeting him, she became box office poison.
After his affair with Mandakini, Ibrahim probably felt completely entitled to Jasmine. Her rejection seems to have infuriated Ibrahim, and Jasmine completely vanished from the public eye to avoid his wrath. Veerana was her first hit, and last ever film. It’s impossible to know exactly what happened to her, or where she is today. There are nothing but strange rumours that are impossible to verify. Apparently no one knows her specific whereabouts except for the Ramsay Brothers, who say she is still alive.
In a 2017 interview, Shyam Ramsay allegedly said that “Jasmine is very much in Mumbai. Her mother had passed away, who she was extremely close to, which really affected her, and she took a backseat and no longer associated herself with the film world. In fact, we shall be making a sequel to Veerana, and then definitely I shall get Jasmine to play as a mother to the new girl who shall be playing Jasmine.” Sadly, he died before that could be possible, and Jasmine did not emerge even for his funeral.
However, according to this article, a purported friend of Jasmine claims that “she did not leave the Indian film industry. People distanced themselves from her because of the lies of underworld connection about her spread by the Ramsay brothers.” The friend says that Jasmine was naively pressured into filming a B-movie that tarnished her reputation. So what the hell is actually going on here?
There are also crazy conspiracies and rumours that Jasmine died a long time ago, perhaps in a car crash, that she was murdered by the mafia, or committed suicide. Some speculate that she fled to New York, and married an American man. There are reports that she settled in a Gulf country, maybe Dubai or Jordan. She is said to keep a low profile and is now married with a family. This is very unusual in Bollywood, as most celebrities are attention whores who try to soak up every bit of the spotlight as they possibly can until they’re dead in a gold plated coffin.
It’s hard to tell truth and myth apart in this case, but whatever scared Jasmine away must’ve been serious. She was beautiful and popular, yet she chose to live a life of privacy and isolation due to sexual harassment from thugs and being exploited by filmmakers. She isn’t even on social media either. This could be due to the fact that Dawood Ibrahim is still alive, and just as feared as ever so hopefully he doesn’t kill me for exposing him.
Ibrahim’s insanity skyrocketed after the Jasmine incident. He actually committed his most terrible crimes after accosting her. It was a good thing she followed her gut feeling and dipped out of Bollywood and away from psycho Ibrahim before the real shit went down. He moved onto his next high-profile mistress, Pakistani actress and model Anita Ayoob. She wasn’t a shy or quiet woman either. She was kicked out of Miss Asia Pacific Intl’s beauty pageant for stating that “Muslim women should be allowed to have four spouses, just as Muslim men can take four wives at any one time.” Apparently that’s controversial in Asia, I guess.
In 1995, the small-time, hot-tempered actress was rejected for a role in a film by producer Jawed Siddique, so Ibrahim ordered the man shot dead. Like Mandakini, Anita’s career was soon over for associating with a criminal thug like Ibrahim. The gangster wasn’t afraid to have his enemies killed in broad daylight. Gulshan Kumar was a businessman who owned T-Series, India’s largest record label (best known in the West for its beef with annoying Youtuber PewDiePie). He was shot to death with 16 bullets in 1997 on Ibrahim’s orders, right in front of a temple of Shiva.
But Ibrahim’s most evil deed occurred in 1993. Enraged by sectarian violence against Muslims, he orchestrated the Mumbai bomb blasts along with his D-Company gang. 1,400 people were injured, and 257 people died; making it the worst terrorist attack in the city’s history. Ibrahim still remains on the lam today, and is hiding in Karachi, Pakistan with three fake passports, millions of dollars, and control over a massive criminal empire. He counts the late Osama bin Laden and a variety of other terrorists as his buddy. And yet, Bollywood still cannot stop making terrible movies about him and glorifying him.
After the terrorist attack, Ibrahim’s famous friends came under scrutiny. Mandakini was forced to go into hiding, and Anita Ayoob was accused of being a Pakistani spy. Conspiracy surrounds the entire affair. Luckily for Jasmine, she was far away from all of this bullshit and could not count herself as one of Ibrahim’s former mistresses or associates. Bollywood was a corrupt cesspool that she had narrowly escaped. Rather than join his sick and twisted criminal cult of death and mayhem, Jasmine escaped into a life of anonymity.
Other starlets weren’t as lucky. Divya Bharti was a teenage actress who was super popular and highly paid in the early 90s, but whose life was cut short bizarrely and mysteriously due to probable criminal circumstances. In 1993 (the same year as the Bombay blasts) she supposedly fell to death off of her fifth-floor apartment building balcony. She was dead at only 19-years old; perishing from head injuries and internal bleeding as the ambulance rushed her to the hospital. Mumbai police deemed her demise a suicide, but Divya’s parents objected to this. Why would a beautiful teen actress in the prime of her life kill herself?
Divya had been married to Sajid Nadiadwala, a cheap hoodlum of a producer who operates on nepotism and mob links. She had even converted to Islam for him. He was also a buddy of Dawood Ibrahim, and Divya had just discovered his criminal connections and disapproved of them. Some say she threatened to reveal his mob ties, and that Sajid or his unsavory pals took revenge. Divya’s childhood maid Amrita who was present the day of her fall and who was the last person to speak to her died 30 days later of a supposed cardiac arrest. Other witnesses from that day are still too afraid to speak.
With all the carnage he left in his trail, Ibrahim remains the most brutal crime figure in India’s recent memory. Who knew the B-movie schlock and camp of Veerana had such a dark shadow lurking behind it? Jasmine managed to escape the whole nightmare unscathed, and probably watched in horror as she read about all the murders, terrorism, and intrigue that surrounded the industry she had once wanted so desperately to be a part of. Thankfully, Jasmine’s sharp intuition had warned her against getting involved with a psychopathic manlet gangster.
The Ramsay Brothers’ weird and wild brand of horror movies unfortunately never took off in the West, but the directors have a small cult following amongst Indian horror fans. Veerana still remains their most watched movie, and viewers are always captivated by Jasmine’s ghostly and eerie performance as a possessed girl. She brought the role to life with her bold ability to be sexy and scary at the same time. And she managed to avoid getting killed by India’s worst and most ruthless mobster, so that’s pretty impressive too. Jasmine may still be out there somewhere, but she remains a haunting specter forever on the outskirts of a sleazy film industry that tried to exploit her; and thankfully failed to do so.
If you’re a fan of trashy vintage B-movies and Grindhouse films, there is no doubt that you are familiar with Laura Gemser. She forged a successful career out of her unearthly beauty, and she is still world renown by die-hard fans to this day. But who was Laura Gemser as a person? How did such a shy and intelligent woman cope with being viewed as a sex icon due to the explicit Black Emanuelle movie series?
On the surface, her life story is a glamorous jet-set tale of stardom in the flower-power & free love era. Underneath the facade of bare skin on celluloid, there was a darker conflict going on in her heart. She enjoyed and despised aspects of her work at the same time. The films she starred in were disturbingly violent and often pornographic, and after awhile she balked at doing such roles. Laura yearned for a legitimate movie career, but was instead offered a steady incline of smut. This is the flamboyantly tragic life story of Laura Gemser.
From Java to Utrecht
She was born as Laurette Marcia Gemser on October 5, 1950, in the tropical city of Surabaya, Indonesia. The country was a Dutch colony for hundreds of years, and finally gained its independence in 1949. However Indonesia’s liberation was far from peaceful, and the authoritarian president Sukarno ruled with an iron fist. The country was in a state of conflict, with communist and radical Islamic sects constantly squaring off against one another. Concerned by the instability, her parents moved the family to Utrecht, Netherlands when she was only four years old.
After graduating high school, Laura attended Artibus Art School to study fashion. And of course, the 5 ft 7″ beauty was immediately noticed for her model good looks. In the early 1970s, she posed for fashion magazines in Belgium and Amsterdam. From the span of 1973 to 1977, Laura appeared on five covers of the Italian erotic magazine Playmen. She also posed for the French magazine Lui and worked with Francis Giacobetti. But it was in Italy where her career would take off and she would become a star.
The 1970s were an era of liberation in all shapes and forms, be it social, sexual, racial or otherwise. There is a misconception that American Hollywood films were at the forefront of everything progressive. This was untrue. In the U.S., bland and ordinary actresses such as Diane Keaton and Meryl Streep ruled the screen with a monopoly and swept the Oscars. In Italy, it seemed that audiences were more ready to accept ethnically diverse actresses.
In 1974, a 24-year old Laura starred in her first film called Amore libero (Free Love). It was an Italian production shot on the gorgeous French island of Seychelles. Described as an erotic adventure film, it was considered pedestrian and tame compared to her later films. Despite its mediocrity, the movie did the trick and got Laura noticed. Perhaps unaware of what she was in for, she moved to Italy to pursue her newfound acting career.
Softcore porn was rife in 1970s Europe, and the most infamous film of 1974 was Just Jaeckin’s X-rated Emmanuelle, starring Sylvia Kristel. Based on the autobiographical smut novels by French-Thai libertine Emmanuelle Arsan, the film caused a stir in France upon its release and was followed by two more sequels. Laura played a small role in Emmanuelle 2 as a kinky masseuse.
Like a sheep wandering into a pack of wolves, Laura had no idea what she was getting into:
“I wanted to be a model. I was still a little girl. I came to Italy specifically to shoot ‘Amore Libero,’ because someone was impressed by my photographs and therefore made contact with my agency. Even the part I did later in ‘Emmanuelle 2’ was born because the director Francis Giacobetti was a photographer with whom I had already made several nude and fashion shoots. I remember the day when he asked me if I wanted to do a part in the film he was going to make, ‘Emmanuelle 2.’ And I replied: “Why not?”
Love, Fame and Scandal
This was a first in a long chain of sleaze films for Laura. In a way, cameoing in Emmanuelle 2 was like selling her soul to the devil. Afterwards, she was offered the lead role in a series of Italian grindhouse spin-offs named Black Emanuelle. The Italians removed an “m” from the name so their French counterparts would not sue. Directed by Bitto Albertini, 1975’s Black Emanuelle turned Laura into a cult film star. He had seen a poster of her while at a travel agency in Kenya, and was mesmerized by her knockout looks.
Despite having limited prior acting experience, Laura was cast in the main role. One of the pros of starring in the film was that it was shot in scenic Nairobi, Kenya. Laura said that she “didn’t really read the script, but they told me I was doing it in Kenya, so I said yes. That’s the only idea– to go to Kenya, and that for me was okay. I don’t care about the script.” One of Laura’s favourite things about her acting career was that it allowed her to travel and to see new places. She had an adventurous and bold spirit, and she brought this carefree attitude into all her performances.
She also met the love of her life on the set of the film. Laura’s handsome co-star Gabriele Tinti was infatuated with her ever since spotting her at a production office in Rome, and the two later began a passionate affair while filming in Kenya. She was a Libra, and he was a Leo- it was meant to be! Laura said“it was meeting Gabriele that pushed me to leave my homeland to come and live here in Italy… to always be close to him.“
Gabriele was a B-list Italian actor with matinee idol good looks that led the press to dub him “the Italian Alain Delon.” He grew up poor, so this pushed him to have an extraordinary drive to succeed as he grew older. Gabriele starred in dozens of movies each year all across Europe and in Hollywood, and eventually began to foray into erotic films.
Despite the fact that he was 18 years older than her, Laura loved him immensely. The couple married in 1976 and stayed that way until his death in 1991. Gabriele also starred with Laura in all of her Emanuelle films, except for Emanuelle Around the World. It was strange that they both had such a strong bond despite performing in graphic sex scenes with other actors as well.
Laura and Gabriele had an understanding that while they performed in vulgar films, they still had an unbreakable attachment between them. Indeed you can see the chemistry when they perform together: the couple light up the screen and you could genuinely tell they were in love! Rather than working bum 9-5 jobs, the pair travelled the world and starred in films together. It seemed a small price to pay because it allowed them a luxurious lifestyle at the cost of getting naked onscreen. They were like the Onlyfans thots of their day.
While Black Emanuelle may have brought Laura love and a career, it’s technically a terrible film. It is a weird and haphazard porno flick with a cheesy soundtrack and just so many ridiculous moments. It was also tough for Laura to get used to stripping down on film. Her agent complained that Laura could barely pose for a picture, so it would be even tougher teach her to perform in movies.
Director Bitto Albertini claimed “it was difficult to make her act, and she thought it was a game. She didn’t take it seriously at first, then she became pretty good.” The contention may have come from the all the nude sex scenes she was compelled to do. In many moments, Laura looks awkward and downright uncomfortable. But this was her new job, and she steeled herself to it.
Another thing that infuriated Laura was the fact that Albertini had added in hardcore porn footage during the editing stage- without her approval! Laura never performed in hardcore acts on screen, and vehemently refused any requests to do so. Yet Albertini had inserted random stand-in scenes without her permission. This was something Laura would always feel very icky about. She described the nightmare of finding out about what had happened:
“Any excuse is good to get naked. I saw the one– the first Emanuelle, because I was curious. But then I felt baaad, because I didn’t expect to see… I refused a lot of scenes. They put in a stand-in, and I didn’t know. So when I saw the movie, I felt rather bad. There was a scene in a train. I think it was… she was making love with a whole football team. I don’t remember. But, I refused that scene, and they used stand-ins, and– I don’t know what are the scenes… I forgot. Really, I forgot…”
The Misfortunes of Karin Schubert
While Laura always had the leverage throughout her career to refuse hardcore porn, her co-star Karin Schubert did not. Karin was an attractive German actress who starred in French and Italian cult films throughout the 1970s. When the roles dried up and she began aging and facing financial difficulties, Karin’s life turned into a nightmare.
While her role in Black Emanuelle was already embarrassing enough, it was about to get worse. Karin’s son was a troubled drug addict, and it was up to her to pay for his psychiatric treatment. In her 40s, a middle aged Karin posed for nudie magazines. In the 1980s, she was eventually forced to do hardcore porn to pay her debts. She acted in over 20 pornos, and it broke her mentally.
Having already suffered sexual abuse in her youth, Karin attempted suicide three times yet she survived them all. She was then interred in a psychiatric hospital. She lamented “I have neither family nor friends, neither money, nor future. I wanted to die because I missed everything. For people, I am a whore.” She now lives in an isolated area of Germany; faraway from the media and alone except for her pet dogs who keep her company.
The King of Sleaze
Thankfully, Laura never fell into the trap that poor Karin did. It was the constant love and support of Gabriele Tinti that kept her strong throughout her career. Black Emanuelle was a smash hit, and Laura signed a contract with director Aristide Massaccesi AKA Joe D’Amato for five more films. If you’re a geeky cinephile, you’ll definitely be familiar with the infamous D’Amato. He was the most well-known exploitation film director in 1970s Italy, and churned out hundreds of low budget films that left audiences in awe of how perverse and depraved they were.
D’Amato really knew how to sell a film: just add copious amounts of sex and gore. Bitto Albertini’s Black Emanuelle looked like a joke compared to D’Amato’s sequels. He directed every genre of film possible, from horror to fantasy to westerns to straight up porn. And quality wise, you couldn’t exactly say his movies were good. But they were shocking and attention-grabbing, and the charming and goddess-like Laura Gemser became his most valuable asset.
Laura was his muse and inspiration. The camera adored her, and D’Amato captured her at her best angles. He described Laura as a shy, wonderful and sweet person who was very private and liked to keep her life hidden from the media. While the Emanuelle character she portrayed onscreen was very kinky and hedonistic, the real life Laura had a very committed relationship with Gabriele Tinti.
Co-star Ely Galleani said Laura was sometimes hard to work with because she seemed “very upset” during their lesbian lovemaking scenes. Indeed, Laura would go on to say that “it’s hard to make love with a [woman]. I mean, it’s… it’s really hard. But, you know, you get paid for it, so you do it. You just do it!” So despite the Sapphic scenes she performed in onscreen, Laura was not bisexual in real life.
D’Amato depicts Emanuelle as a strong, independent, and promiscuous photojournalist who travels the world and gets down with almost everyone she comes across, be they male or female. Cue in lackluster sex scenes every five minutes and feature some horribly dated and corny musical scores by Nico Fidenco. He was certainly no Ennio Morricone.
Emanuelle is also extremely oversexualized, and is shown to enjoy gangbangs and group sex- and even gang rape! Wtf. In the post AIDS era, these films come off as very twisted and obscene. The only redeeming properties of the Emanuelle films are Laura Gemser and her many interesting co-stars. If not for her, these movies would be discarded as nothing more than repetitive, abject trash. Laura said herself that:
“It seemed like one long, long movie that didn’t end. You know, it was always the same story, the same things happens.. I was a journalist… a photographer… and they always sent me out to to find some drug criminals. There was a lot of drugs, right? And then.. there was always the same situation… always had to get myself undressed to get something… I don’t know….“
Bloody & Extreme Grindhouse Cinema
Then why did she continue doing the sordid Emanuelle films? Well the fact that she was able to travel to Thailand, Morocco, Hong Kong, New York, Venice, Washington, San Diego, Egypt, India, Iran and China could have contributed to it. Most of the films were garden-variety and forgettable, but two 1977 classics stand out for their offensive and wildly violent plots: Emanuelle in America and Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals.
In Emanuelle in America, Laura plays a journalist who goes undercover to bust a snuff film ring. There is an array of nauseating scenes; such as horse bestiality, orgies and random, terrible hardcore porn inserts. 1970s Italian filmmakers had a serious problem with exploiting their stars. D’Amato had tried many times to make Laura film hardcore porn scenes, but she always gave him a resounding NO!
Penthouse magazine founder and producer Bob Guccione had cut porn scenes into Tinto Brass’ 1979 disasterpiece Caligula without telling anyone, much to the chagrin of stars Malcolm McDowell, Peter O’Toole and John Gielgud. After watching Caligula in theaters Malcolm said “I felt like a woman after she’s been raped.” This strongly echoes Laura’s sentiments about her own films.
The worst parts of Emanuelle in America, however, are definitely the hyper-realistic, gory snuff film scenes. For some reason, D’Amato thought it would be a good idea to include graphic torture in a literal porno. The film was seized by an Italian court because they thought the disturbing footage was real, and one of the traumatized actresses in the snuff scenes sued production but lost the case. The things Italian directors got away with back then were mind-blowing. The horrific sequences inspired David Cronenberg’s amazing 1983 classic sci-fi body horror flick Videodrome, so at least it was good for something in the end.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, mondo movie Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals was even worse. Just look at the title. Thankfully, this film had no hardcore porn inserts. But it was still marketed as an erotic film, despite the fact that it was literally about cannibalism. Another one of D’Amato’s bright ideas. His vomit-inducing film went on to inspire Ruggero Deodato’s even more nauseating and infamous 1980 horror film Cannibal Holocaust. I strongly advise you not to watch these two back to back.
The plot is trite: Laura the journalist and Gabriele the anthropologist go on a cute New York date to discuss cannibals and to make love, and then D’Amato cuts to them watching a tribal castration scene. It didn’t make for a good romance movie, but it did give the film an air of bizarre infamy. The duo then head out to the “Amazon jungle,” which is really just the forests of Lazio, Italy. Racism ensues (the “native” tribe is played by Filipino tourists!), as well as graphic scenes of cannibalism, gutting and dismemberment. Skip the popcorn when you watch this one.
With movies like these under her belt, is it any wonder Laura grew disillusioned with her career? She did have a few roles in some “respectable” movies, such as the 1977 Terence Hill and Bud Spencer comedy film Crime Busters, and the 1976 Hollywood disaster flick Voyage of the Damned. Director Stuart Rosenberg said he wanted an actress who looked Cuban, and personally chose Laura for the role. She called the experience “unreal.” Unfortunately, she had no lines and just played Orson Welles’ arm candy. Laura gave a fascinating account of him in an interview and said he was:
“A big guy (laughs)… he walked very badly because of his size. I remember that he spent his days locked in his room, he never wanted to talk to anyone. Even when Faye Dunaway went to look for him because she wanted to talk to him, Orson drew back, he didn’t want to meet her. Poor thing, she came to the set on purpose because she wanted to talk to him. But Orson would lock himself in the room after the take.”
The least awful D’Amato film starring Laura was 1976’s Black Cobra Woman. This was the closest he ever got to making a decent movie, and the presence of Hollywood star Jack Palance added a little class to the production. And unlike the terrible musical scores the other Emanuelle films had, this one had a pleasant soundtrack by maestro Piero Umiliani.
Black Cobra Woman is a strictly softcore film that doesn’t have any trademark disturbing D’Amato scenes (other than a snake being skinned alive and eaten at a Chinese marketplace). Set in Hong Kong, Laura plays an exotic snake dancer who is wooed by sugar daddy Palance. In the film, Laura performs sensual snake dances and looks effortless while doing it. In real life, Laura had a fear of snakes and one even defecated on her when she was handling it!
The Private Life of Laura Gemser
It’s tough to find an interview of Laura from the 1970s, but I managed to discover a rare newspaper clipping from that era. The article is in Spanish and was an interview done when she had a stopover at El Prat airport in Barcelona to meet a movie producer (this is a rough translation btw I did the best I could). In the clipping, Laura reveals that she wants to stop getting naked on camera because “everything has a limit” and that she has other plans for the future. Surprisingly, she says that she has studied archaeology, and even passed two pharmacy courses as she wanted to pursue a medical career.
We also find out that she is bilingual and speaks five languages (Dutch, Indonesian, English, Italian, and I’m not sure of the other one). When quizzed about the upside of theEmanuelle film series, Laura admits it gave her “fame and a comfortable economic position.” The reporter also mentions that she is happily married to Gabriele Tinti, who accompanied her on the trip. This is all very interesting because not much is known about Laura’s private life outside of her film career, so it’s fascinating to see she had other ambitions that sadly never came true.
On the set of 1982’s Violence in a Women’s Prison, the no-nonsense Laura clashed with her haughty co-star Lorraine De Selle. She had some harsh words for her:
“She was someone who put on incredible intellectual airs. But she was a pseudo intellectual in my opinion. I mean if you make a movie like “Violence in a Women’s Prison” you can’t be an intellectual… you can’t be a busy theater actress when you’re shooting such bullshit. In short, the story is what it is, it’s definitely not Shakespeare… let’s have fun, right? “
In 1980, Laura recorded a song called “Crazy Eyes (And We’ll Love Again)” in Germany and surprised everyone with her vocal talents. She had a beautiful singing voice and it was a shame she didn’t record more music because that track is actually very dreamy and well produced! It was also bizarre that Laura’s voice was dubbed in almost every film she ever appeared in, despite the fact that she spoke good English but with a slight Dutch accent.
In 1983, Laura co-starred in the cheesy hit American TV movie Love is Foreverwith the king of corniness, Michael Landon. The director and producers forced Laura to hide her identity on set:
“This was at the behest of the director and the production. They didn’t want my ‘erotic’ past to connect with the film, which was a story for the whole family. So they gave me the name of Moira Chen, but it didn’t help because everyone wrote: Moira Chen is Laura Gemser (laughs). Hall Bartlett, the director, was an American who wanted to change my life. It was a little bit nasty… He was a moralizer. It forced me to deny even in the face of evidence. When in Thailand people said to me: ‘Are you Laura Gemser?’ I had to say: ‘No… no, I’m Moira Chen’. It was embarrassing.“
Laura tried to turn a blind eye to the hardcore porn that was being inserted into the films she made with D’Amato, but then she realized these scenes were literally being filmed right there on a parallel set. At least she had a sense of humour about it:
“I’ve always believed that Aristide [Joe] made porn films at the same time as ours. But not that these were scenes to be included in the films themselves. I realized it late, on the set of 1982’s ‘Caligula the Untold Story.’ There is a scene in that film in which Emperor Caligula, David Brandon, and I walk to a bedroom. As we walk, a long, incredible porn scene starts, and after half an hour of wild sex, the scene resumes with us entering the bedroom. I remember when I saw Aristide, I said to him: ‘Fuck, Ari,’ this bedroom was really far away!”
Laura Gemser: Goblin Costume Designer
From 1988 onwards, Laura worked on Italian low budget D-movies as a wardrobe and costume designer. After all, she was an ex-model who had studied fashion in college. She worked on D’Amato’s films as the two had a close friendship throughout their careers. Most famously, she helped create the costumes for 1990’s Troll 2, often called the worst movie ever made. The film was shot in Utah with an all-Italian production crew. None of them spoke fluent English except Laura, which caused the shoot to be a total mess.
She did her best with the low budget, creating goblins out of Halloween masks and burlap sacks. Ever the penny pincher, producer D’Amato would go on to re-use these costumes in 1982’s Ator: The Fighting Eagle. Even so, Troll 2 was a disaster that was universally panned, and the special effects were mercilessly mocked. It is tragic that this movie is associated with Laura, but at least she had fun on set.
And she didn’t have to strip naked on screen anymore! Phasing out her acting career was like a breath of fresh air for Laura. She described the discomfort she felt the first time she had to disrobe:
“The first few times I had to undress in front of the camera were a traumatizing moment… but then I got used to it. Sure, everyone on the set looks at you like that (she widens her eyes and sticks out his tongue, panting like a dog), then it’s a bit embarrassing, but if you take it as a job, it all goes away. You say: I have to do it, they pay me. And frankly, I didn’t do particularly rough scenes, even if once, in Italy, it didn’t take much to cause a scandal… “
“When my first Emanuelle came out, there was this big poster with me on it, and I was naked ’til here… and they censored it. They took it down, and so people were curious to see it… So nowadays, you see everything… I mean, even in TV you see everything. In those days it was rather… How do you say it? Uh, scandaloso… [I got]a little bit tired of doing this, and I was trying to do some other kind of movies. But… I had that label on me, and it’s very hard to get out of it. So I said ‘I hate it,’ so I stopped doing it.”
The End of Love
Another factor that contributed to the end of Laura’s acting career was the death of her beloved husband Gabriele Tinti. With him by her side, Laura was full of confidence and strength. But when he passed away in Rome on November 12, 1991, she was heartbroken. He was only 59 years old, but he was a lifelong smoker who died of a myocardial infarction before leaving on a flight to France to star in a new film. The couple had been married for 15 years. Since they never had any children and her family was split between the Netherlands and Indonesia, Laura was left on her own.
Laura and Gabriele were both enigmatic and mysterious people who kept their personal lives out of the public eye. But in 2016, Laura agreed to be interviewed for a documentary on his life called Come in un film: La Vera Storia di Gabriele Tinti. In this film, she recounts rare info about his life. He was originally named Gastone, and was a poor boy from the Bolognese village of Molinella. When he became famous, Gabriele returned home in a white suit and sports car, which the poverty-stricken villagers soiled with their own blackened hands and clothes.
Even though he was 20 years younger than her, Gabriele seduced legendary Italian actress Anna Magnani in the 1950s and she fell madly in love with him. He was also married to Brazilian actress Norma Bengell for seven years during the 1960s. Gabriele was an attractive and charismatic playboy, but Laura was the woman who had stolen his heart. In the documentary, Laura tears up talking about him and remembers him fondly and with great love. She had Gabriele buried in his hometown of Molinella, in a grave next to his father’s.
After his death, Laura disappeared from the screen, but continued designing costumes until 1993. To those who asked her why she retired, Laura joked about not wanting to play “Emanuelle’s grandmother” because she was now in her 40s and a widow. Laura and Gabriele had lived together at a villa in Saxa Rubra, a solitary village 14 km away from Rome. They had a small wooden house with a wild garden set in a fairy tale landscape. After his death, she found life there to be lonely and painful, so she moved to a different location in Rome.
Retirement and Isolation
The last time Laura was spotted at a public event was at Joe D’Amato’s 1999 funeral, which she was said to have become emotional at. Despite all he put her through in those weird movies he made, Laura still had a soft spot for D’Amato. Nowadays, the man would be #metoo’d in a minute. She had given a compelling account of him in a 1997 interview:
“In my opinion Aristide is a born actor, a comic actor, because he has this face that makes you laugh immediately when he speaks. At the time I didn’t understand Italian well, but every time this funny little man said something to me I inevitably burst out laughing. I had a really good time with Aristide…
Today it would be unthinkable to make films like those… Working with Aristide was an adventure. He did everything: he was the director, the cinematographer, the producer -and an actress very often also had to be a costume designer and a seamstress. In the last period of our collaboration I was a costume designer because I had had to learn how to do it already when I was shooting the other films. Everyone had to be able to do a little bit of everything.
But thinking about it was funny and Aristide made me laugh a lot… laughing is important. He always had such agitation on him… he was always anxious and he forgot everything on time: his shirt, his shoes, a mess like few others! A great professional but also a great mess. When he got angry then I don’t tell you!
Aristide, however, did not get angry a lot, usually he always did it with irony. The few times he really got angry I went away because then it was unbearable: he screamed, cursed and so on and so forth… One thing that Aristide and I have in common is that we fall asleep everywhere, we sleep easy. It also happened to me in the breaks between takes. But he too was no less.”
Laura now lives a quiet life somewhere in Rome, far away from all the movie cameras. She is in her 70s, and she rarely takes interviews. In 2000, director Alex Cox interviewed her in A Hard Look, a documentary on the Emanuelle films (I have transcribed the interview into different sections of this article). She was still pretty and glowing at the age of 50, but seemed disappointed and conflicted about her acting career.
In 2016, Laura appeared in the Gabriele Tinti documentary. And in 2018, Severin Films released a short interview with Laura called I Am Your Black Queen as a featurette on a DVD release set of hers (yet I can’t find it… RIP). Information about her is scarce, but I raked up as much as I could from Italian cinema sites. She proves to be a tantalizing enigma for fans who want to get to know more about the real Laura Gemser.
Unlike many other actresses who crumbled in the face of fame and abuse by the film industry, Laura managed to hold up under all kinds of pressure and bow away gracefully from the screen. Countless starlets succumb to suicide, substance abuse, botched plastic surgery, poverty, mental illness, and other afflictions. Yet even as a widow, Laura managed to keep herself together and settle into a private life in Rome.
She enjoys craftsmanship, and makes her own furniture out of recycled material. Laura still designs her own clothes as well, and often sells them at the grand market of Porta Portese by the Tiber river. She is a very low-key and a level headed person, which is remarkable considering all she’s gone through.
Laura seems to want to distance herself from her smut career, and that is understandable. The Emanuelle movies truly were exploitation in many more ways than one. They were films that exploited Laura herself, and forced her to do unimaginable acts (everything shy of actual penetration) onscreen. She is a wonder to watch in movies; as she is extremely gorgeous and slender with long black hair, a stunning smile and the It quality of a star. Yet the content she was forced to do was way beneath her.
She was an intelligent and unique woman who deserved much better than the sleazy roles she was given. There is a feeling of wasted talent when reflecting on her filmography. Laura was much more than just her pleasant face and body, and her acting ability and beauty as a person shine through in the gritty grindhouse films she drifted above. To her fans, Laura Gemser will always be a bright and glorious diamond glittering in the rough of 1970s erotic B-movie cinema.
It is said that beauty is a gift bestowed only upon the truly blessed. For Marisa Mell, this initial blessing eventually turned out to be a bitter curse. She was a dazzling sex symbol and a style icon in the swingin’ 1960s, but her career later dissolved into poverty and tragedy.
She was born on February 24, 1939 in Graz, Austria as Marlies Theres Moitzi; later changing her name to one that was easier for non-German speakers to pronounce. Marisa was stunningly statuesque at 5’8″ tall and had a perfect body to match. Her face was structured like some ethereal Roman goddess; with mesmerizing green eyes, prominent cheekbones and a defined square bone structure. There are many gorgeous women out there, but Marisa was special. She just naturally had that It quality and hypnotic screen presence. It was obvious that she would be a star, and the Queen of B- Movies.
Rise to Fame
Marisa’s father abandoned their family when she was young, and she was smothered by her mother’s attentions. They resided in a housing complex inside the school grounds where her mother worked. Marisa appeared in her first film in 1954, at the age of 15. She was educated at a nunnery, and briefly attended a school of commerce in Graz. From 1958 to 1963, she was married to an Italo-Swiss man named Henry Tucci, but there is zero information on what type of person he was or what their marriage was like.
As a child, Marisa idolized Greta Garbo. After seeing Garbo’s 1936 film Camille, Marisa decided she too wanted to become an actress. She admired Dorothy Dandridge and found her beautiful, and had a crush on German actor Curd Jürgens. Some of Marisa’s hobbies were painting and studying archaeology. Her childhood was described as lonely. She often wore black, and girls admired her beauty from afar. Marisa was never seen without a man on her arm because she hated being alone.
Soon enough, Marisa went to Vienna and attended the Max Reinhardt drama school for four years to learn how to become a stage actor. The first time her lifelong friend Erika Pluhar saw her, she thought “I’ve never seen such a beautiful girl. In the movies maybe, but never so close and real… I envied her haughty untouchability, this insurmountable aura of beauty. ” Eventually, Marisa was offered more film roles.
She played in a ton of mostly forgotten West German movies that no one has seen (including Edgar Wallace Krimi pictures), and was then cast in legendary British director Ken Russell’s trashy 1964 comedy flick French Dressing. Russell (a talented director when not harassed by penny-pinching producers) knew that his first feature film was garbage, and later described the production as “a very unhappy film as far as I was concerned.”
Regardless, the film got Marisa noticed outside of Austria. She was the new Germanic Brigitte Bardot. When she was invited to the 1963 Buenos Aires film festival, she tried to seduce Psycho star Anthony Perkins. Unfortunately for her, Anthony was gay and more attracted to Julian Mateos, her Spanish arm candy. She was living the good life. But due to a freak accident, her success was almost prematurely botched.
Calamities and Bad Luck
In 1963, Marisa suffered a horrible car accident while shooting in France. Comatose for six hours, she almost lost her right eye in the horrific collision, and required extensive surgery for two years to repair her damaged lip. Due to good surgical work, the effects were almost un-noticeable. She was said to have a curled upper lip after the accident, which somehow made her look even more beautiful. Marisa believed she survived because “God was on my side.”
After recovering, she returned to acting, moved to Italy and became a well known B-movie starlet. While filming the 1964 western The Last Ride to Santa Cruz on Spain’s Gran Canaria island, an athletic Marisa fell off her horse and suffered an intense nosebleed. She was rescued by a male passerby who immediately fell for her.
Marisa enjoyed the sunny climate and chic jet-set lifestyle of Rome over the austerity and gray cold of Austria. Her highest profile production at the time was Mario Monicelli’s light-hearted 1965 comedy Casanova ’70. She starred alongside Marcello Mastroianni, Virna Lisi and Michèle Mercier. She also played in the 1966 thriller Secret Agent Super Dragon, a lame James Bond knockoff that has the dubious honor of being featured on Mystery Science Theater 3000, and having a 2.3 rating on IMDB.
That year, Marisa was chosen to star as famed WWI spy Mata Hari in a lavish $800,000 Broadway musical adaptation, directed by Hollywood icon Vincente Minnelli. She was spotted by his wife Denise, through her photoshoots in magazines like Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar.
After a disastrously embarrassing 1967 preview in Washington, the entire production was sacked. Lady Bird Johnson was in attendance that evening, and had sponsored the performance. Only later did the Minnellis realize that Marisa could not sing, and neither could she speak English. She had spoken to Denise only in Italian, and she was said to have gotten the role after having a lesbian affair with her.
Critic Ken Mandelbaum wrote that “the show ran well past midnight, scenery collapsed and the virtually nude Mell was accidentally spotlighted during a costume change.” Theater programmer Max Woodward, who witnessed the performance, stated that “at the end, she’s tied to a pole. And then after they shoot her, she reaches up and scratches her nose.”
Yikes. The debacle effectively ended Marisa’s chances at a Hollywood career, and she fled back to Italy to escape the backlash. She claimed that she didn’t want to become the property of any Hollywood studio anyways, because their restrictive “contract was a whole book. I think that even to go to the toilet I would have needed a permission.” Previously, in 1964, she had refused a lucrative seven year Hollywood contract.
Regardless, the failure stayed in Marisa’s heart forever. Whenever Europeans asked her about her time on Broadway, Marisa would lie that Mata Hari was a great hit in order to save face.
Success in Italy
In 1968, Marisa starred in what is arguably her best known film: Mario Bava’s campy action-crime extravaganza, Danger, Diabolik. Based on the Italian comic book series (fumetti), the film was Italy’s flashy and psychedelic answer to Batman, and featured a hip soundtrack by Ennio Morricone.
Marisa was cast as Eva Kant, the sexy and stylish girlfriend of the Italian criminal mastermind Diabolik; played by handsome and chiseled American film star John Phillip Law. Together, the two made a formidably attractive onscreen couple, and had electric chemistry that kindled a brief love affair offscreen.
The Eva Kant character was supposed to be blonde, so Marisa donned a very high-quality wig to play the role. Unlike the Eva of the fumetti, who dressed more conservatively and wore her hair in an up do; Marisa’s adaptation of the character called for more slutty and revealing outfits and long, flowing, golden hair. The film was an instant hit and a cult classic, and so was Marisa.
Initially, Catherine Deneuve was cast, but she was fired after a week of filming. Mario Bava lamented how she was too much of an “ice princess” and not sexy and uninhibited enough to play the role of Eva Kant. John Phillip Law said that she was nice, but they had no sexual chemistry.
Ironically, Catherine refused to perform the famous scene where she and Diabolik make love on ten million dollars of cash; but later starred in the explicit 1967 Luis Buñuel film Belle de Jour. It was of no matter, as Bava would find a new actress. His initial choice was Italian actress Marilù Tolo (fashion designer Valentino called her the love of his life), but producer Dino De Laurentiis liked Marisa much more. And so, the rest was history.
John Philip Law said that when he and Bava saw Marisa, “we knew everything was going to work out. We fell into each other’s arms on the first day, and had a really great relationship on — and off-screen, after a while.” The photogenic pair shacked up together, and even adopted a stray black kitten found on a beach in Anzio whom they named Diabolik.
The flame was fickle, and their affair ended after shooting wrapped. John was a notorious playboy, and Marisa wasn’t short of lovers herself. Fun fact: Diabolik the cat eventually became the property of Jane Fonda, and she took him back to Paris with her after she co-starred with John in the 1968 sci-fi cult classic Barbarella.
Marisa’s next film was 1968’s Anyone Can Play, a romantic comedy in which she co-starred with Virna Lisi, Ursula Andress and Claudine Auger (the latter two were famous Bond girls). Despite the cast of classic beauties, the film was a flop and faded into oblivion.
With 1969 came Marisa’s second most famous film; a giallo by infamous horror gore-exploitation director Lucio Fulci called Una Sull’altra (One on Top of the Other). While Fulci’s later films were mostly bloody and disturbing, this one was tame and restrained in comparison, and extremely well made. The film also has an outstanding jazz soundtrack by Riz Ortolani.
In this giallo classic, Marisa stars in a suspenseful double role, and again dons a glam blonde wig to play her character. It is very reminiscent of the 1958 Hitchcock film Vertigo, and explores the nature of infidelity, lascivious sexuality, morality, fate and mistaken identity.
In some countries, the film was released under the skeevy title Perversion Story. Her co-star was dashing French actor Jean Sorel, and the pair had fantastic chemistry onscreen. While he does not appear on Marisa’s long list of lovers, I bet my life that they smashed irl.
Dating a Bad Boy
In 1969, Marisa also suffered a miscarriage. The child had belonged to her boyfriend, an Italian nightclub owner, drug dealer, mobster and producer with aristocratic roots named Pier Luigi Torri. He was like the real life Diabolik, except uglier. Marisa and Pier Luigi dated on and off for six years from 1965 onwards, and he was her longest boyfriend.
Through Pier Luigi, Marisa accessed a world of wealth, parties, drugs, glamour, power, intrigue and excitement. He was a jet-set member of Roman high society, and an eligible bachelor whom many gold-diggers wanted to nab. He occasionally produced films; many of them being softcore pornos.
He could often be seen driving his Ferraris and Rolls-Royces around Monte Carlo casino, and gambled away millions of lira at a time. He owned several villas and beachfront properties, as well as one of the most luxurious yachts in the world. When Prince Rainier of Monaco propositioned Pier Luigi for his yacht, he turned the Prince down. From then onwards, Rainier had a flaming hatred of him.
It is presumed that Marisa met Pier Luigi through her friendship/fling with fellow Austrian actor Helmut Berger. Berger himself was having a gay love affair with director and nobleman Luchino Visconti, who was a permanent fixture in the Roman aristocracy. To be anybody in Italy, you had to navigate the complex social web of who’s who.
Pier Luigi, his producer friend Bino Cicogna and a man named Vassallo all co-owned Number One nightclub, the hottest place to be in Rome. Cocaine circulated freely among the clientele, some of whom came from the most prestigious families in Rome; as well as entertainment industry and political names.
In December of 1971, Bino was found dead in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He had supposedly committed suicide by placing a plastic bag over his head and sticking it in a gas oven, due to his despair over pending criminal charges and an addictive cocaine habit. But Pier Luigi suspected foul play.
Soon after, Number One nightclub was raided by cops and busted for cocaine. There is no doubt that Marisa used coke as well, but who didn’t at the time? As the cops began to close in on Pier Luigi, Roman tabloids went wild trying to link Marisa to the scandal.
In 1971, he fled Italy on his yacht to avoid the criminal charges pending against him. He escaped to Monaco, but bitter Prince Rainier ratted him out. After an arraignment in Nice, France, he was allowed to leave. Pier Luigi then escaped further to London. It is thought that his and Marisa’s relationship cut off around this point.
She stood by him however, until he was arrested once more in London for a $300 million dollar scam. Pier Luigi then ingeniously escaped Scotland Yard by crawling outside through a bathroom ventilation shaft, and then scaling the rooftops to safety.
He vanished for 18 months, but was re-arrested in New York 18 months later. Though he was extradited back to Italy and sentenced to seven years in prison, he never served any time. Pier Luigi went on to marry a different woman, had two children, and died in 2011 at the age of 85.
Where does this wild crime drama leave Marisa? The relationship took a major toll on her. Pier Luigi had a violent and abusive temper and often beat her. That could possibly be why she had a miscarriage in 1969. Regardless, she wanted to marry him and settle down. But that never occurred because he was too busy being an international criminal. The fiasco also murdered her reputation.
Thotting Around Europe
Still, Marisa did not learn her lesson and continued to date or have one night stands with many sleazy fellow actors. Her list of lovers is long and varied, and includes Alain Delon, Warren Beatty, Helmut Berger, Stephen Boyd, Robert Evans, Michel Piccoli, John Phillip Law, Roman Polanski, and even the Shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. And these are just the ones worth noting.
Her love affair with Alain Delon seemed to have been mostly one-sided. In her 1990 autobiography Coverlove, Marisa discusses the hook-up in gratuitous detail. Delon, however, never even mentioned Marisa in his own book. The two met in 1962 on a plane to Yugoslavia. She was immediately attracted to Delon, and described him as “passionate and animalistic” in the sack.
Unfortunately, Delon was a massive lothario (read: manwhore), and Marisa turned out to be just another notch on his list. But hey, this was the guy who broke Romy Schneider’s heart. Hilariously, Marisa claims to have had sex with Delon leading up to the press conference announcing his engagement to Francine Canovas (later known as Nathalie Delon), and after it!
Seduced and Abandoned
In 1971, Marisa met Stephen Boyd, the man who was perhaps the love of her life. Stephen was a handsome Irish rogue best know for his iconic role in the 1959 sword and sandal epic Ben-Hur. He was eight years older than Marisa, and had already broken a lot of women’s hearts.
She gave a detailed account of their passionate romance in her book, and described it as “so difficult, strange, beautiful and sad that I can hardly bear to think of it.” The pair first met on the set of the 1971 psychological thriller Marta. Marisa described the meeting as electric, and claimed upon first glance she realized that he was “the man of my life.”
Stephen, however, did not feel the same way and ignored all of Marisa’s advances, much to her chagrin. Even though the film had many sex scenes, she could not get Stephen to react. Marisa said the experience was “torture. I spent eight weeks showing him only my best side – sweet, cute, seductive, open, mysterious – everything! It was no use.“
Stephen resisted Marisa all the way through the filming of Marta with a will of iron. She was pissed, and never wanted to see him ever again. After all, which man in his right mind could resist Marisa Mell? Six months later, the pair returned to Madrid to shoot another film called The Great Swindle.
Marisa gave up her attempts to seduce Stephen. This time, it was his turn to try and put the moves on her. He began courting Marisa, and sent her roses and asked her out. She couldn’t resist, and jumped at the chance to go on a date with Stephen at a flamenco bar.
His glances made her“weak in the knees,” and she said that he “looked like a god.” After the date, they spent the night at Stephen’s place. It was clearly a satisfying lay, since Marisa described him as “just so awesome in his passion, his tenderness and his masculinity that I completely lost my head.”
Stephen admitted that he had initially rejected Marisa because he was scared of getting involved with a “dangerous woman” like her, and that he had just gotten out of difficult love affair. And yet, he snapped and proposed marriage that very same night. They decided to have a Gypsy wedding, probably for the shock value of it.
The couple went to a Gypsy camp in the morning, and rode in horse-drawn carriages. Marisa wore a silk dress and Stephen wore a linen shirt, and the observers sang and danced flamenco by a fire. During their wedding ceremony, the pair took a blood oath. A priest cut their wrists with a dagger, and mingled their blood together to bond them as husband and wife.
Eventually, they realized that their relationship had become too obsessive, so the superstitious pair went for a ritual exorcism at the 10th century Cathedral of St. Vicinius in the Italian village of Sarsina. The couple apparently felt that they had been “possessed by an evil demon. Our demon was our passion.“ A Catholic priest blessed them and recited the exorcism rites.
Marisa didn’t care if people thought they were crazy, and remarked “sometimes love is like a deadly disease, sometimes it makes you feel that you are damned for all eternity. Trying to explain the reasons for this is impossible. There are things in our lives that are too high for our philosophy.”
Soon after the exorcism, Stephen fell ill and decided to end the relationship. He had a high fever, but doctors couldn’t tell what was wrong with him. They believed it was a psychosomatic disorder caused by their love affair. He told Marisa“I must leave you, for I know full well that one day you will go. I could not endure it.“ She cried and begged him to stay, but he left on a flight to Belfast and she never saw him again.
After Stephen’s death in 1977, she claimed that his spirit often spoke to her from beyond the grave. She explained that “we both believe in reincarnation, and we realized we’ve already been lovers in three different lifetimes, and in each one I made him suffer terribly… But sometimes I have the feeling that he is speaking to me – from another world.“
I like the supernatural/occult touch to their romance, but it most likely dissolved due to Stephen’s inability to commit to Marisa. He was a player who constantly bragged about being an individualistic bachelor, and was not yet ready to be tied down by marriage. Nevertheless, the year-long fling was quite intense while it lasted and Marisa never forgot him and the memory of their ephemeral love.
A Fading Star
It was obvious by now that Marisa had bad luck with men. Should she have just avoided these toxic romances and focused instead on building her career? She once proclaimed that “movies are my life, and my life is a movie.” But she was also dismissive of her profession, stating “I have a higher goal than making one stupid picture after another.” Whatever that goal was, it never materialized.
In 1972, she played a small role in Umberto Lenzi’s Seven Blood-Stained Orchids, a gory yet dull giallo that has since become a B-movie classic. While it was not exactly Lenzi’s finest work, the film has some gruesome death scenes that stand out. Marisa is murdered by a killer wielding an electric power drill in the movie’s bloodiest sequence.
By the late 1970s, Marisa’s career hit a steep decline. She continued to star in films until her death, but most of them were D-list movies that were way beneath her talent level. Although she was only in her 30s, she appeared ten years older than her actual age. This was most likely caused by excessive drug use and hard living.
In 1977, she starred in her last notable film:Beast with a Gun AKA Mad Dog Killer, a shockingly explosive crime thriller that bordered on exploitation due to its violent and sexual content. She starred alongside her former lover Helmut Berger; who gave a hilariously over the top yet masterful performance as a sick and depraved criminal on the loose. They were still close friends offscreen, and often partied together.
The film was based on the antics of Italian mafioso Renato Vallanzasca; a criminal so perverse he once decapitated an informer during a prison riot. The movie perfectly captures the maniacal spirit of its subject, and is fast-paced and action-packed with an awesome soundtrack by Umberto Smaila.
Beast with a Gun was classified as a “Video Nasty” in the U.K., and declared an obscene film that could be confiscated by police if it were to be re-released in theaters. Quentin Tarantino later lifted the soundtrack and used some clips of Marisa and Helmut in his supremely unoriginal 1997 movie Jackie Brown.
Sadly, more tragedy struck that year in 1977. Marisa became a mother-to-be once again at 38 years old. She was photographed by paparazzi in Rome while heavily pregnant, and was accompanied by her Afghan Hound Rocco and actor Gianni Macchia. She looked to be in the late stages of pregnancy, yet she was still smoking cigarettes. Strangely, Marisa believed that Rocco was in the incarnation of somebody she once knew and had telepathic powers.
On November 26, 1977, Marisa gave birth to a premature baby girl she named Louisa Erika, after her mother. Sadly, her baby died the very same day. Marisa was heartbroken, and never attempted to have a child again. Neither did she ever reveal the identity of the father. Louisa Erika was buried in Rome’s Camposanto Teutonico cemetery; a graveyard reserved only for those of German descent.
A Dismal Downfall
Marisa’s life was on a steady downhill course. In the 1980s, she was almost a nobody. She was in her 40s, and producers now considered her too old to be a lead actress. She struggled to find work, and became mired in poverty and depression. Marisa drank and used drugs, and appeared in porno mags to churn out an income.
She was never shy about showing her body for money, but these were not the glitzy and tasteful Angelo Frontoni Vogue photoshoots she had started off with early in her career. These pictures were more on the vulgar side, and she was ashamed that she had to resort to nudie mags to make an income. In 1986, a cynical Marisa reflected back on her life and looks, stating that “I was never proud of my beauty, I was rather bothered by it. It was a tragedy. Every man wanted me, but no man wanted to keep me.”
Despite all her attempts to do so, she never found true enduring love. The whole world had wanted her, but when she grew old she was cast aside. When she lost her looks, she lost everything. Yet she was confident in herself and refused to get plastic surgery; something which is very admirable and rare in this day and age.
She was forced to return back to Austria so she could receive some much-needed welfare money. Italian porn directors had offered her roles, but Marisa refused to take that dark road. Outside of nude modelling, she tried to make money in other ways but wasn’t too successful at it. She was still friends with Helmut Berger, and he would often ring her doorbell late at night which annoyed her.
Marisa did poetry readings, starred in low budget independent movies, sang (she was terrible at it), and made art. She painted and drew, but her exhibitions were not very popular. In Christmas of 1991, mere months before she died; Marisa was back in Vienna and so desperate for money that she took a job as the cook of Father Laun, a pastor from Kahlenbergerdorf. When she died penniless, this kind priest paid for Marisa’s grave.
At Death’s Door
A lifelong smoker, Marisa was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in 1991. She received many different treatments including chemotherapy, but none eased her symptoms. Some female friends took her a on a trip to India to cheer her up, since she was fascinated by eastern spirituality. Marisa enjoyed herself immensely, and began wearing saris back in Austria. She also started worshipping the Indian saint Sai Baba.
Marisa was a superstitious woman, and used alternative medicine to try and cure her cancer. She enjoyed parapsychology, tarot readings, necromancy and fortune telling. She was also a classic Pisces, stating that “I believe in astrology but I don’t need it…It ruins your nerves if you take it daily.” Marisa continued to have flings with younger men like a cougar until her health prevented it.
On May 16, 1992, Marisa finally succumbed to throat cancer at the age of 53 and died alone at the Viennese Wilhelminenspital. Her funeral was attended only by a few close friends. None of her former film colleagues showed up, or the many people she once knew in Italy. In the end, she had nobody who was truly there for her. It was a sad ending to a once illustrious life.
Actress and friend Christine Kaufmann remembered Marisa as “a strong woman with who you could eat spaghetti with at home, but could also appear with at high end cocktail parties where she would wear fragile golden shoes because she had very beautiful small ankles with a stunning face.” Sounds ideal.
Though most people only cared about her looks, Marisa was an intelligent woman on the inside. She enjoyed the works of Rainer Maria Rilke, Jean de La Fontaine and Honoré de Balzac, and her favourite novel was Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. She read poems by the medieval German lyricist Walther von der Vogelweide, philosophy by the Chinese Taoist Lao-Tze, and of course, she was into Friedrich Nietzsche.
Her favourite artist was Modigliani, and her most-loved classical piece was Beethoven’s SymphonyNo.2. Marisa was also a great cook, had a sizeable record collection (she liked Edith Piaf and The Beatles), and loved vodka and Winston cigarettes. Her favourite films were Bergman’s The Silence and Truffaut’s Jules and Jim.
In an interview from the 1960s, Marisa dismissed her sexpot image and described herself as “a very good girl” who is “shy, sensitive, ambitious, intelligent and good-natured.” Her dream role was to play Anna Karenina. She had yearned to becoming a serious actress, but was more often chosen for “sexy” roles. In her school days, she had considered herself an existentialist and wanted to become a philosopher. And instead, she is now beloved by geeky cult and exploitation fans for her exciting and glamorous B-movie roles and knockout face and bod.
Marisa’s close pal Erika Pluhar gave a touching eulogy for her deceased friend:
“You died in poverty. But maybe a little richer, I think, than when you were paid large salaries. When your body was being exploited and you didn’t have the strength to resist and look for love instead of competing. Who is the most beautiful in the whole country, this eternally pernicious question ruined your life too.”
Beauty made Marisa into a pop culture icon, but it also destroyed her. The callous Roman film industry she had worked for and gave all her youth to had discarded her once they considered her to be too old. She was an attractive mature woman and still a fine actress, but she wasn’t given the chance to prove it in her later years.
Marisa Mell was a gorgeous, smart and multi-talented actress who also partied hard and had a self-destructive streak. She loved with passion and gave all of herself to her relationships and performances. Sadly, her acting career fizzled out and she died of the terrible cancer that ravaged her body; alone and forgotten in a Viennese hospital.
Audiences now remember Marisa for her vibrant onscreen presence and striking one-in-a-million looks. But we should also remember who she was outside of her films, and the way she suffered and struggled with quiet strength and dignity. Marisa Mell is a tragic B-Movie Queen for the ages; the Austrian princess of sleaze, charisma, and style, and there will never be anyone like her again.
What happens when a heroin-addicted prostitute dating a washed up and lobotomized punk rock star crosses paths with a violent, mentally disturbed serial killer? Total, utter chaos and heartbreaking tragedy, which would lead to her terrible death at just 22 years old.
Tiffany Bresciani was born on March. 10, 1971 in Metairie, Louisiana; a boring southern city where nothing really happens. She was an only child who dreamed of escape and fame, and her mother Cheryl said that she “wanted to live in the big cities… She was very happy and beautiful and loved people.” Tiffany’s grandmother nicknamed her “little lamb.”
She was a dreamy and idealistic Pisces girl of Italian-American descent with striking green eyes and reddish-brown hair; described as small, waif-like and pretty. Tiffany had a tattoo of a purple rose encircling her left wrist, and an Egyptian ankh set against a floral pattern on her left hip. She had an interest in alternative rock culture and pagan spirituality, and she dressed like a cool goth girl.
Tiffany’s goal was to become an actress, and she initially went to Hollywood. Deterred for whatever reason, she then headed to New York and set her sights on Broadway. However, life does not always go as planned. She ended up as a stripper instead; dancing at a sex emporium called The Big Top Lounge.
She dated Rick Wilder (the skeleton-looking founder of punk band The Mau-Mau’s) in a turbulent on-and-off relationship. This seemed to be the first stage of Tiffany’s downfall: becoming a stripper and rock’n’roll groupie.
Initially, however, things started out great. Tiffany reached the pinnacle of luxury by staying with Rick at his luxurious West 45th St Whitby co-op; occasionally inhabited by stars like Sinatra and the Barrymores. The place had an amazing view of the city, and made her feel glamorous and safe. Unfortunately, her life unraveled at a blinding pace.
Tiffany suffered from a debilitating heroin addiction which caused her to turn to prostitution. A neighbor at the Whitby said that “she was always stoned. I used to worry so much about her. Most of the time, she was on drugs.” Rick and Tiffany’s relationship disintegrated over her addiction and sex work, and soon she was selling herself on gritty Allen Street to fund her habit.
Love Will Tear Us Apart
Around this time, she met her new lover: Dave Insurgent, lead singer and co-founder of the hardcore punk band Reagan Youth. His birth name was David Rubinstein, and his parents were Jewish Holocaust survivors from Poland.
Surrounded by Nazi punks and skinheads, the Reagan Youth were one of the few anarcho-leftist bands in the punk scene at that time. Their band name was a satirical mashup of Ronald Reagan + the infamous Hitler youth of WWII.
They were the creators of such wonderful songs as Jesus Was A Communist and I Hate Hate, and regularly performed at the iconic CBGB nightclub. Quite honestly, their music is patently mediocre and I recommend the Dead Kennedys, Black Flag and the Misfits instead.
By the time Tiffany met Dave, he was extremely busted. Due to his erratic behavior, the Reagan Youth had disbanded in 1990. Dave was addicted to heroin and dealt drugs to make income, but he wasn’t very good at it and often pushed his luck. He used his own products instead of selling them, and when asked to repay his debts; he brashly informed seasoned thugs “you’ll get your money when I say you get it.” Wrong move.
During a smack deal gone wrong, Dave got his shit rocked for not paying up. A rival dealer beat Dave into a coma with a baseball bat, and he was taken to a hospital in emergency condition and lobotomized. Bandmate Paul “Cripple” Bakija described the horrific aftermath:
“The next day I visit Dave in the hospital and boy is it tough, he looks like hell. Dave’s eyelid was swollen so much it reached all the way down to his upper lip. His parents were there and I find out that he needed a lobotomy to save his life.
Eventually, he gets discharged from the hospital but Dave now has stitches going around his forehead from ear to ear. When Dave finally recovered, as best he could, I asked him what happened. Dave told me he couldn’t remember anything.“
Suffering from brain damage and post-surgical pain, Dave used marijuana to medicate himself. Sadly, the lobotomized ex-punk singer soon turned to heroin once again. He moved out of his parents’ home in Queens to an apartment on the Lower East Side. This is where he met Tiffany.
Dave once had a girlfriend named Susan Cordon, and she would cry and become extremely upset whenever he used heroin. Bakija said that she was the only thing preventing Dave from full fledged addiction. Once Susan dumped him, Dave became a junkie. She said that “after I left, he called one day freaked out that he had woken up in a crack house. Part of him knew what he was doing was scary and could have consequences.”
His friends now avoided him, and he couldn’t have looked too great with stitches running across his face from ear to ear. Dave was a shadow of his former self, and he would never perform again.
Despite all this, he somehow managed to hook up with beautiful Tiffany Bresciani. She was into alternative and edgy men, and dodgy Dave fit the bill. The clout from being in a known punk band, as well as their common heroin addiction must have created a strong toxic bond of love between the two. Without anyone to dissuade them from their drug use, the couple fell deeper into heroin abuse and degeneracy.
For some reason, Tiffany began to support Dave financially through prostitution; even though he was seven years her senior. Through her self sacrifice, Tiffany kept the couple afloat. Dave claimed to love her and even pronounced her his fiancée, yet he did not lift a finger to help the two out of the situation.
Instead, he often accompanied Tiffany while she went to solicit clients, and waited for her on the street. When she was finished, the two would go buy heroin together. If that sounds cucked, that’s because it was. Dave told his parents that Tiffany was a dancer. In a way, she was.
While she stripped at sleazy nightclubs, she caught the eye of a 34-year old unemployed landscaper named Joel Rifkin. He had seen her and been mesmerized by her performance, and was said to have been a regular customer.
On June 24, 1993, Tiffany would meet with Rifkin for the last time. Unknown to her and the other girls who worked the streets of New York; Rifkin was the worst serial killer in the city’s history. And now, it was Tiffany’s turn to die.
Who was Joel Rifkin and why did he murder women?
Joel Rifkin was a killer without a conscience. Born in 1959 and abandoned by his birth parents, he was adopted by a loving upper middle class family; so loving that detectives later on suspected that Joel’s mother Jeanne and sister Jan stayed silent despite knowing of his crimes.
While most serial killers have a fucked-up childhood filled with abuse and beatings, Rifkin’s family life was perfectly normal. What was problematic, however, was the bullying he faced in school. While in the gym showers, students threw eggs at him. Bullies dunked his head in toilets, and stole his clothes. Once some boys waited outside a library to beat him up, so he had to call his father to come rescue him. He was nicknamed “turtle” and “lardass” for his stooped posture and slow gait.
As for women, they though Rifkin was creepy and ugly and he was rejected by all of them. The only time he had a relationship with a woman was when he was in college studying horticulture; and a heavyset dark-haired classmate briefly dated then dumped him. She said he was “sweet, but always depressed.” In 1987, Rifkin’s father committed suicide after a fatal prostate cancer diagnosis. 7 months later, Rifkin was arrested for soliciting prostitution.
On the outside, people thought Rifkin was a normal guy. He seemed a bit shy and awkward, and was 34- years old yet still living with his mother and struggling to remain employed. But there was nothing on the outside to suggest alarm, and he was tested at a high IQ of 128.
On the inside, however, he was a violent monster. In 1989, Rifkin began a 4 year killing spree in which he murdered 17 prostitutes (or possibly even more); and dismembered and mutilated their bodies. He strangled them to death, then strew their limbs all across New York state. He dumped the corpses in forests, rivers, canals, fields, and abandoned properties.
Rifkin had no mercy for his victims, and killed sex workers because he believed their lives were worthless and that nobody cared for them. At his trial, he would realize that wasn’t the case. But any how, he was addicted to murdering women and he couldn’t stop.
After his apprehension, police found in his room books about Jeffrey Dahmer, Gary “Green River Killer” Ridgway, and Arthur Shawcross; sick serial killers who also murdered prostitutes. They also found a bondage manual on tying ropes and knots, and Women and Love by the feminist sexologist Shere Hite. Rifkin was obsessed with Hitchcock’s 1972 thriller Frenzy, and watched the strangulation scene hundreds of times. He developed a fetish for choking women.
Joel Rifkin was basically an incel who had snapped. While working at the Planting Fields Arboretum in Oyster Bay, he was rejected by a pretty blonde intern he was crushing on. It was too much for him. He lost it, and took out his rage on helpless and vulnerable sex workers. And unfortunately, Tiffany would be his final victim.
Pickup on Allen Street
It was a warm summer night, and Tiffany Bresciani was back on the streets after briefly trying to get help at a methadone clinic. She wanted to stop using heroin, but it was impossible. Tiffany’s mother and grandmother still cared about her and often mailed her care packages. The most recent one contained pictures, summer dresses and a white teddy bear. They asked her to come back home, but by now heroin had taken over her life.
Tiffany and Dave were hanging around outside waiting for a potential client, when a blue 1986 Toyota sedan pulled up. Joel Rifkin was on the prowl- in his mother’s car. Tiffany might have recognized him from a previous meeting, and trusted Rifkin enough to get in the car with him.
Rifkin later noted that he could not stop staring at her flattering outfit; a sheer green blouse and a black skirt that highlighted her figure, and that he liked her wrist tattoo. He also claimed that her murder was not premeditated (she was his second prostitute that night, and he had not killed the first girl), and that he assumed she was high on either cocaine or methadone.
Rifkin negotiated an encounter with Tiffany for $40, but some sources give that number to be as low as $20. Tiffany bid farewell to Dave and told him she would only be 20 minutes. Instead, he would never see her again.
Tiffany got into the vehicle, and Rifkin drove her to the nearby Manhattan Bridge. As they prepared for sex, a passerby nearly peered into the car; causing Rifkin to suffer from erectile dysfunction. This was a common occurrence with him, and he had once murdered a prostitute after she cried over his inability to get it up.
During sex, Rifkin decided to murder Tiffany. He squeezed her throat with his hands until her eyes were wide with fear, just like scene he desired to emulate from Hitchcock’s Frenzy. After a minute of strangulation, Tiffany died at around 5:30 AM. She was only 22- years old, and her life had ended in the most sordid and tragic manner.
When quizzed on Tiffany’s killing afterwards, Rifkin coldly summed the situation up as “it was someone I met in the city, and things didn’t go well.”
A gruesome serial killer comes undone
Pleased with himself, Rifkin stared at Tiffany’s body and admired her beauty and her auburn hair. He thought to himself what a shame it was that she was dead when she had been so attractive. The psychopath then drove to a supply store to buy blue tarp and long cord, and wrapped up Tiffany’s naked body in a deserted parking lot.
By the time Rifkin arrived home, it was 9 AM and his mother wanted her sedan back to run errands. Amazingly, his mother never realized there was a dead body in the trunk. Had she opened it, she would’ve uncovered a shocking surprise. After she returned home in 30 minutes, Rifkin removed the corpse and left it on an orange wheelbarrow in his mother’s garage. He then went inside his home and slept.
Tiffany was his 17th victim, and Rifkin was no longer phased by killing. When asked how he could do something as repulsive as dismember a body, he said that the act of murder in itself was the true point of no return. He killed mechanically, and took pleasure in all the acts that preceded and ensued from it.
During his interview for the A&E documentary on his life, Rifkin jokes about Tiffany’s decaying body being “nice and ripe,” and chuckles at how his mother never noticed it. The man clearly has a sick sense of humor, as there was a bumper sticker on the back of his vehicle which read “Sticks and stones may break my bones but whips and chains excite me.”
Almost four days later, Rifkin realized that the corpse was decaying in the summer heat. For whatever reason, he had lagged in disposing of the remains. At around 3 AM on June 28, he placed the body in in his white 1984 Mazda pickup truck, and drove around looking for a place to discard it.
A pair of cops spotted his pickup on Long Island’s Southern State Parkway, and observed that it had no license plates. Unfortunately for Rifkin, the plates fell off during that fateful ride. Gripped with fear and the knowledge that he would finally be apprehended, Rifkin hit the gas pedal.
A 20 minute-long high-speed chase ensued, in which Rifkin drove up to 90 mph trying to get away from the cops pursuing him. Tiffany’s corpse rattled around in the back of the trunk as he drove, and at one point the vehicle nearly tipped over. In his mind, Rifkin was hoping he could drive into a body of water, and swim away from the whole situation.
After a dangerous pursuit, Rifkin finally crashed the vehicle into a streetlight. As the officer walked up to Rifkin, he observed him sitting in the driver’s seat with his hands up and a calm expression on his face. The horrified officer then smelled the strong odor of a decaying body. He inspected the back of the pickup, and shone a flashlight onto its contents.
There he observed Tiffany Bresciani’s badly decomposed corpse; so rotten that he could not even tell her ethnicity or gender. Since the corpse smelled atrocious, Rifkin had put Noxzema skin cream under his nose to avoid inhaling the stench. He had learned this trick from the film The Silence of the Lambs.
Rifkin’s sick charade had finally come to an end. Yet officers at the scene noticed that he was oddly relaxed. It was as if he had wanted to be caught. He asked an officer to turn up the AC in the police vehicle, thanking him and stating “there won’t be any AC where I’m going.” Police captain Walter Heesch instructed fellow officers as such:
“This guy’s too calm. Here’s this body, it smells so awful, and he’s riding around with it. And he’s not excited; he’s not upset. It’s not like this is his first murder, where there were drugs and sex and he got excited and killed her. There have to be others. Start asking him if there are others.”
After two hours of interrogation, Rifkin cracked and confessed to 17 murders. After several well-publicized trials, he was sentenced to 203 years of life in prison. During his sentencing, the judge said he deserved to be in jail in his next life as well.
And what of Tiffany, who was was loved and missed?
Tiffany’s mother Cheryl became worried once her daughter stopped phoning her. They usually spoke three times a week, and when the calls stopped coming Cheryl said that she “had the most awful feeling.” The last time she saw Tiffany was 9 months ago. She had returned home to Louisiana to visit.
When she discovered her daughter was dead, Cheryl was heartbroken. She testified at Rifkin’s trial on behalf of the pain she felt as a mother. About him, Cheryl says “I don’t hate him, I don’t hate anybody. I just can’t understand that. It’s still a shock to me… I still have that heartache, you know, it never goes away. There’s that empty feeling without her.”
And what of Dave “Insurgent” Rubinstein? What became of him when his beloved fiancé disappeared? Let us go back to the night of June 24, 1993, when Tiffany vanished in a blue sedan, right before his very eyes.
The 20 minutes had passed, and turned into hours- yet Tiffany was still nowhere to be seen. A panicked Dave combed the city, going to familiar haunts hoping to spot his girlfriend. He went to the strip club she danced at, and searched through every local emergency room. Dave even phoned up police to report the vehicle Rifkin that had picked her up in, but it was to no avail.
Finally, he was informed that his girlfriend’s decomposed corpse had been found in the pickup truck of an infamous serial killer. Dave was devastated by the loss. They had shared their addiction and suffering with one another, and she had supported him financially and emotionally. Additionally, he may even have felt some guilt about the whole situation.
They had had a Panic in Needle Park and Sid and Nancy type of intense relationship. As if what had happened wasn’t bad enough, Dave was dealt another blow that would send him over the edge. On June 30, 1993, just two days after Tiffany’s body was discovered, a one in a million freak accident took place at the Rubinstein home.
His father, Ronald, had somehow run over Dave’s mother, Giza, with his vehicle and killed her. The cause of death was internal bleeding. How does that even happen? How does one accidentally run over their own wife in their home garage? It just seems absurd.
Giza Rubinstein had survived the Łódź ghetto of Nazi-occupied Poland, and was in the Auschwitz concentration camp when it was liberated in 1945. All of her family members were killed except for her sister. Dave’s poor mother had survived the worst circumstances, only to be accidentally killed by her own husband years later. The irony and cruelty of life is mystifying.
Unable to cope with the immensity of these two tragedies, Dave decided to kill himself. On July 3, 1993, three days after his mother’s death, Dave committed suicide by overdosing on heroin. His father Ronald buried his own wife and only son in the same week. Ronald himself had survived Stalin’s gulags, yet this truly was the worst time of his life.
The depression and loneliness of losing his girlfriend and mother at the exact same time understandably crushed poor Dave and obliterated his will to live. However, Dave’s ex-bandmate Paul Bakija had more insightful information into the situation:
“The last time we spoke was the night he died. He came over to my house. It all happened fast. I think his mom died a few days after his girlfriend, who was a prostitute. This wasn’t his main girl. His main girl is still alive. The one who ended up dying was some girl he picked up on the street. She was tricking, and she paid for his drugs. He put her in a car, and that was the last time he ever saw her. I think he committed suicide a week later.”
Yikes. According to the way he tells it, it sounds like Dave was literally acting as Tiffany’s pimp, and cheating on her as well. Though technically, Tiffany was unfaithful too. It is shocking though that Dave told his friends that Tiffany wasn’t even his “main girl,” and there was some other more prominent woman in his life.
Did Dave kill himself out of guilt? Did he somehow feel that he was responsible? Tiffany had tried to get clean a few times before her death, and despite failing to do so; it indicates she had the will to make a better life for herself. She was only 22, and her life was cut short so abruptly.
Ultimately, the toxic relationship that Dave Rubinstein and Tiffany Bresciani had going on between them contributed to their destruction. Running into Joel Rifkin was a shocking stroke of bad luck, as their lives had already been filled with so much misfortune.
The saddest part is, Tiffany Bresciani’s life is now defined by Joel Rifkin and Dave Rubinstein- it as if she has lost her own identity between these two. Information on the girl herself is rare and scarce to come by. Rifkin said about his victims, “I killed prostitutes because they had no one. They had no lasting relationships. No family who cared. No one would ever come looking for them.” That is total bullshit, and he must be proven wrong.
Judging from the few photos and testimonies of her, Tiffany seemed like a sweet goth girl who was just lost in an awful addiction that ended up consuming her. She was an interesting, well-read, street smart, fashionable and fun individual, but she had lost herself in the end. Men had taken advantage of her when she was at her lowest and most helpless.
Some people hope that she and Dave are together in the afterlife. I just hope that wherever she is now, Tiffany is finally at peace.
Rohinie Bisesar is not an imposing woman. Standing at only 4’11” at 85 lbs, she appears utterly harmless and shy in her behavior and etiquette. She is pretty, and looks younger than the 40 years of age she was in the mugshot above. She is intelligent and highly educated, with an MBA and a Bachelor’s in Molecular Biology.
And yet; she stabbed a woman to death 2 weeks before Christmas in 2015, at a Toronto pharmacy while in the grip of a schizophrenic episode.
How did this attractive and well-schooled woman decompose psychologically? It is a complex tale of mental illness, child abuse, a strict Asian family, capitalism, careerism, delusion, abandonment, personal failure, and pure madness. This is the story of Rohinie Bisesar.
A Strict Childhood
She was born in 1975 in Guyana, to Hindu Indian parents. Guyana is a beautiful South American tropical nation, but it suffers from extreme poverty and a culture of domestic violence and misogyny. It has the highest suicide rate in the world, and was home to the 1978 Jonestown Massacre; when crazed cult leader Jim Jones induced over 900 of his followers into “revolutionary suicide” via cyanide-laced Kool Aid.
Her parents moved to Canada in 1980, with their two oldest children. They left behind their youngest daughter, five-year old Rohinie, in the care of relatives. By all accounts, she was not their favorite child. After earning enough money to buy a house, her parents finally brought her to Toronto to live with them. They had another son shortly.
Rohinie occupied the lowest hierarchical position in the family: she was the second daughter. Her parents were more proud of their two boys, and they viewed her as the extra daughter they didn’t need.
She was compared to her successful older sister Chandra; an ambitious investment banker and chartered accountant living in New York City.
Her parents ran a small clothing store called Sandra’s and Chico’s, and worked part time gigs as well. They were serial workaholics who expected Rohinie to have the same drive for labour that they did. Any time she was not at school, she was made to work at the family store.
She had no time for a social life or dating. Rohinie’s father was a super strict traditional Hindu, and she grew resentful at how her parents controlled every aspect of her life. Her father forbade her to wear makeup, well into her 20s.
Finally, she rebelled: Rohinie ran away from home as a teenager, but was discovered by a truck driver who took her to a police station.
This was the last straw for her religious nut father. He took her to a Hindu faith healer, and they performed a bizarre and disturbing cleansing ceremony. They forced Rohinie to strip naked, and poured chicken blood onto her. With a father like that, who needs an enemy?
After this, Rohinie became skeptical of her religion; often ridiculing superstitious aspects of Hinduism. Her antipathy towards her abusive father may have driven her off dating Indian men. Later on, when asked out by men of her race, Rohinie would politely inform them that she only dated tall white men.
After graduating high school in 1993, Rohinie attained a Bachelor’s degree in Molecular Biology at the University of T Scarborough, and an Administrative Studies degree in General Management from York. She also had a certification from the Canadian Securities Institute, and a certificate in mining as well. She worked as a technical writer and computer technician at York’s math department, and attained her MBA in 2007. Her future looked promising.
Leaving the Nest
2003 was the year that Rohinie could not stand living with her parents any longer. She was 28 years old, yet still bound by a curfew and her parents had access to her bank account. Her life was one of mere work and study. It was no life at all.
Her traditional religious parents thought it was blasphemy for a woman to leave the home before marriage. But Rohinie defied them by moving out to live with a female roommate, prompting her parents to accuse her of being a lesbian.
She acquired a deadbeat boyfriend five years her junior. When interviewed later on about the murder by Toronto Life, he hides under an alias and basically just throws Rohinie under the bus and covers his own ass throughout the interview.
People who claimed to know Rohinie described the boyfriend as “a sloppy, ripped jeans and stained t-shirt type of guy who did not take care of himself.” This may just be slander, but the story gets even more eyebrow-raising.
They met when he and his male friend were driving down the street and whistling at Rohinie. She was initially annoyed, but Rohinie gave him her MSN messenger ID.
Their first date consisted of going to a restaurant for Thai food, then a dance club. Rohinie did not have many friends and was sheltered, so this must have been exciting for her. She appeared to be naïve about him as well: he was unemployed, living with his mother, and trying to launch a music career. Not exactly a prize catch.
At this point, Rohinie was in her 30s and wanted to make up for the years she lost living at her parents’ house. The boyfriend described her as “this outgoing, strong, assertive woman. She was a Type A personality. She helped to put me on a new path that benefitted me.”
Indeed she did. She became his mommy gf.
Dreaming of Success
Rohinie financially supported the boyfriend while he attended York University to attain a degree in commerce. She rented them an upscale apartment in heart of the city. This was a far shot from living with his mama and making mixtapes in the basement.
She struggled to stay afloat at harsh investment firms where 12 hour work days were the norm. She was overwhelmed and stopped showing up for weeks at a time. She was fired by her firm after 4 months.
For two years, Rohinie was unable to find a new job. She began taking out loans and huge lines of credit to support herself and her boyfriend, and amassed a crushing amount of financial debt.
In 2010, Rohinie finally managed to get a new job as a mining analyst associate. The couple moved into a better and more expensive apartment. The entirety of the couple’s financial responsibilities fell on her, and she tried her best.
Rohinie’s days were long and often lasted from 5 AM to 10 PM. Her work consumed her life, and she did not have money to indulge in luxuries. She had only a few outfits, and took her boyfriend out for dinner at swank restaurants whenever she could afford it.
And yet, she could not conform to the toxic codes of corporate culture. She was a small ethnic woman at a mostly male finance firm, but she still had the nerve to criticize her superiors in front of other people.
Rohinie grew extremely paranoid that her co-workers were going through her computer. She wanted to place a spy camera on her desk to prove this. These appear to be the first exterior indications of her schizophrenia. She was fired 7 months into the job.
Rohinie retook exams to become a chartered analyst despite failing six times, and applied to dozens of jobs to no avail. Nobody would hire her.
She now felt that someone, or something, was conspiring against her through nanotechnological mind control; that her ex-employers were somehow preventing her from getting hired somewhere else.
The stress she felt about being in debt probably contributed to her decline. Why didn’t her boyfriend chip in at this point and help take the pressure off of her shoulders? Why didn’t her parents provide assistance to their struggling daughter?
The boyfriend criticized Rohinie for not applying to lower-status jobs, yet did not help out himself. Despite the fact that she was over $60k in debt, she kept using credit to pay monthly rent. The boyfriend’s six year-long gravy train had come to a halt, and he wanted out.
He began to avoid interactions with her, admitting he “would wake up, shower and leave for work as soon as I could. I just wanted to leave and let Rohinie do her thing.” This was the time in which she needed help the most, but he abandoned her.
He dumped Rohinie, and said that she “became hysterical” and screamed at him. He left the apartment, and told her to move back in with her parents as well. This was her worst nightmare.
Rohinie dreaded going back, and stayed alone in the apartment for 6 months. Later that autumn, the boyfriend gave her the measly sum of $2,500 and helped her move back in with her parents. She was doomed; sent back to the very same horrible environment she feared and resented.
She and her parents butted heads immediately. Ever the strict Hindus, her parents placed a curfew on their daughter even though she was nearly 40 years old. She didn’t even have her own house keys, and if she returned home after 10 PM, she was effectively homeless for the night.
Even when she attended networking events to gain employment, her parents still refused to allow her inside after curfew. Rohinie would sleep at Tim Hortons for the night. Her life was a walking nightmare.
Her parents, on the other hand, claimed that they were afraid of her, begged her ex-boyfriend to help her get therapy, and locked their doors at night out of fear of their daughter.
The ex-boyfriend sometimes saw Rohinie walking down city streets, and said she looked like a bag lady and reminded him of the Russell Crowe character in A Beautiful Mind.
Things all came to a head in March of 2014.
For whatever reason, Rohinie threatened to burn her parents’ house down and pushed her mother so hard that it damaged a door. Her parents called the police, and she was taken away to a mental ward and diagnosed with schizophrenia.
The ex-boyfriend came to visit her, and found that she had been administered a strong dose of antipsychotics. With the medicine in her system, she was able to talk to him like a rational human being and finally admitted to hearing voices in her head for several years. One of the voices was an old white male business executive.
They had a touching moment where they cuddled in the bed of the mental ward. However, Rohinie would not recover because she refused to take her meds.
Not many people realize how strong antipsychotic drugs truly are. Countless schizophrenics struggle to stay on medication that keeps them assimilated into society, yet destroys their mind and body in other ways.
One of the drugs Rohinie was prescribed was Olanzapine. Common side effects are weight gain, sleepiness, a rise in prolactin which weakens the bones, dizziness, high cholesterol, pancreas issues, erectile dysfunction, OCD, suicidal thoughts and hyperglycemia/diabetes. And these are a few of the side effects.
Following her release, Rohinie moved in with her aunt and landed a contract job at a business firm. She tried to go straight, but once she was off the meds it was over.
Her parents attempted to get her institutionalized, but they had no legal precedent to do so. The stage was set for a disaster. Rohinie left her aunt’s house in the autumn of 2015, resigning herself to a life of homelessness and drifting.
Lost on the Streets of Toronto
She was known to wander around the city all day, most often on Bay Street; which is the main part of Toronto’s Financial District and like a shitty Wall Street, and in the PATH System; a rat-like maze of underground tunnels which contains thousands of shops and offices.
An eyewitness who worked at Goodlife Fitness gym described Rohinie as polite, yet disturbed. She spent 5-8 hours a day in the gym bathrooms, showered and groomed there, and even washed her underwear in the sinks. She stared at her reflection in the mirror for hours, sometimes screaming at it. One day, she had a psychotic episode and destroyed a blow dryer.
While being thrown out by security, she apologized profusely and claimed that “it was all because of these voices in her head who ruin everything, they’ve deprived her of her house, fiancé, and a career.”
Toronto is a city with a New York, Paris, and London tier price tag; but it is bleak and frozen and without style or uplifting scenery. It is a depressing, cold, lonely city; where the weak and impoverished often get crushed within the walls of the harsh and unforgiving concrete jungle.
She visited the same Starbucks on Yonge and King each day, and would “come in and always get an ice water or a tall pike coffee and would sit at a laptop turned away from the wall.” When she had no money, she just ordered hot water with cinnamon in it.
Rohinie stayed there from morning until closing time, and had only a few outfits which she wore over and over: a smart black pantsuit and a lavender or white shirt. When Starbucks employees tried to converse with her, Rohinie appeared awkward and was slow to answer.
They described her as “very antisocial. We knew something was off because she would stand at the cash and give us a blank stare.”
She put up small signs at her table offering financial services, walked around trying to give people her business card, and dropped off her resume at offices and firms.
At this point, Rohinie was functionally homeless. She emailed people and begged them for money: “I am asking all my friends to contribute, if they can and wish to, denominations of $1, $2, $5, $10, $20, $50 or $100. My goal is simply to ensure I have basic necessities (food, water, shelter, clothing, and products for hygiene and beauty).”
The only people who helped were men who had a crush on her, or those who pitied her. Rohinie still had her looks, and she was a pretty and petite size 00 who attracted many admirers. A broker who hit on her in public said she rejected him, but he allowed her to crash on his couch regardless. This man claimed that she was $200k in debt.
80-year old Trueman MacHenry, Rohinie’s former mathematics professor from York University, tried to help her out as well and took her out for meals. He said of her:
“She was very friendly, she was very good with people, she was bright. Everybody who knows about [the stabbing] at work feels very badly, and I almost had a nervous breakdown over it.I tried to keep her from starving to death…
Rohinie bought a gym membership downtown, using it as a place to bathe and sleep until staff asked her to stop. Then she tried sleeping on the subway, a dangerous situation that she disliked very much. She slept in corners of the underground city and couch-surfed. The idea of staying in a shelter never came up: She was kind of a patrician.”
Rohinie would also go to classy hotels and restaurants with her makeup and hair done, and sit there for hours not ordering anything. When asked to; she would tell the servers to first create a better menu, and instead ate sliced apples from a little container and a granola bar.
A server on Wellington Street saw her with a succession of different men each time, noting that “they looked like lonely guys probably trying to pick her up. They were older men who obviously didn’t know her.”
Professor MacHenry said that Rohinie once did obtain a place to live through social assistance money, but it went downhill quickly. She moved in with a man she knew, and things went sour when “he came onto her, and I don’t know if she moved out or what she did. She was angry,”
Before Rohinie snapped, she sent a final disturbing email to all her colleagues and friends:
“I need to speak to the top professionals in artificial intelligence, military and government. I need to get to the bottom of something that has been quite disruptive. Something has been happening to me and this is not my normal self and I would like to know who and why this is happening. There is either a single person or more responsible and who and why would be nice to know…. I am sorry about the incidence…. I felt the need to be extreme to see if it would work. I would normally not do such a thing.”
She truly believed that the government or some kind of powerful entity had inserted a microchip into her body, and was using nanotechnology to control her brain and actions. Rohinie had stopped taking her medication, was under extreme stress from being homeless, and was estranged and alienated from her family and loved ones.
Something terrible was about to happen; something gruesome that would shock all of Toronto.
Murderon Bay Street
If you’re a Canadian, you’ll be familiar with Shoppers Drug Mart; an overpriced pharmacy/drugstore/convenience shop hybrid that is literally everywhere. Nobody expects to get knifed while they’re grabbing groceries, but that’s exactly what happened on Dec 11, 2015 at the 66 Wellington St W location of Shoppers.
Rosemarie Junor was a 28-year old ultrasound technician who was newly married and well liked among family, friends and colleagues for her cheerful and uplifting spirit. Like Rohinie, she was of Indo-Caribbean descent (a Guyanese mother and Trinidadian father).
At 2:35 PM, Rosemarie left work to walk to the Shoppers located in the dungeon-like underground PATH system. As she browsed the aisles for lotion, she spoke with a friend on her cellphone. Suddenly and without warning, Rohinie Bisesar walked up to Rosemarie and stabbed her once in the heart. Rosemarie’s horrified friend heard her scream through the phone line.
The stabbing proved to be fatal, as the knife had pierced through Rosemarie’s heart and vital organs. Rohinie left the kitchen knife she had purchased at a local Dollar Store on a cosmetics display, and calmly walked out.
A bleeding Rosemarie collapsed at the pharmacy in the back of the store and yelled out, “Help me, I’ve just been stabbed!” When an employee asked her if she knew her assailant, Rosemarie told her that she did not. Tragically, Rosemarie died after five comatose days in the hospital. She was in a vegetative state, and her family was forced to take her off life support.
Earlier that year, a hopeful Rosemarie had posted this on her Facebook: “Dear God, Thank you for another day of Life. Thanks for another day of waking up healthy and happy.” Young, in love and successful; her life had been cut short abruptly.
Rohinie remained on the run for four days, during which she was the most wanted woman in the country. She was finally captured and set to a maximum security prison. When Rohinie’s father was quizzed by reporters, he gave a cryptic and strange answer: “People need to know what happened. Because she was highly educated.”
In prison, investigators tried to uncover why Rohinie committed the crime when she didn’t even know Rosemarie personally. Some felt like there was a connection between the two women because they were both Indo-Caribbean, as it is not often that women of South Asian descent randomly kill one another.
Rohinie gave police a surprisingly cold answer. She told them that she chose to stab Rosemarie because they were both of the same height. However, she claimed that she was being controlled by the voices in her head, and that they instructed her to kill.
She gave a disturbing firsthand account of the murder during her psychiatric assessment:
“The day started as usual…I showered and dressed…was reading business newspapers to keep up my knowledge…I don’t recall how I got downtown…I heard the voice downtown in late morning… It said what is the worst thing you can do…I was really agitated and upset…phased out, not thinking, like those river stones again…stepping one at a time.
I’m usually in the Starbucks at Adelaide St., East and Yonge Street…It’s easy to sit and do work, I had my laptop…I pretend to read but I’m zoned out…distracted by the voice and the movements and communication.
The voice said to get a knife…went to the Dollar store to buy the knife…I’m familiar with the place and it’s close to the subway.
I went back through King or St. Andrew subway entrance…went to the bathroom in First Canadianplace…didn’t want to hurt someone…A lady asked if I was okay…I’m in the concourse, moving fromone bench to another…
Then the voice, communication and movements made me sit up, turn, walk straight into the Shopper’s fast…I was not an agreeable participant…went right up to the person (victim) with no hesitation, barely took it (knife) out of the bag…My arm was in L-shaped.
The voice said, if you mean it do it…The voice and movements raised my hand, pushed forward…It was like the knife was sticking to my hand and couldn’t be dropped…I was spending all my energy fighting the voice and communications…fighting the invisible entity…As soon as it happened I wanted to get away…traveled back home…The voice said I should have kept the knife.”
Following her apprehension, Rohinie was charged with first degree murder. The media was shocked at how such a small and harmless looking woman could lash out so violently. Her former colleagues were surprised as well, with a friend named Andrius Pone describing Rohinie as a “professional career woman and a sophisticated individual. Rohinie is a very gentle person, she speaks in a whisper. I don’t know what has happened with her but it’s just so incredibly out of character.”
Karl Gutowski, a friend of Rohinie’s for eight years, had this to say about her:
“She seemed very sweet but odd. She’s been able to sustain herself from a large network of friends, but I speculate the list got shorter and shorter. She got that one job, but she didn’t get to keep it for too long. She couldn’t adjust to pretty normal office politics.”
In court, Rohinie was disheveled and confused. With no access to makeup and hair grooming products; her acne scars and dark undereye circles were visible, and her hair was wild and uncombed. Her lawyer Calvin Barry said she was “very upset and like a deer in headlights.”
During a 2016 appearance, she ranted and raved in court about being involved in some obscure terrorist plot that went all the way up to the prime minister and the military, and was then hospitalized and medicated before the trial was resumed.
She had also claimed that she was being “damaged” somehow by those in charge, requested a “body scan” and had strange bruises on her face which she attributed to a microchip being implanted inside her.
Rohinie told the court that the voices in her head were “a real time, progressive dialogue and conversation. Whoever it is will tell me something, I’ll tell them to go away. I have somebody [else] communicating with me. I have to listen to both of you at the same time”
In 2017, Rohinie was declared unfit to stand trial due to her severe schizophrenic symptoms. She even denied that Rosemarie was really dead. The judge sent her off to the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health in Toronto for psychiatric treatment.
In November of 2018, the court found Rohinie not criminally responsible for the murder of Rosemarie Junor, because she was in the throes of a psychotic episode during the homicide.
In early 2019, The Ontario Review Board decided to keep Rohinie in the CAMH mental hospital because she was still in denial about her own involvement in the murder. The board continued trying to rehabilitate her; keeping her on “a strict regime of medication, cognitive behavioural therapy and psychotherapy.”
In May of 2020, the board granted Rohinie more freedom and access to the community, due to the fact that she is now supposedly of sound mind. It is now up to her case officer to decide whether or not she can leave the facility unsupervised, and even live outside of it.
The only conditions are that she must report to her review officer on a weekly basis, as well as refrain from purchasing firearms and weapons.
Rohinie appears to have changed her tune about the killing, almost seeming to express remorse and awareness of her actions:
“I did not plan to go murder someone…It was just like time stopped with all the chaos in my mind…I feel sorry for the person (victim) caught in my illness.”
Rosemarie Junor’s family members and the broader public were not happy about the court’s recent decision. Less than five years after the unprovoked killing, Rohinie is being given lenient privileges that could perhaps go terribly wrong in regards to public safety.
Even weirder is the fact that Rohinie is still trying to apply to jobs, to this very day, deluded to the fact literally nobody will ever hire her again.
During her appearances, the courtrooms were usually packed; as Torontonians were fascinated with the macabre case and its odd defendant. The presence of so many spectators led clueless judge John Ritchie to remark, “What does Rohinie do? Is he a sports figure or something?”
A spectator tried to give Rohinie’s lawyer David Burke his contact info on a small folded note of paper as he left the courtroom; stating that he wanted to go on a date with Rohinie. Burke refused to be an intermediary.
Rohinie’s story is shocking and saddening, yet it is not surprising. Had she received proper medical treatment earlier, Rosemarie Junor would have still been alive.
Instead, the combination of parental abuse, abandonment from a man who she loved and devoted herself to for six years, schizophrenia, homelessness, debt, work-related pressures and unemployment all came together to create a volatile outburst of unpredictable violence. Being a South Asian woman in Canada is tough, and this may have contributed to her stress and frustration as well.
At the time of the stabbing, Rohinie was 40 years old and most likely in the grip of a midlife crisis, without a home or anyone to care for her, and Christmas was fast approaching. She snapped and did something awful that the world will never be able to forgive her of, due to things beyond her control.
The question remains- will they really release her from the institution? Should they? While she should not rot her life away in a traditional prison, the memory of her crime still seems too fresh and new. She needs help and long term care.
What will become of Rohinie Bisesar? Only time and her own sense of guilt and repentance will answer that.
Halloween: a time of celebration and candy; of horror and ghouls and costumes and elaborate parties. There are phantoms and ghosts, but the scariness is all in good jest and one goes home at the end of the night with a sense of merriment.
But on October. 31, 1958 in Coconino County, Arizona, a young girl lay dead 10 miles southeast of the Grand Canyon. Something horrible had happened to her. And even now, over 60 years later, we still have no idea of who she was and how she met her demise.
Authorities gave her the fittingly haunting nickname of Little Miss X. Her body was found on a remote hillside dirt road off Skinner Ridge in totally skeletal condition, and therefore no cause of death could accurately be determined. They estimated that she had lain there undiscovered for at least 9 to 18 months.
With such a long postmortem interval, it would prove impossible to find any evidence or suspects in her case.
Little Miss X was anywhere from 5′ to 5’3″, approximately 105 lbs, and was white with Hispanic ancestry. She had reddish/dark brown hair that was dyed a lighter shade. Her hair was wavy, but possibly because she had gotten it permed. She was thought to have a brown skin tone.
She was determined to be anywhere from 11 to 17 years old. This is odd because anyone with even a basic knowledge of forensics knows that female skeletons show obvious signs of puberty in their pelvis and bone structure.
So how were police investigators so unspecific and clueless in their estimation of her age? An 11-year old’s skeleton is very different in appearance from a 17-year old’s, and the forensic pathologist performing the examination should have been easily able to differentiate. Something smells botched here…
Her teeth were well-cared for and in good condition, proving she was from some sort of middle class background. She had had seven fillings in four of her teeth during her lifetime.
Disturbingly, Little Miss X was found naked. But she did have a bunch of clothing and items lying next to her.
There was a powder puff, a tiny jar of Pond’s cold cream, an 18″ 10-karat gold chain, a white nylon comb, and a blue plastic nail file with the letter P imprinted onto it, and R written by hand.
There was also a short sleeved white wool cardigan, a size 34C white cotton Maidenform Alloette bra, size small white rayon underwear, and GRAFF California Wear pedal pusher capris with a green, brown and red plaid pattern.
Weirdly, the clothes at the scene were too big for her. Investigators were unable to tell if the clothes even belonged to the girl. They probably didn’t.
Could the killer have left these items at the scene to throw off police and cause confusion? Could these items be from a different crime scene, from a different dead girl?
Or were these just random personal effects the killer had somehow accumulated? Some even wonder if the killer was a woman.
If Little Miss X really was an 11-year old, why would she have this type of clothing and these items anyways? This suggests something alarming, like the presence of child exploitation and a possible sex trafficking ring.
This was a case that was cold from the very beginning. Little Miss X’s identity eluded authorities, so they gave up and buried her. Four years later in 1962, she was exhumed and her body was re-examined.
Unfortunately, when the clueless authorities re-buried her; Little Miss X’s remains stayed lost for years because they had forgotten where exactly they had interred her. According to the Doe Network, her remains were finally re-discovered in the summer of 2018.
Little Miss X’s NamUs page once had an image of her skull, but it was taken down. This is important because this picture would have helped artists and amateur e-sleuths to create newer and more accurate reconstructions of her.
It is also possible that Little Miss X had shovel-shaped incisors, a common trait in those with indigenous DNA; which could be why police suspect she was of Hispanic descent. It would have been useful to concretely know this as well, as web sleuths could compare Little Miss X to missing people who also had this trait.
There is a clue as well in the pants found at the scene. As previously stated, they were Graff California Wear brand capris.
Graff was founded in 1933, and became popular in the 1940s and 1950s among Californian women for their comfy and tacky two piece suits and slacks. It was modern clothing for modern women, who were constantly on the go and wanted to resemble Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce.
These were not pants that an 11-17 year old would wear, and they didn’t seem to fit Little Miss X anyways. Were authorities ever able to trace back who purchased these capris? It doesn’t seem so. Was the killer then from California? God only knows.
A case this mysterious causes all kinds of speculation, and in the past false theorizing led investigators down several dead ends.
It was suspected at one point that Little Miss X was Donnis “Pinky” Redman, a California girl who vanished without a trace on March. 1, 1958. 14-year old Pinky and her 18-year old boyfriend Mike Griffin (creepy age difference imo) eloped to Las Vegas, Nevada, but their journey was cut short before they could marry.
The couple disappeared along the way, and Mike’s abandoned 1950 Dodge Clipper turned up in Williams, Arizona. Their bodies were never found.
Williams is an approximately 1 hour and 20 minutes drive to Skinner Ridge, where Little Miss X was found. Naturally, people would connect these two cases together; as the body and car were found just 59 miles apart.
However, Little Miss X had lain there dead for at least 9 months minimum, whereas Pinky vanished just that March of 1958. The time frame is off.
Other clues that led people to suspect Little Miss X was Pinky Redman was the fact that the latter also had a petite frame, at 5’2″ tall and 105 lbs. The age bracket also fit, and Little Miss X was found with the nail file initialed “PR.” Did it belong to Pinky?
Pinky was last seen wearing a yellow sweater and brown capris, similar to the clothing found near Little Miss X.
What didn’t fit was the fact that Pinky was blonde, blue-eyed, and white; whereas Little Miss X was dark haired with swarthier skin and was most likely a Latina. Investigators eventually ruled out Pinky Redman as a possible match.
It is possible, however, that the person who killed Pinky and Mike + Little Miss X was one and the same. Was there a serial killer operating in the Arizona desert in 1958?
In Pinky and Mike’s case, anything could’ve happened along the dusty stretch of highways that connected California to Vegas. They could’ve picked up some unruly hitchhiker, who preyed upon the young, naïve couple and stole their car.
Mike was a small ginger boy who only stood 5’3″ tall and weighed 120 lbs. Any form of criminal could have taken advantage of the poor pair. Hopefully one day their bodies are recovered from the vast and giant Arizona desert, or wherever they may lie.
Another dead end that occurred in the Little Miss X investigation was was when she was suspected of being Connie Smith.
Constance Christine “Connie” Smith was a 10-year old girl from Wyoming, whose grandfather was a former Republican governor named Nels Hansen Smith. She ran away from Camp Sloane in Salisbury, Connecticut in the summer of 1952, after being bullied by fellow campers.
On July. 16, after being punched in the face by girls the day before, Connie nursed a bloodied nose with an ice pack. She left the camp and wandered down Indian Mountain Road. People witnessed Connie walking down the road with tears in her eyes, picking daisies and trying to hitchhike back home.
After this, she was never seen again. Despite attempts by her wealthy family to track her down, Connie had vanished into thin air somewhere down that highway.
Police once suspected that Little Miss X was Connie, and tested the former’s teeth against Connie’s dental charts. The results proved to inconclusive, and Connie was ruled out.
And anyways, Connie was a bit too young to be Little Miss X, and physically she was much smaller; standing at 5′ tall and weighing 85 lbs.
The only explanation would then be that Connie was held captive for at least 4- 5 years, and then murdered and dumped in Arizona. But that seems to be a stretch. Also, Connie had no Hispanic or Native American DNA. It is very unlikely that she is Little Miss X.
It is disheartening that Connie Smith’s killer was never found. Neither was Pinky Redman’s, or the person who murdered Little Miss X.
The 1950s were a troubling era for crime; where the lack of technology rendered the identification of murderers, and even victims, as a difficult and sometimes impossible task. In Little Miss X’s case, there is so much mystery and so few answers. Though her killer is perhaps dead and gone, it could still be possible to discern her identity.
If police have not yet located Little Miss X’s body, they should do so immediately. It is tragic that faulty police work caused them to lose the unknown girl’s remains and therefore botch her case.
Little Miss X lay out there in that lonely desert for perhaps a year, decomposing until she became a skeleton. She was once forgotten, but then found again on Halloween of 1958. It is time we find out who Little Miss X was, and give her back her name and dignity.
What do you think of when you imagine Alaska? You conjure up a grand, snowy vision of unconquered terrain: vast, far and endless. It is as if the icy territory lasts forever in continuous isolation and secrecy.
Since the inception of Alaska, Americans who could be categorized as misfits and unconventional loners have taken advantage of the privacy and desolation of this state, and its sparsely populated lands.
In many areas of Alaska, you are completely alone: surrounded by wild, untouched nature. You are undisturbed by the burdens of being social and fitting in.
You are free and in your natural state…. if you can survive in such an intimidating environment, that is.
Robert Hansen was a serial killer who used the remoteness of Alaskan terrain to torture, rape and murder young women. Many of them were sex workers, as well as young girls struggling to survive the harshness of their environment.
Eklutna Annie is perhaps his most famous victim. She is a total mystery; unidentified for over 40 years without even a glimmer of clue to who she may have been.
Annie is one of Hansen’s earliest victims, and was killed anywhere from November 1979 to June 1980.
Electricians found her badly decomposed body in a shallow grave, buried alongside a set of power lines that stretched down South Eklutna Lake Road, approximately a year after her death. Her body had been eaten away at by wild animals (particularly bears), and was left unrecognizable and in mostly skeletal condition.
Investigators tried their best to create a profile of Eklutna Annie from the remnants of her body. She was a short girl with a small frame, between 4 ft 11″ and 5 ft 3″ tall. She was thought to be anywhere from 16 to 25 years old, and had auburn/strawberry blonde hair.
She was thought to be white, but with a degree of Native American DNA. She wore a light colored sleeveless knit sweater, a brown leather jacket, jeans, and red knee-high heeled boots with a nylon zipper on the side.
Judging from her apparel, Anchorage PD officer Maxine Farrell assumed that Eklutna Annie was either a topless dancer or a prostitute. Hansen himself claimed this, but he seemed to say this about all of his victims.
Farrell was mocked by other officers for her theories:
“Shortly after that I got a report of another one missing, she was a street prostitute and I thought this is a prostitute missing, so that would match up with Eklutna Annie. After that, almost every month I had two or three women missing. That’s when I started asking questions.
I got the missing persons reports and I began to get information about relatives and information about jewelry they wore. I was a psychology major, so I knew a lot of these serial killers kept souvenirs. I finally made a spreadsheet of it …
By the time I got finished, I had about 10 girls. I went to my superiors, advised them that there was a serial killer because of the number of girls I was collecting as missing persons and they laughed at me and said no, you’re wrong. They thought I was stupid. Stupid woman thinking there’s a serial killer. I wasn’t stupid.”
Just as Farrell had claimed, officers would eventually discover that Hansen actually did keep souvenirs of his victims.
Officers also pondered whether she was a runaway from California, Washington, or Canada- a hitchhiker who was not originally from Alaska. Hansen, however, said she was from Kodiak, and spoke to him about living there with her family.
No ID was found on the victim, and neither did she match any missing persons reports. Who was this mysterious woman? The secret died with Robert Hansen. But then again, even he claimed to be unaware of her identity.
According to his story, he had picked up Eklutna Annie from a bar and given her a lift. He told her that he lived in Muldoon, and that he would give her a ride home. As Hansen sped past Muldoon Road, she grew suspicious and afraid, and asked him to let her out of the vehicle.
Hansen relayed the story to cops while in custody:
”I just pointed the gun and I tell her, I says, ‘Now look, if you do exactly what I tell you and don’t give me any problem whatsoever, there’s going to be no — you won’t get hurt any way, shape or form.”
But that wasn’t how it went down.
During this ride of terror, Hansen’s car got stuck on a muddy road, and he told her to get out of the car to help him. She took this as her chance to escape.
As she tried to run away, Hansen pursued and overpowered her; grabbing her by her long hair. He claimed this was when she pulled out a knife from her purse, and attempted to stab him in self defense. To the very end, she fought for her life.
Hansen managed to tear the knife away from her, and stabbed the unknown woman in the back until she was lifeless. During the struggle, as the terrified woman realized she was going to die, she screamed out “You’re going to kill me!” in hysterical fear.
For all her bravery, she could not survive the scourge of her deranged killer. When reflecting back on Eklutna Annie’s murder, Robert Hansen said it gave him a sense of sadistic pleasure.
There was nothing he hated more than a woman who fought back against him, and nothing gave him more satisfaction than subduing and killing a wily prey.
During his 1984 interrogation by police, Hansen claimed Annie was his very first victim. However, this seems unlikely as he is suspected of killing even more women before her.
Who was this sick man?
Robert Hansen was born in 1939, and grew up a shy, skinny, nerdy kid in Iowa; suffering from a stutter and chronic acne. Like his Danish immigrant father, he grew up to be a baker. Later on the media would grant him the moniker “The Butcher Baker.” He killed anywhere from 17 to 21 women until his capture, maybe even more.
His humiliating high school years, filled with rejection and inceldom, would cause him to hate women with a passion as he grew into an adult. These misogynistic tendencies would eventually become violent.
At the age of 20, he lost his virginity to a prostitute while in the army.
At the age of 21, Hansen attempted to burn a school bus to gain vengeance for being a loser in high school. A series of petty crimes followed, which then escalated to murder in the 1970s.
Although Hansen had a track record of kidnapping, raping and abusing women, police did not suspect him of murder for many years; which allowed him to easily kill dozens of women for a decade.
Hansen was a sadist and psychopath who took refuge in Alaska to torture and murder women in a more private setting. He drove women out to remote areas, forced them to strip naked, and shot them as they ran through the snowy wilderness.
It thrilled him to hunt live victims, and he often tortured them for days before the final coup de grace. He even had a private plane which he used to fly out victims to distant cabins where they could never be found.
Hansen was finally captured and imprisoned in 1983, after one of his victims escaped alive and spilled the beans on his disgusting antics. Although he was finally caught and locked up like the animal he was, Eklutna Annie remained unidentified.
Usually, Hansen kept his victim’s possessions as souvenirs- especially their jewelry. Not in Eklutna Annie’s case: it was one of the rare crimes in which he left the jewelry alone, most likely because she was one of his earliest murders and he was then an inexperienced killer.
She had on her a plethora of beautiful and unique handmade jewelry: a copper bracelet with three turquoise stones, a heart shaped pendant, gold hoop earrings, a white shell ring, and a gold plated Timex wristwatch. She also had a pack of Salem brand matches in her pocket.
Some believe that Eklutna Annie’s jewelry was of Native origin, but authorities were never able to trace any of it back to its source. It is also worth noting that most Native jewelry is made from silver, and not gold as she was wearing.
From her jewelry, you get the impression she was an interesting woman with exquisite taste in jewelry. That morning, she had dressed herself with care and attention, never knowing it would be her last day on earth.
So if Eklutna Annie was well dressed, wearing distinctive jewelry, and a possible topless dancer/sex worker in Alaska- why didn’t anyone ever come forward to identify her? Officer Maxine Farrell had some theories:
“The fact that a prime source of information in these cases was women who worked the streets was the first obstacle. These women have very little trust in the police, which is understandable given the fact that most of the time we’re adversaries. As a result, most were reluctant to talk.
The second obstacle was the constant movement of these women. In a year’s time, one of these women might work in a club, then out on the street, then in a massage parlor. She might also work the circuit and move city to city… those circuits tracked from Seattle to Anchorage to Honolulu. And after all that upheaval, this same woman might get sick of the routine and quit without giving notice…
A third obstacle was the fact that many of these women used stage names. Investigators would talk to a woman on the street or in a club, who’d tell them she had worked with a woman named ‘Tania’ a few months before — and hadn’t seen her in a while. In checking out the lead, investigators would go to some of the other clubs in the Anchorage area. At ten different clubs, they’d find 15 different ‘Tania’s.’ So which Tania was that, anyway?”
This is exactly what Hansen, and other serial killers of his ilk count on. They victimize sex workers and transient women, as it is often more difficult for authorities to identify and search for them.
Hansen believed his victims were not worthy of life because they dwelled in prostitution and vice. He used excuses to justify his cruel murders. Even during his confession in which he admitted to killing Eklutna Annie, he tried to blame her by claiming she had pulled a knife on him, therefore she deserved to die.
In his twisted mind, the women he killed were nothing but his pawns. But this is untrue. This woman he killed belonged somewhere, had a family, dreams, hopes and goals. And there are many of us out there who want to find out who she was in her lifetime.
Although investigators possess Eklutna Annie’s DNA, and have tested it against other suspected murder victims, none have ever matched up so far. The case has gone cold, to the point where we can only pray that something substantial eventually turns up.
Although she was killed near the small village of Eklutna, which has only about 70 inhabitants; she was buried in Anchorage Memorial Park Cemetery, about a half an hour’s drive away. Her grave is simply marked “Jane Doe/Died 1980.”
Occasionally, visitors leave flowers on her gravestone. Sometimes, Alaskans even hold reenactments where actresses assume the role of Eklutna Annie and describe the limited details we have about her. But most importantly- she is still remembered and thought about, despite remaining nameless for over 40 years.
Varvara Rasputina was the youngest surviving daughter of Grigori Rasputin (1869-1916), the infamous Russian mystic and holy man who used his supernatural abilities to wield political power over the Romanov royal family.
She lived in the shadow of her legendary father, and died quietly without any fanfare. Her more famous sister Maria Rasputina gained attention for her work as a lion tamer in Paris and then the USA.
But Varvara’s life ended early and in a depressing manner.
She was born in 1900, in Pokrovskoe, Tyumen Province- an isolated, cold, and distant village in the midst of the Siberian Urals. It lay on the Tura River, and its residents were simple farmers who lived a low-key existence.
Except, that its, for her father.
Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin was not your typical turn-of-the-century Russian peasant. He claimed to receive sacred visions from God, and was said to have otherworldly powers which he used to lure believers into this thrall.
He had seven children with his wife Praskovya Dubrovina, but only three survived to adulthood: Dmitry, the oldest son; and two daughters, Maria and Varvara. It was a hard knock life for the rural family, but they were a mentally tough and spiritually enriched bunch. Maria wrote of her dad:
“My father would often take us on his knees, my brother Mitya, my sister Varvara, and myself. He would tell us wonderful stories with that tenderness he always showed and that absent look in which seemed to be mirrored the countries he had visited and the strange adventures he had met with on the road.”
Rasputin left his boring village for St. Petersburg; abandoning his wife and children to pursue the existence of a Starets (which was, in the Orthodox religion, a spiritual pilgrim/monastic hermit).
In doing so, this supposedly simple and barely literate Siberian peasant quickly managed to ascend the ranks of Russian society; until Tsar Nicholas II and Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna became convinced that Rasputin was indeed the holy healer he claimed to be.
Their poor son Alexei suffered from hemophilia. This left him unable to clot blood, and simple falls and accidents left the boy near death and with horrible complications.
Enter Rasputin: somehow, with no medical or scientific knowledge, an uneducated peasant from the lower classes repeatedly and successfully prayed away the Tsarevich’s pains and sufferings. How did he do it?
Even today, scientists are unable to explain what exactly allowed Rasputin to heal the Romanov’s son, on a consistent basis.
Back in Pokrovskoe, Varvara and her siblings missed their absent father. Despite his absenteeism, Rasputin was a dependable and devoted dad. Once, a family friend in Pokrovskoe attempted to rape Maria. Rasputin attacked the rapist, and took an ax hit on the skull while trying to defend his daughter.
Thanks to the Tsarina’s help, Rasputin managed to bring Varvara and Maria to St. Petersburg in 1913, and enrolled them in the best school there. He hoped to turn the girls into “little ladies.” How cute.
The elitist Smolny Institute rejected the girls due to their low social status, so they attended the Steblin-Kamensky private preparatory school. The girls lived in walking distance of their father’s residence. Their brother Dmitry, on the other hand, did not enjoy city life; so he stayed in Pokrovksoe and lived as a farmer.
Maria was the most popular and bold of the three siblings, and high society ladies fawned over the charming little girl. Varvara, the youngest, was more quiet and reserved. While Maria preferred to take French lessons (this would come in handy for her later in life), Varvara spent time studying intently for her classes.
Their mother Praskovya only came to St. Petersburg once a year, and lived in their home in Pokrovskoe for the most part. The girls learned to become independent quickly. They lived down the hall from their older cousins Nyur and Katya, who looked after the sisters on a daily basis.
Rasputin was said to have been a constant playa. Rather suggestively, their mother once said of their philanderous father:
“He can do what he wants. He has enough for everyone.”
Rasputin was very protective of his daughters. He wanted to keep them away from degenerate modern vices, such as candies, gramophones, perfumes, and boyfriends. Only once they were 15- years old did Rasputin allow Maria and Vavara to go to out the theater- and even then they had to be accompanied by an adult and arrive home by 10 PM.
The girls were nervous to meet then Tsar’s children, but it went exceedingly well. Maria and Varvara found the Royal Palace to be luxurious and grand, and the princesses gave them beautiful porcelain dolls as a gift.
The Romanov children were curious about the girls’ life back home in Siberia. They asked Maria and Varvara the names of their cows in Pokrovskoe.
Varvara got along especially well with Grand Duchess Anastasia, as they were close in age (Varvara was one year older). It was said the Anastasia was very caring towards her.
The good times did not last. The tide was turning against Rasputin, as haters despised the lowly peasant for so swiftly ascending the ranks of Russian society.
They called him a Khlyst (a bizarre occultist sect present in Russia at the time), and a sex maniac; spreading rumors that the monk was a madman who was having sex with the Tsarina and cucking the Tsar.
The tension all came to a head on Dec. 30, 1916, when a gang of jealous noblemen (led by infamous cross-dresser and spoiled rich boy supreme, Prince Felix Yusupov) brutally murdered Rasputin at the age of 47.
Rasputin was not an easy man to kill, as he was supposedly poisoned, beaten, shot three times, and then thrown in the freezing Malaya Nevka river.
It took a band of cowardly men to kill the wily and powerful holy man.
Rasputin’s murder was devastating for his poor family. They were barred from attending his funeral, which was organized specifically for the Romanovs to pay tribute to their deceased holy friend.
The girls were, however, later invited to the royal palace to play with the Grand Duchesses. The Tsarina had also paid for Varvara and Maria’s black mourning dresses.
Maria would go on to say, “I love my father. As much as others hate him. I have not the strength to make others love him.” It is clear that the girls adored their dad, no matter the bizarre rumors that surrounded him, and they mourned his memory for life.
Following their father’s death, the two girls moved in with their French teacher and were granted 62,000 rubles by the Romanovs, as Tsar Nicholas told the girls’ mother:
“I will become the second father for your beautiful daughters. Alix and I always loved them as our own daughters. May they continue to study in Petrograd, and I will make sure that they do not need anything.”
Unfortunately, that promise could not last long.
In 1917, their mother and brother returned back to Pokrovskoe, and the girls stayed in St. Petersburg to investigate their father’s murder. The siblings were arrested and interrogated the following day by government authorities. Although they were pressed to talk about the royal family, the girls did not acquiesce.
The Russian Revolution had begun, and things were getting ugly.
Luckily, the girls were freed by Boris Soloviev, an admirer of their late father. Boris and Maria would go on to marry, even though the two were not attracted to each other.
The Romanov Family was mass murdered by the Communists in July of 1918, bringing in a dark era of totalitarian rule in Russia.
The Russian Revolution did not bode well for Rasputin’s family. Maria and Boris escaped Russia circa 1920 to reside in Berlin, Paris, then finally L.A; but Varvara and the others did not have that luxury.
At first, the Rasputin family sheltered together from the Russian Revolution in their Pokrovskoe home. But Varvara wanted something more out of her life.
She was 17 years old when the Revolution occurred, yet she managed to complete her high school education. Varvara then left Pokrovskoe to go to Tyumen, the largest city and capital of the Oblast (province) that she resided in.
Varvara was searching for career + education opportunities that would allow her to save money and leave grim Soviet Russia.
In 1919, she obtained a position as stenographer/clerk for the justice department of Tyumen Oblast. Varvara earned 1,560 rubles a month. She was miserable working there, but she had to do it as she was desperate for income.
Men offered Varvara money in exchange for sex, but she adamantly refused. Life was the gloomiest it had ever been for her.
In February of 1924, Varvara wrote Maria the following letter:
“Dear, Dear Marochka. How have you been?I didn’t write to you in so long because I didn’t have money, and you can’t buy a stamp without money.
In general, life becomes worse and worse everyday. You think and cherish the dream that you will one day live well, but again it’s only a mistake.
And all thanks to our friends: such as [my employer] Vitkun and similar people, they are all liars, and nothing more, they only promise… Such a distance to work is a horror, it takes an entire hour and a quarter to walk there, because I have no money for the tram...
Lord, how hard it is, the soul is torn to pieces. Why was I born? But I am reassured by the fact that there are so many of us who are unemployed, and that we are all just honest people trying to preserve our dignity.
How is [your husband] Boris Nikolaevich doing? Yes, I really want to see you, my joy. How is the health of your lovely children? I sort of envy [our brother] Mitya, because he does not beg, like us. Although we eat our piece of bread, it is not sweet...
You see how I started to blabber, it’s really good to type on a typewriter; your hands don’t get tired and you can write a lot.God bless you and your children, and say hi to Boris. You are my joy.
Varvara complained that her bosses, the Vitkuns, were too wealthy and decadent. While Varvara did not even have any money for transportation, Mara Vitkun bought several fancy hats and drove around the city in a cab as Varvara braved wretched weather to get to work.
“May they choke on their greed. God will help the orphans,” said Varvara in the letter.
Varvara lived with a friend named Anna Fyodorovna Davidova in a shared apartment. In 1925, she left Tyumen for Moscow. However, the move would prove fatal.
Through working at her office job, Varvara had contracted a bad case of tuberculosis, which was then succeeded by typhus. The work environment was unsafe, unhygienic, and located in a damp basement.
TB is a dangerous disease that wreaks havoc on the lungs and weakens the body. Typhus begins with flu-like symptoms and rashes, then causes brain inflammation and death if it is not treated.
Poor Varvara no doubt went through a horrid last year of life, plagued by poverty and disease. Typhus overtook her, and Varvara died alone in Moscow in 1925. No family member was there with her.
Did she see her father in her last moments? Whose death was also so untimely and tragic?
Her friend Anna Fyodorovna traveled to Moscow to assist in her funeral and burial. Varvara was buried at the Novodevichiye Cemetery. Anna described her funeral as such:
“Varvara lay in her coffin completely shaved, no hair. Written on her gravestone were the words:
Died in 1925.”
Varvara’s head was most likely shaved because she had contracted the airborne form of typhus; which spreads through fleas, mice and ticks on rats, and often hides in the hair and scalp.
She had wanted to save money to leave Russia and move to Paris with her sister. But both of them were too broke and powerless to make the dream come true, and Maria was forever heartbroken by her sister’s death.
Unfortunately, the Soviet government renovated the cemetery in 1927 to make space for the burials of high status politicians. In doing so they uprooted thousands of bodies, and Varvara’s was one of them.
What happened to her remains is unknown. It is depressing that she was not even allowed to rest in peace after her early demise.
In 1930, the remaining Rasputin family’s property was confiscated by the Soviet government. As Maria had safely escaped Russia; brother Dmitry, his wife and children, and mother Praskovya were deported to Salekhard, to work in forced labor camps in the frigid Arctic Circle.
Each died one by one as they were slowly worked to death, and the entire family, save Maria, was wiped out by 1933.
Rasputin’s killers had escaped the ordeal unscathed. Ironically, it was Rasputin’s family that suffered the brunt of the aftermath.
Felix Yusupov, the prince who orchestrated and took credit for Rasputin’s murder, was from one of the wealthiest families in Russia. He was an aristocrat who looked down on the poor, and continued to live a life of splendor and glamour after killing Rasputin.
Following the Russian revolution, Felix escaped with his wife to live in the fanciest arrondissements of Paris in impeccable apartments, and even founded his own short-lived couture fashion line. He lived until 80, and died in 1967 after a long life of wealth and privilege.
When you think about Varvara working herself to death in some dank Soviet cellar, to scrounge for money to leave a country where she had no future, it makes one nauseous. History is no fairy tale. More often than not, the good guys lose and the bad guys die in a plush manor and get buried in a coffin of gold.
What happened to Varvara’s remains? Are they buried in some strange corner of Moscow, unknown and unmarked? We will never know.
It is also very difficult to find pictures and information on her, but hopefully one day a hidden Soviet archive will be uncovered and shed a brighter light on the forgotten woes of Varvara Rasputina.
Sarah Gonzales-McLinn is a girl who killed her 52-year old ex-boss and sugar daddy Harold Sasko, back in January of 2014, at the age of 19. She is now currently serving a 50-year minimum sentence for first-degree murder.
Following the homicide, Sarah was immediately slandered as a “gold-digger” and “psychopath” by the media and police; while Sasko was turned into a martyred saint. After killing her former manager, Sarah wrote “FREEDOM” on the wall in his blood. What did this signify?
Not many understand the truth of what really happened, and it is time that it be told.
Sarah was born on Jul. 9, 1994, and grew up in Topeka, Kansas. She was naive and sheltered due to being home-schooled for years. Following her parents’ divorce, she was molested by a neighbor.
This traumatized her, and she began sneaking out of her home at odd hours to drink her sorrows away.
Despite all this, Sarah had a kind streak. She always looked out for her disabled younger brother, and once rescued an abused horse.
But fate was not kind to the struggling teen.
At 15, she was brutally assaulted by an older male friend: he pushed her into a coffee table, breaking it in the process; and proceeded to burn her with cigarettes and rape her.
She suffered from PTSD flashbacks and nightmares, and was hospitalized at a mental institution after attempting suicide when she was 16.
Sarah’s parents’ divorce had caused her to feel unwanted and out of place. She no longer felt welcome or comfortable living with family, and desperately searched for a way out.
Escape would present itself in a terrible form. When she was 14, she got a job at CiCi’s Pizza parlor.
Her manager was a well-off yet sleazy individual named Harold Sasko. He was in his 50s, owned two locations of the restaurant chain, and had a creepy reputation.
Terry David managed one of Harold’s restaurants, and claimed that his boss told him “to only hire young, attractive girls.” When Terry warned female employees to watch out for Harold, he was incensed.
Harold presented himself as a devout Christian, but Terry said he was a “wolf in sheep’s clothing… he had ulterior motives, and I know that for a fact.”
Later on, when Terry heard of his boss’ death, he stated that “the first thing I said to my wife was, ‘I wonder which one of those girls’ dads went over there and killed him.”
And it gets even worse.
Ann Tau’s young children worked at CiCi Pizza, under the employment of Harold. During their shifts, she waited for her kids in the parking lot; since they could only work a limited amount of hours due to their age.
In this time, Ann became a sort of confidante for the midlife crisis-having pizza boss. Harold would get into her car and openly rant about his problems.
Ann recounted the disturbing time she spent in Harold’s company:
“He wanted to die… He was Catholic, so he didn’t believe in suicide, but he asked me if I would kill him.
He told me how to kill him, and I’m convinced he told Sarah the same thing. He was a very sick person. I’m an adult woman with five children, high functioning, and he weighed me down.”
This occurred a year before Harold’s death.
Before Sarah’s trial, Ann went to the district attorney and told him everything, but he declined to allow Ann to testify.
She said that “the jury should have heard how he was messed up, and that this was the environment Sarah was part of.”
Alas, it was not so. The saintly picture of Harold that was presented in court went against Ann’s own experiences with the man. The game was rigged.
Anyways, let us return to Sarah. Due to her unstable home situation, Harold asked her to move in with him. She was 16, and he was 50.
And so ring the alarm bells…
At this point, Sarah was not even working at CiCi’s Pizza anymore. Her ex-manager had somehow reconnected with his vulnerable former employee, and found the perfect opportunity to exploit her.
Harold tried to gain her confidence by picking her up from school and taking her to Taco Bell, and asking questions about her life. Once she turned 17 and graduated high school, Sarah finally took the plunge and moved in with Harold.
Sarah explained to her suspicious family how “he said he would show me a better life and pay for me to go to college.”
They didn’t buy it.
Sarah’s mother Michelle Gonzales said that the living arrangement upset her, and caused her and her daughter to have fights when Michelle advised against it.
According to Michelle, Sarah was delusional about Harold’s real intentions:
“She’d say, ‘He’s a Christian man!’ He preyed on that whole Christian thing with her, and wanted to rescue her from her broken home.”
To Sarah, Harold was just a harmless father figure. He initially requested that Sarah refer to him as “dad,” and told inquisitive friends that the girl living with him was his stepdaughter.
Things got weird real fast.
As she neared 18, Harold became more brash and sexual. He gave her weed and alcohol, and discussed the idea of them dating. Sarah tried to refuse, but the implication became clear: no sex, no home.
God had officially left the premises.
In addition, she claimed that Harold also gave her cocaine and ecstasy, and got her extremely drunk to make her more susceptible to his perverted advances.
He wanted her to feel indebted to him. Harold began leaving out a copy of a printed running tab, which listed all the things he had bought for her since she moved in.
He told Sarah she could only leave once she paid him back for everything, and warned against legal retaliation if she did not. She was working at Bed, Bath & Beyond, but only made minimum wage.
Despite this, she was giving Harold most of her pittance of a salary. It was still not enough, and he demanded she pay him back rent. This was ironic coming from the man who once offered her a better life.
Finally, Sarah got drunk, steeled her nerves, and gave in to the older man’s sexual advances. Why? Her mother has a theory: “She told me she thought she couldn’t come home, because he told her no one would want her there.”
Feeling displaced and hopeless, she began having sex with the man who once called himself her second dad. She most likely felt too guilty to return home after these disturbing experiences.
Dr. Marilyn Hutchinson, psychologist for the defense, said that after interviewing Sarah for 17 hours during her trial; she found that “her sense of captivity was pretty intense.”
Sarah said she could only stomach sex with Harold while she was completely inebriated or drugged, and most often she was barely conscious while he had his way with her.
She “would just lay there and check out’’ and was “disgusted” with the encounters and said no repeatedly, but he just held her arms down and ignored her.
The prosecution later argued that all this was consensual. But try and see it from her perspective: if you were a broke and homeless teenager who had to have sex with a man in his 50s in order to survive, would that really be a voluntary situation?
Rumors began to spread in Kansas that Harold and Sarah’s relationship had a sexual bent to it. An anonymous businessman from Lawrence had some inside dirt on the situation:
“He took the girl in and was supposed to be getting her back on track, but… a [CiCi’s] manager told me that they were having a big time affair… that it was pretty torrid… and (Sasko) had kicked her out five or six times and she had worked at CiCi’s and she’d been fired there a number of times.”
Harold arrived late for work, often with hickeys on his neck.
Co-workers at Bed, Bath & Beyond described Sarah as shy, quiet, and fashion-model good looking at a slim 5’8, 120 lbs stature. When they tried to pry into her relationship with Harold, she was quick to assert that he was her stepfather. But everyone suspected something sleazier.
Their living arrangement was basically an open secret, yet nobody intervened to help Sarah.
She later testified that:
“I would leave the house sometimes when he was gone. I would have to sneek (sic) around because he would get mad … I think more than anything he made me feel he owned me. I was a toy to him like his personal barbie doll. That’s what he tried to make me.”
This manifested itself in Harold pressuring Sarah to get butt implants, because he wanted her to be a “curvier Barbie.” Cringe.
Due to pain resulting from the procedure, Sarah took hydrocodone all summer long. The drug is a powerful painkiller derived from codeine, and said to be nearly as addictive as morphine.
He also paid for her to undergo a nose job, and wanted her to get a boob job in the future, telling her that “no man would find her attractive because her breasts were not big enough and her butt was not big enough.”
Okay there, Harold.
The surgeries totaled $16,000, and Harold demanded that she pay him back- or he would sue her if she tried to leave him. She was in his debt, and he warned her that if he took legal action, “she would never be able to own a house or anything.”
She testified that:
“He was very nice at first and called me his daughter. After the relationship turned sexual he was very mean, he would always belittle me.
He owned me at that point, and the surgery just solidified it for him. I was so embarrassed and I hated myself because it had gotten that far. My sister and I used to make fun of girls who did that, and that was something we’d never do.”
Sarah was unraveling mentally. Her previous psychological issues had been exacerbated by living with a weird old guy in his 50s who kept trying to have sex with her.
She was too humiliated to return back to work and face her coworkers’ questions, so she spent her days lying on the sofa drunk and high, wondering how she would escape her financial quandary.
Cyle Ossiander, a CiCi’s Pizza’s manager, went to visit Harold at home and witnessed an incident that disturbed him.
He found that Sarah had killed, skinned, cleaned, and cooked a rabbit for dinner. But it wasn’t just any bunny, it was a domestic one she had bought from Pet World.
Cyle said “It was a household rabbit, not game. I don’t know of many people that would kill a rabbit and eat it.”
Actually people do eat rabbit, Cyle. But usually not pet ones. And this one wasn’t the first: Sarah butchered and ate several of them, and later used the exact same knife and method of execution on Harold.
She was on antidepressants for six months up until Harold’s death, switching from Zoloft to Pristiq a few days before shit hit the fan. She later told detectives that:
“I had violent thoughts for two years and they progressed, I guess. They just became really intense. I’ve not been in a good place. It’s like really hard to explain. Little things make me turn and see red almost.”
She had finally had enough of her perverse living situation.
By all accounts, Sarah was emotionally and psychologically exhausted, plagued by financial and mental issues. She said the period leading up to the killing was hazy and “felt like dreams.”
Five days before, Sarah cemented her plan to murder Harold. Police would go on to find that she had googled “neck vulnerable spots.”
On January 14, 2014, Sarah slit Harold’s throat. She drugged him first so he would not feel pain, but also so he would not be able to fight back.
That fateful day, Harold returned home and started working on a speaker system. He asked Sarah to bring him a beer, and she did.
She brought him three beers- but she laced the fourth one with crushed Ambien she had hidden on top of the microwave, so he would be drunk first and less likely to taste the pills.
After 5 Ambiens masked in a few more beers, Harold passed out cold on the floor. Next, she bound his wrists tightly with zip ties.
He mumbled a few words in his barely conscious state. Feeling guilty, Sarah had second thoughts about the murder. But she had already come too far…
She retrieved her hunting knife (the one she’d used on the bunnies), and touched Harold’s neck to feel for his pulse. Sarah stabbed into his carotid artery, then sliced into his neck horizontally, sawing in a side-to-side motion into his spine.
This nearly decapitated him. Sarah said it was difficult to penetrate his neck with the blade, so she held his head in place with her left hand the whole time.
She initially told detectives that as she killed Harold, she “just didn’t feel anything.” However, she then claimed that as she saw Harold die, “everything was screaming at me.”
Detective M.T. Brown, who interviewed Sarah after the murder, testified that “she said she wanted to see someone die… she wanted to see what it felt like to kill someone.”
She went to the sink to clean off the knife, then wrote the word “FREEDOM” on the wall in Harold’s blood. Sarah then showered and washed off the blood, listening to music while doing so. She called into work, saying she would not be in for a few days due to a relative’s death.
Sarah straightened her hair, packed up her bags (including a photo of her sister Ashley), grabbed her chocolate Labrador dog Oliver, and took off in Harold’s 2008 Nissan Altima. She vanished, leaving a trail of confused cops in her wake.
She left her cellphone and tablet behind, so authorities could not track her.
Police broke into Harold’s home on Jan. 17, three days after the murder, when he did not show up for work and was reported missing. A cop peered through a window after knocking on a door and receiving no answer, and saw Harold lying in a pool of his own blood.
What caused her to snap?
Two days before she killed Harold, Sarah sent the following telling text to her sister:
“I’m starting to realize I don’t want the dream everyone wants for me. I don’t want the American dream. I want real freedom, and I know how to get it and I have to give up a lot. I feel like a caged animal.”
While the media portrayed her as a bloodthirsty monster, the truth was much more complex.
This young and vulnerable Latina, made putty in the hands of an older, more powerful, and financially controlling man; longed for freedom that went beyond subservience to a former manager. She needed to escape the sexual constraints he had placed on her, to be more than just his “Barbie” and pawn.
It was perhaps misguided, and a deranged act of violence; but Sarah had killed out of pure desperation. She killed the authority figure who had sexually abused and confined her to a life of financial and mental slavery.
Sarah was on the lam, and managed to evade capture for 11 days. Police initially put Sarah down as a missing person, but soon realized that she was guilty of Harold’s murder.
Her post-homicide adventure reads like a bizarre crime novel. Knowing her capture was inevitable, Sarah fled boring Kansas for Texas.
Sarah often woke up in shaking cold after sleeping in the car all night, and wanted to go somewhere warm. She then drove on to Florida; because she thought the ocean view would be much nicer there, and she also wanted a certain tattoo from a specific artist. Gotta love her priorities.
En route, she slept in the car, at occasional rest stops, and once even shacked up with a kind pastor and his wife. They fed her dinner and housed her for the night. Other than that, she mainly ate fast food and takeout, paying for everything in cash.
She was tattooed by Florida artist James Baker, and he provided some interesting testimony into Sarah’s mind and personality. He said that the two had a mutual interest in serial killers, which they discussed as he worked on her tattoo.
Sarah was a fan of the 1992 murder mystery novel “I” Is For Innocent, by Sue Grafton. She paid James $200 for a rib cage tattoo that took two hours to complete. It was of her favorite quote from the book:
“Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb.”
She also had roses tattooed onto her shoulder.
Sarah was finally captured at the Everglades National Park on Jan. 25 at 10:30 PM, after an officer found her sleeping in the stolen car. They rudely woke her up, and found she was lying right next to a loaded gun.
Inside the vehicle, police discovered $2,399 in cash, two knives (one of them was the blood-stained murder weapon, hidden in the map pocket of the driver’s door), two guns, an ax and hashish.
This spelled the end for her short and violent burst of freedom.
The trial was an utter disaster for Sarah, and so was her initial interrogation. Sarah admitted to the police that she had “wanted to see someone die,” and the media and prosecution ran wild with this quote.
Suddenly, all the evidence proving that Harold had kept her as a virtual sex slave was brushed aside, and Sarah was depicted as a psychotic individual; a femme fatale who had lured Harold to his demise- despite the fact that she was a mere teenager suffering from years of mental issues, exploited by a man 33 years her senior.
The media kept pushing the narrative that Harold and Sarah were “roommates”– perhaps wishing to not disgrace the dead man, but willfully ignoring the truth and spreading outright lies by doing so.
Police even found a questionable text from Harold; in which he apologized to Sarah a few days before the murder, for trying to force her to have sex once again.
This too was ignored, among all the other enlightening testimony from people who knew the darker side of Harold.
Sarah also said that Harold was suicidal due to business and personal issues, and often talked to her about killing himself. This is backed up by Ann Tau’s testimony, with whom he also discussed such subject matter.
The court instead chose to focus on the grim physical evidence against Sarah: which included a stick-figure target she had created at home to throw knives at; with major organs, blood vessels, and even the groin marked out especially.
The conservative Kansas elite gathered in droves to condemn Sarah yet were quick to defend Harold, as she was turned into a villain and a cold-blooded killer in the eyes of her community.
At her February 2014 hearing, Sarah was upset to see her family appear in court, gathering to support the once-abandoned teen. Her defense attorney Carl Cornwell said that “she was embarrassed. She didn’t want to see her family there. She was embarrassed.”
In 2015, after only four hours of jury deliberation; Sarah received a Hard 50 Penalty- a life sentence, with a chance of parole only after 50 years.
The District Attorney Charles Branson ridiculed and doubted Sarah’s claims that she was raped as a child, despite the fact that Sarah cried while showing the court her cigarette burn scars.
Her mother Michelle was dismayed at her daughter’s harsh sentencing, and the court’s unwillingness to acknowledge that Harold kept Sarah in sexual slavery and financial bondage.
Michelle admitted her daughter would have to go to jail for the crime, “but not the rest of her life, because he had no business doing what he did to her.”
Despite the fact that Sarah’s family paid defense lawyer Carl Cornwell $40k in legal fees and they had a legitimate case, Carl used an extremely idiotic defense. He argued to the court that Sarah had Multiple Personality Disorder, informing her they could win if they used that defense.
And so, Carl preached to the court about how Sarah had many different, violent personalities named Alyssa, Vanessa, and Myla- is it any wondered the jury condemned her to life in prison?
Even the prosecution’s psychiatrist, Dr. William Logan, admitted that Sarah showed symptoms of PTSD, major depression, bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. Yet Carl did not use this evidence to his client’s advantage.
The trial was totally botched, and her ship sank immediately.
Michelle does not ask her daughter to contemplate her crime, as Sarah is not receiving any psychiatric therapy in jail. She says “I don’t encourage her, because if I open that box, who’s going to help her with what falls out?”
Her prison is infamous for rape and violence, yet Michelle says “what’s saddened me the most about her being there is she told me she’s safe now.”
Even the confines of jail seem less disturbing than her life outside- one in which Sarah had to be sexually subservient to an old man just to keep a roof over her head.
Such is the tragedy of Sarah’s life: she killed the man who sexually abused in her a pathetic bid for freedom, but only doomed herself to a lifetime of imprisonment.
As of 2020, Kansas Department of Corrections facility in Topeka lists her earliest possible release date as Feb. 1, 2064. The American prison system is harsh and unforgiving; merciless towards those who need justice the most.
"The queen wants me; I must live and die near her."
We’ve all heard of Queen Marie Antoinette, and her unlucky fate at the blade of the revolutionary guillotine. But not many know the tragic tale of her best friend, Marie Thérèse Louise of Savoy, Princesse de Lamballe.
De Lamballe was killed a month before her beloved queen, humiliated and beaten to death in a crowded street by enraged revolutionaries. This is her melodramatic story:
Marie Thérèse was was born to a German princess and a Sardinian prince on Sept. 8, 1749. She was, quite simply, a bourgeois bitch: a descendant of the prestigious House of Savoy.
She would have been your typical dispensable aristocrat, had her family not arranged a prodigious marriage on her part.
A Lovely Wedding
Thanks to internal connections, de Lamballe was swiftly married off to Louis Alexandre, Prince of Lamballe – great grandson of Louis XIV a.k.a. The Sun King, and consummate French royalty.
The prince was also a spoiled brat and a notorious womanizer.
He was red-haired, with a tall, strong build and luminous eyes. The prince was said to be attractive to women, who he pursued readily. He was even rumored to have been friends with the perverted libertine Marquis de Sade.
This arranged marriage was his father’s bid to subdue the wily prince: he felt the shy and reserved de Lamballe would chastise his perverse son.
Most importantly: she was nonthreatening and not the sharpest pencil in the box. Madame du Barry, infamous mistress of Louis XV, called Marie Thérèse “destitute of wit.”
Marie Thérèse was not conventionally attractive: she had a big nose, a giraffe neck, and sloped shoulders; plain in both mannerisms and appearance.
There were some positives about her, like her smooth skin that was described as “delicately fair,” as well as clear blue eyes and long golden hair that was compared to Raphael’s madonnas. Overall, she was considered a righteous, moral, kind woman with a good temperament.
In January of 1767, the couple was married off in a luxurious 10 day ceremony with celebrations and feasts taking place in both France and Italy. She was now officially a princess!
She was only 17 years old and the prince was 19. The pair were both Virgos with close birthdays: two hard-headed individuals meant to clash.
Before the wedding, the prince went to go see his future bride to bring her a bouquet of flowers, disguising himself as his own servant. Upon discovering his gag, de Lamballe was charmed and intrigued.
She said of it:
“I hope[d] my prince will allow his page to attend me, for I like him much. What was my surprise when the Duc de Penthièvre presented me to the Prince and I found in him the page for whom I had already felt such an interest!
We both laughed and wanted words to express our mutual sentiments. This was really love at first sight.”
The couple spent their honeymoon at the Château de Nangis, a pleasant mini castle where Joan of Arc had once walked.
At first, the couple was said to be enamored by one another as there was a strong physical attraction between them. The princess must have been getting some good dick, as she wrote to her mother “it is very pleasant to find thus in my duties my sweetest enjoyments.”
Soon enough, however, the prince fell back into his degenerate, polygamous ways.
Sins and Punishments
After a few months of marital bliss, the prince began affairs with numerous women, even impregnating an opera singer at one point.
The prince also used his wife’s diamonds to pay off his debts, as well as cruelly re-gifting them to his mistresses.
Princess de Lamballe was humiliated by her husband’s errant behaviour and infidelity. She found consolation in her social life at the royal court at the Palace of Versailles.
The princess also became close with her husband’s father, Louis Jean Marie de Bourbon, Duke of Penthièvre. The duke was one of the richest and most powerful men in France, and he was very fond of his daughter-in-law.
In May of 1767, the princess sent a lamentful letter to her mother:
“Why is it that monsieur de Lamballe… warms my heart but all the fires of the love he has for me have suddenly changed?
In vain I seek in my conduct that which might have caused this change, but I cannot find any cause… Can it be because I’m not with child? Is that a crime? His indifference kills me.
But one thing that distresses me… is that I cannot doubt that the life he leads alters his health. A thousand forebodings overwhelm me. Oh my mother! Sympathize with my sorrows, and I will feel less bitter.”
Due to her husband’s neglect, she began to faint and have nervous fits. Doctors diagnosed the princess with hysteria and so-called “convulsive vapors” and melancholia, when she was really just an upset teenager who was dismayed at being cheated on.
Soon enough, the partying prince’s health began to deteriorate as well, but for different reasons. Louis Alexandre grew pale, tired, and ill, and was plagued with skin ulcers.
He also badly injured himself by falling off a horse, so he went home and had his cuckolded wife and sister care for him.
Karma was hitting him hard: the prince started wasting away, and was constantly feverish, exhausted and suffering from skin rashes. He had syphilis!
Louis Alexandre had contracted venereal disease from one of the orgies he had attended. Doctors prescribed seven pounds of mercury to treat the syphilis, but it was to no avail.
It completely was over for the pernicious prince. Louis Alexandre confessed his sins to a priest, and died on May 6, 1768, in the arms of his loyal wife. He was only 20, and their marriage had lasted a little over a year.
Now a widow at only 18, the princess briefly considered joining a convent. But really, why would she? It would be such a waste, and so boring.
Marie Thérèse had just inherited a large fortune from her dead husband, and was ready for a new life. The Duc de Penthièvre took the young widow under his wing, and brought her to live with him in his gorgeous Château de Rambouillet.
The château was far removed from the hustle and filth of Paris; a lush green country castle where the super-rich spent their days in utmost leisure. The princess enjoyed her relaxing days at this fair château, taking long walks in beautiful country forests and sitting by the window-side writing letters and self-reflecting.
The princess and her father-in-law also spent time engaging in charitable projects to appease the jealous proles, and were called the “King of the Poor” and “The Angel of Penthiévre” respectively.
And so began Princess de Lamballe’s grand courtly life: she was so well reputed that she was even considered for a time as a possible wife for King Louis XV.
However, nothing materialized of it, as he was already too enamored by his slutty mistress Madame du Barry.
A Beautiful Friendship
The princess was introduced to dauphine Marie Antoinette in 1770, at her wedding bash to future King Louis XVI. Despite being six years older than her, the princess became fast friends with the dauphine.
Marie Antoinette described her as “the only woman I know who never bears a grudge; neither hatred nor jealousy is to be found in her.”
The outgoing, fashionable, pretty, strawberry-blonde haired Marie Antoinette was, personality wise, quite the opposite of de Lamballe. But they enjoyed the stability and consistency of one another’s affections.
Marie Antoinette helped the princess grieve and heal from the recent death of her sleazy husband, for which she would be grateful for until the end. The princess said:
“It was amid this gloom of human agony, these heart-rending scenes of real mourning, that the brilliant star shone to disperse the clouds, which hovered over our drooping heads…
It was in this crisis that Marie Antoinette came, like a messenger sent down from Heaven, graciously to offer the balm of comfort in the sweetest language of human compassion…
From that moment I became seriously attached to the Queen of France.”
In return, the princess gave her the utmost loyalty. Within the court of Versailles, Maire Antoinette was surrounded by bitchy haters who constantly criticized her for being unconventional and imprudent.
Many courtiers were incensed by her foreign heritage, and she earned the pejorative L’Autrichienne (the Austrian bitch).
Within this sea of bitterness, is it any wonder she needed a friend?
Marie Antoinette and the princess bonded by going on wintertime sleigh rides together, resplendent in fine ermine and sable furs. They were pulled through snowy Paris by horses that were decked in jingling bells and lux white head-plumes.
On May 10, 1774, King Louis XV died of smallpox. His grandson, the awkward and portly Louis XVI, succeeded him. Marie Antoinette went from despised dauphine to Queen of France in the abrupt blink of an eye.
Princess de Lamballe was now in a place of immense power and influence.
When the princess was away from the court for two months, Marie Antoinette missed her dearly, and had de Lamballe’s portrait painted in her looking-glass room. The two even started wearing matching coordinated outfits. They were, like, total BFFs forever.
The Queen was said to have remarked to Louis XVI that “the Princesse de Lamballe’s friendship is the charm of my life.”
In September of 1775, Marie Antoinette attracted controversy when she appointed de Lamballe the title of “Superintendent of the Queen’s Household.”
This post was so contentious that it had been left vacant for 30 years, as it was a very highly-paid and influential position. And now, with this honor bestowed upon her, Princess de Lamballe was the highest-ranking Lady in Waiting in all the court.
Many were unhappy with this appointment, as they felt de Lamballe was too much of a fragile drama queen to handle such responsibility. She was once said to have fainted of shock when a lady-in-waiting unexpectedly and noisily yawned near her.
The princess’ brother Eugène was also promoted to regiment commander in the French military, thanks to his sister’s connections.
Marie Antoinette’s mother Empress Maria Theresa grew concerned with the amount of influence the Princess de Lamballe was accumulating.
Comte de Mercy-Argenteau, an Austrian diplomat that Marie Antoinette’s mother used to keep an eye on her, reported to the Empress that:
“This lady joins to much sweetness a very sincere character, far from intrigue and all such worries… the choice is excellent…
All the same, I have taken the precaution to point out to the Queen that her favour and goodness to the Princesse de Lamballe are somewhat excessive, in order to prevent abuse of them from that quarter.”
In the spring of 1775, starving French peasants rioted due to extensive grain shortages. This was nicknamed the Flour War. Louis XVI was not doing a good job feeding his people. Consequences were to come…
But not yet. Marie Antoinette was still enjoying her sexy, exciting royal life. And she had made a new friend: Yolande Martine Gabrielle de Polastron, Duchess of Polignac.
The pretty, violet-eyed, charismatic duchess caught the Queen’s eye immediately. The duchess was more attractive and smooth than the neurotic and humble de Lamballe, but she was also more gossipy.
Marie Antoinette was turned on by the duchess’ cavalier devil-may-care attitude. The Queen paid off the duchess and her husband’s 400k franc gambling debts so they could permanently move into Versailles.
There was also a strange coincidence: Princess de Lamballe and the Duchesse de Polignac were born on the exact same day, of the exact same year! This bode well for a blooming friendship, right?
The two hated one another, and vied for Marie Antoinette’s affections. The Queen began to prefer the duchess’ company over the princess. She was, after all, way cooler than the dorky, fainting Princess de Lamballe.
At this time, the Queen’s advisers complained de Lamballe was getting paid way too much for her Superintendent position. She was already rich via her father-in-law, and owned many empty homes that she did not even live in.
De Lamballe refused to relinquish any privileges or her 50k crown salary, and rumors spread that she was a greedy bitch.
Princess de Lamballe began to get an inkling that the tides were turning against the monarchy.
Many peasants and courtiers alike began to make apparent their disdain for Marie Antoinette’s expensive and bimboish obsession with fashion and fancy living, which was seen as especially distasteful during periods of terrible famine and starvation for the lower class.
The Queen laughed off the princess’ advices against being too decadent, and joked with the Duchess de Polignac at what a bore the princess was.
Comte Mercy-Argenteau witnessed their constant disagreements, noting:
“Constant quarrels, in which the Princesse seemed always to be in the wrong…
The Princesse de Lamballe loses much in favour. I believe she will always be well treated by the Queen, but she no longer possesses her entire confidence…
The Princesse is very little seen at court. The Queen, it is true, visited her on her father’s death, but it is the first mark of kindness she has received for long.”
The cunty duchess also did her best to create a wedge in the princess and the Queen’s friendship.
When the Queen retreated to the colossal 1,500-room Château de Fontainebleau in autumn of 1776, she chose to bring the princess with her, instead of the duchess.
At the end of 1776, de Lamballe was plagued by a bad attack of measles. The Queen sent her heartfelt, touching, worried letters inquiring about her health.
In 1778, when the princess’ mother died, the Queen and King both wrote sweet letters of consolation.
Marie Antoinette signed off with “I embrace you again with my whole heart, as I shall love you all my life.”
Louis XVI added “You know how much we love you. May God be with you.”
Despite the fact that both her parents had died that year, the princess was there for moral support when the Queen gave birth to her first child: Marie-Thérèse Charlotte, or Madame Royale.
It was a horrible 12-hour labour, in which Marie Antoinette almost died of suffocation. The delicate de Lamballe of course fainted after witnessing this.
Extravagance and Depravity
There were rumours spreading around Paris that Marie Antoinette was cheating on her husband, as well as having lesbian relationships with the Princess de Lamballe and the Duchess de Polignac. Did the Queen really eat muff? Who knows?
One must note that Princess de Lamballe was not known to have taken any lovers after her husband died. She appeared to have a limited interest in love affairs and men. Could it be that she was into women? It is impossible to prove or disprove.
Marie Antoinette, on the other hand, really knew how to trigger people. She was a gambling addict, took the company of men who were not her husband, and loved the theatrical arts.
The Queen, herself, acted in plays, and was said to have been a terrible performer. The Duchess de Polignac ensured that the Princess de Lamballe was barred from attending any performances.
In 1790, when Marie Antoinette’s mother died, she withdrew to mourn with the princess and the duchess in private. Subsequently, the Queen increased de Lamballe’s salary to match her loyalty.
The princess was having a fun time giving tea parties and riding hot air balloons at the wonderful Hôtel de Toulouse, which was owned by her father-in-law, the Duke of Penthièvre. Her bedroom was an opulent salon gilded in gold and velvet.
In December of 1784, a bandit named Pierre Poulailler tried to burn down the Hôtel. The princess awoke the duke at 1 AM, and they escaped the inferno. Police extinguished the fire promptly.
As for Pierre, he was said to have killed 150 people in his life of crime. He once even sealed a man alive inside a building. When Pierre was captured, his bones were broken on a torture wheel and then he was burned alive.
Wasn’t 18th century France just lovely?
Following the infamous 1785 Affair of the Diamond Necklace, Marie Antoinette’s already questionable reputation was irreparably tarnished. The peasants nicknamed her “Madame Deficit,” blaming the Queen for the country’s dire financial plight.
In 1787, the princess was in poor health and France was on the brink of bankruptcy. Political troubles were brewing steadily.
The princess set off to England for a health retreat. She viewed Herschel’s Forty-Foot Telescope, and had dinner with writer Horace Walpole.
Like the condescending gout-ridden Englishman he was, Walpole remarked “I have no particular penchant for sterling princes and princesses, much less for those of French plate.”
By 1788, most of Louis XVI’s parliament and a veritable array of aristocrats had turned against him for attempting to tax them. They simply refused to pay up, even though there was a poor harvest that year and French citizens were facing starvation.
This was the period when the Jacobins banded together, and republican Maximilien de Robespierre started his rise to glory and power.
The conflict between the King and his unruly subjects finally climaxed with the Storming of the Bastille prison in 1789.
The prison was supposed to symbolize all of the King’s tyrannies and evil. But when the approximately 1,000 partisans of the Third Estate broke in, there were only seven prisoners within!
99 citizens died during the action.
Bernard-René de Launay, governor of the Bastille, was captured and horribly beaten.
When he could no longer take the abuse, he cried out “Enough! Let me die!” and kicked a pastry cook in the nuts, as his final act of defiance. In return, he was stabbed, beaten, and shot to death by the angry mob. Afterwards, his head was sawed off then paraded around on a pike.
A British Doctor by the name of Edward Rigby described the scene:
“[We] perceived two bloody heads raised on pikes, which were said to be the heads of the Marquis de Launay, Governor of the Bastille, and of Monsieur Flesselles, Prévôt des Marchands.
It was a chilling and a horrid sight! … Shocked and disgusted at this scene, [we] retired immediately from the streets.”
This was a disturbing omen of violent things to come.
The Unraveling of the Monarchy
Unable to control the angry mobs of rioters any longer, the King advised his supporters to flee the country for their own safety, as he could no longer protect them.
While this was all going down, Princess de Lamballe was in Switzerland on a leisure trip.
When the third estate demanded that the nobles cough up some of their baubles to help pay France’s national debt, the princess was very hesitant to contribute.
Marie Antoinette was the same: she unwisely chose to wear her most beautiful and expensive jewelry while attending a delegation in August.
Three months later, another monumental event occurred: The Women’s March on Versailles.
On October. 5, following a large feast at the king’s palace; a mob of almost 10,000 starving, enraged women and revolutionary agitators set off from the Parisian marketplace to Versailles, armed with weapons.
Why were the starving peasants forced to pay taxes, while the comfy aristocrats were exempt? It was time for an answer.
When they arrived, the mob demanded the king provide grain for their hungry families. Louis XVI relented and promised to take care of the issue, then he and his family settled in to sleep for the night.
But the suspicious mob broke into the palace and attacked and murdered the guards. Again, they decapitated their victims and placed the guards’ heads onto pikes.
Marie Anoinette nearly escaped being bayoneted to death in her bedchambers by angry rioters.
By now, the mob had reached 60,000, and they forced the King and Queen to leave Versailles and return to Paris: to live in the dilapidated Tuileries Palace. Louis XVI was now at the mercy of his people.
Two days after this chaotic event, the ever-loyal princess went to Tuileries to provide emotional support to her Queen. Upon her arrival, Marie Antoinette collapsed into the princess’ arms and began sobbing.
The princess resumed her superintendent position, and moved into the Pavillon de Flore to stay close to the Royal family. She referred to her apartment there as a “dungeon” compared to what she had had in Versailles.
Since the King and Queen were virtual prisoners at this point, they decided to try and escape Paris to go to the royalist stronghold of Montmédy; which bordered Marie Antoinette’s beloved Austria.
The Queen gave the princess a very affectionate farewell before her escape. The princess found out next morning, and set off to meet them in Montmédy.
The attempt failed disastrously, and the King and Queen were captured in Varennes on June 21, 1791, and forced to return back to Paris.
De Lamballe was steadfast, and after waiting in Montmédy for a week, she sent Marie Antoinette this lamentful letter:
“I … wait [for] your Majesty’s command… When your Majesty wears fetters, can liberty be of any value to me? When your Majesty is bathed in tears, can any tranquility enter in to the bossom.”
The princess desperately wanted to help her Queen, but was advised to stay afar in Brussels. Marie Antoinette did not want the princess to return as she feared for her dear friend’s life.
The Queen wrote to de Lamballe:
“Your friendship is my consolation and my only happiness… Do not return, do not throw yourself in the tiger’s jaws; the present is too terrible.”
Marie Antoinette sent the princess a gold ring which was looped with strands of her own her that had been “turned white by misfortune.” Oh the drama.
Even the Duc de Penthièvre tried to halt his daughter-in-law’s return; entreating de Lamballe’s cousin, the King of Sardinia, to try and convince her to go hide it out with the Savoy family.
She wrote him an epic letter declining all help:
“I do not recollect that any of our illustrious ancestors of the house of Savoy… ever dishonored or tarnished their illustrious names with cowardice.
I cannot swerve from my determination of never quitting them, especially at a moment when they are abandoned by every one of their former attendants, except myself…
“During the most brilliant period of the reign of Marie Antoinette, I was distinguished by the royal favor and bounty. To abandon her in adversity, Sire, would stain my character, and that of my illustrious family, for ages to come with infamy and cowardice, much more to be dreaded than the most cruel death.”
Princess de Lamballe would never betray her friend of more than 20 years. It was unthinkable.
Against all safety and common sense, de Lamballe decided to return to Paris and go down with the sinking ship. She made out her last will and testament, then arrived back in France on Nov 4, 1791.
Princess de Lamballe brought the Queen a red and white spaniel as a gift to cheer her up, but a dog could not fix Marie Antoinette’s busted life. She was now aged and haggard, with her hair turned totally white.
On the other hand, the Queen’s old friend the, Duchesse de Polignac, was far away; not one to be found near any danger. The Queen wrote to the duchess that “the good Lamballe … seemed only waiting for danger to show what she was worth.”
Only five ladies-in-waiting remained at the court, and de Lamballe was one of them.
At this time, the Jacobins wanted the King’s young son Louis-Charles to have a tutor who was sympathetic to the revolution. For that purpose, the princess suggested future psychopath dictator Maximilien Robespierre as a candidate.
Marie Antoinette adamantly refused, and after that, Robespierre held a hateful grudge against the Princess de Lamballe.
By 1792, Paris was saturated by pamphlets accusing Marie Antoinette of being a whore. A particularly comedic one told a story where de Lamballe supposedly supplied the Queen with massive dildos, implying that the King was too small to satisfy her.
After Louis XVI vetoed a decree for a constitutional monarchy, partisans stormed into the Tuileries Palace on June 20. The violent mob threatened Marie Antoinette, who responded that her place was by the King’s side.
Fearing for the Queen’s life, the princess cried out “No, no, Madame, your place is with your children!”
The princess courageously stood by the Queen through the whole debacle, and was more protective of the Queen’s life than her own.
While revolutionaries declared war on Austria, Louis XVI went behind France’s back to make a deal with Prussian royals. The Brunswick Manifesto declared that if the French monarchy were harmed, then French civilians would be attacked in turn.
Now that Louis XVI was viewed as a traitor, French revolutionary insurrectionists became bold and attacked Tuileries Palace on August 10.
When she saw the approaching army, Princess de Lamballe declared to the Queen: “My dear, my dear, nothing will save us. I think we are lost.” It was completely over.
The King and Queen, as well as their frightened children and entourage, were forced to take refuge in the Legislative Assembly.
Once the most dignified crop in Paris, they were now relegated to sleeping on the floors of dingy jail cells on flimsy mattresses.
On August 19, the Princess de Lamballe was forcibly separated from the Royal family. Marie Antoinette was devastated. Who would she get her nails done with now?
Like a movie, the princess fell to her knees to kiss the Queen’s hand. But before she could do so, the indignant guards dragged the princess off.
Marie Antoinette’s daughter Madame Royale claimed that“they tore her away, saying that such an act was enough for a slave toward tyrants.”
The princess was taken to the La Force Prison and interrogated by members of the Paris Commune.
The princess was imprisoned alongside the Royal governess Louise-Élisabeth de Croÿ de Tourzel, and her daughter Pauline.
Mme. de Tourzel said that “the Princess de Lamballe bore her sad lot perfectly. Sweet, good, and obliging, she showed us every little attention in her power.”
But the princess had her haters too. The Duc d’Orléans’ (ex-brother in law and now enemy of the princess) salty mistress, the Comtesse de Buffon, took pleasure in kicking the princess when she was already down:
“The princesse de Lamballe is without a maid and has to look after herself. For a person who affects to feel ill before a lobster in a picture this must be a rude position.”
Not very nice, bitch!
The princess showed major toughness of character by having none of her usual fainting attacks while imprisoned.
Meanwhile, the princess’ loving father-in-law, the Duc de Penthièvre, was doing his best to try and free her; even offering the Commune half of his massive wealth as a bribe.
The principled fellows declined the cash.
Princess de Lamballe was dead meat. The revolutionaries would have no mercy for the delicate and refined 42-year old widow with Savoyan blood. She was just another head soon to be impaled sky high.
A Savage and Vicious Murder
On Sept 3. 1792, the last day of her life; the princess was dressed in angelic white silk with her curls neatly arranged under a cap.
At 6 AM, jailers came into de Lamballe and Mme. de Tourzel’s cell, and asked the women their names. Immediately knowing something was wrong, they began to pray.
The princess gazed out the window of her tiny cell, frightened. She saw a rabid, screaming, bloodthirsty mob gathered outside. A man threw a rock at her face, which cut her cheek and drew blood.
At 11 AM, a jailer led the two women out of their cell into the nightmarish courtyard. Drunk and belligerent, the men outside taunted and insulted the princess.
The princess bore her lot with dignity, according to de Tourzel:
“We clasped each other’s hand … and I can state positively that she displayed much courage and presence of mind, replying without hesitation to all the questions put by the monsters who joined us for the sole purpose of contemplating their victims before leading them to death.”
De Tourzel managed to escape the courtyard, due to the help of a mysterious man known as Monsieur Hardi.
The princess, however, was not so lucky. She waited with other doomed political prisoners, to be sent before an impromptu revolutionary tribunal.
The trials, of course, were a farce: they existed only to expedite the killings of political enemies. This was the period of the September Massacres, where thousands would be put to death under the guise of revolution.
And it was the princess’ turn.
Brought before the tribunal in a dank, grim room; the revolutionaries demanded that she “take an oath to love liberty and equality and to swear hatred to the King and the Queen and to the monarchy.” The dialogue went as follows:
Princess de Lamballe had become fearless in her indignation.
Unlike the other cowardly courtiers who once swarmed Louis XVI’s bustling court- and then fled like rats when trouble hit, the princess actually had values and ideals.
She would not beg for her life like a dog, or shit on the hand that once fed her.
The princess simply responded: “‘I have nothing to answer. Whether I die sooner or later is a matter of indifference to me. I have made the sacrifice of my life.”
And with those words, she sealed her fate.
The tribunal called out “Let Madame be set at liberty,” which was actually code for “throw her to the wolves.” Without understanding what was happening, the princess was escorted into the street by two guards.
She was greeted by the scene of a horrific massacre. Piles of naked, bloody corpses were laid out in the open.
An angry mob of men, women, and even children were assigned to slaughtering those who the tribunal deemed as guilty; and they seemed more than happy to do so.
The frightened princess fell back on the guards and tried to escape, crying out “Fi horreur!” or“I am lost!” But they clamped her mouth shut to prevent her screams, and pushed her further into the bloodthirsty mob.
A member of the mob described the princess years later as a mere “little lady dressed in white.”
That did not prevent them from murdering her in a terrible manner. A witness described the scene:
“A journeyman barber, staggering with intoxication and infuriated with carnage, endeavored, in a kind of brutal jesting, to strike her cap from her head with his long pike.
The blow fell upon her forehead, cutting a deep gash, and the blood gushed out over her face.”
The princess’ golden hair came undone, and from her cap fell a letter from her beloved Marie Antoinette.
As blood dripped onto her white silk dress, the mob became emboldened. A man came forth to deliver the final death blow; by bludgeoning her head.
The princess was piled upon and stabbed; then grabbed by the hair and decapitated by a random maniac with a sabre. They went full on slasher movie villain, it seems.
There is also this dramatic firsthand account from a bystander by the name of Jean Némery:
“A quick and horrific scene unfolded before my eyes. On seeing the bodies lying on the ground, the Princess made a gesture of horror and stepped back sharply.
The two men who stood beside her seized her by the arms and spoke to her; she replied, with gestures, but I could not hear her words.
Some of the executioners approached the small group and laughed, probably mocking the fear of the princesse. One of them threatened her with his pike.
She stepped back and raised her arms, as if to protect herself. The executioners had parted and I thought they were going to pass.
I breathed when, suddenly, two of those devils stood before her and beat her, one with a pike, the other with a sword.
She screamed, staggered, put a hand on her chest, then fell onto a pile of bodies … she tried to get up, but she received fresh blows, her arms fluttered a moment, then did not move again.“
Wild rumours later circulated that the princess was raped, dismembered, and sexually mutilated. However, that is all unsubstantiated.
It is fairly likely that they stripped the princess’ corpse naked, and disemboweled her.
What indeed was factual was that the mob placed the princess’ severed head on a pike, and grotesquely paraded it around the streets of Paris.
The deranged procession screamed out the Princess de Lamballe’s name in a macabre trance of celebration and drunken dancing. And to be fair, can you imagine being an 18th century French peasant? This was the highlight of their week.
Execution was an art, a form of entertainment. And here was the Queen’s best friend: whose fortune had been enough to buy whatever she desired, a million times over. She was now headless; a dismembered body in the hands of those who despised what she stood for, of those barely able to even afford bread.
The mob first stopped at a barber shop, and insisted he groom the decapitated head by applying makeup and curling her hair.
The mob then stopped to show the severed head off at a café, where spectators drank to de Lamballe’s death.
Finally, the mob attempted to break into the Temple: the fortress where Marie Antoinette was imprisoned.
If they had succeeded, the mob would have forced her to kiss the decapitated de Lamballe’s lips, as many had assumed she and Marie Antoinette had once been lesbian lovers.
*Insert obligatory joke about giving head here.*
Fortunately, guards managed to prevent the mob from breaking into the Temple, and the King and Queen’s windows were kept closed to prevent them from seeing the princess’ severed head.
When Louis XVI asked why their windows were being shuttered, a guard responded “they are trying to show you the head of Madame de Lamballe.”
A horrified Marie Antoinette nearly fainted away.
Their daughter, Madame Royale, described the scene as such:
“My mother was seized with horror; that was the sole moment when her firmness abandoned her.
The municipals scolded the officer, but my father, with his usual kindness, excused him, saying it was not the officer’s fault, but his own for having questioned him…
My unhappy mother did not even try to sleep [that night]; we listened to her sobs.”
Jean-Baptiste Cléry, valet of Louis XVI, described in his journal the peasants’ attempts to try and show Marie Antoinette her BFF’s decapitated head:
“They had raised the victim’s head so that it could not escape her sight; it was that of the Princesse de Lamballe. Though bloody, it was not disfigured; her blond hair, still curling, floated around the pike.”
It’s nice to know that the princess still looked pretty, even after they cut her head off.
Like a marauding circus, the celebrating mob next went to seek out the Duc d’Orléans and his mistress the Comtesse de Buffon (who as I mentioned before, were not fans of the princess.)
The pair were dining with English gentlemen at the Palais-Royal, when the mob started waving the princess’ severed head by an open window.
The irritated Duke brushed off the bizarre spectacle, commenting “‘Oh, it is Lamballe’s head: I know it by the long hair. Let us sit down to supper.”
The Comtesse, on the other hand, was duly alarmed and cried out “‘O God ! They will carry my head like that some day!”
Luckily for her, that would not happen. However, the cavalier Duc d’Orléans was guillotined the very next year.
The mob couldn’t play with the princess’ detached head forever, could they? They had to be stopped.
Knowing she was in deep trouble, the Duc de Penthièvre had send emissaries to the princess’ trial. They had tried to help her, but they were no match against the thronging mob.
As she was being beaten to death, the emissaries cried out for mercy to try and halt the killing. But the mob disdainfully screamed “Death to the disguised lackeys of the Duc de Penthièvre!’
Now that the princess had been slaughtered, they were charged with obtaining her remains. It was not an easy task. They had to pretend to befriend the mob, so they took the exhausted marauders to an ale house to get them shitfaced.
While the drunks were distracted, an emissary named Jacques Pointel managed to steal the princess’ head off the pike it was impaled on. He wrapped the head in a napkin, and whisked it away; secretly burying it in a children’s cemetery.
Her skull was never found, despite attempts to unearth it in 1904. As for the rest of her body, that is also a mystery.
Poor, old, sickly Duc de Penthièvre was heartbroken when he found out what happened to his much-adored daughter-in-law. She was the light of his life, and he had took her to his bosom like she was his real daughter. He never forgot her, and said:
“I think I always hear her … I always think I see her sitting near the window, in the little study … with what assiduity she used to work there, from morning till night, at the labours of her sex, for the poor? … and this is the angel they have torn to pieces!”
If that doesn’t bring a tear to one’s eye, then what the hell will?
Louis XVI was guillotined in January of 1793. His last words were, “I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge. I forgive the authors of my death, and I pray God that the blood which you are about to shed may never fall on France.”
Marie Antoinette was inconsolable after this, and her daughter said she became wholly indifferent to life and death.
She met her end via guillotine in October of the same year. Marie Antoinette accidentally stepped on her executioner’s foot, so her last words came to be, “Pardon me, Sir, I did not do it on purpose.”
Their daughter Marie-Thérèse Charlotte (aka Madame Royale) managed to survive until age 17, after which she escaped France to live in Vienna with relatives from her mother’s side.
Louis-Charles, their son and heir to the throne, was not so lucky. He was imprisoned, abused, and neglected- dying from tuberculosis at the age of 10.
Who was this murderous mob of aristo-killers anyways, and why were they so violent?
They were the sans-culottes (without breeches), the lowest of the low; the poorest of the poor.
The sans-culottes were radical militant revolutionaries from the bottom class of French society. There were some career criminals among them, and many seemed to take delight in bloodshed and carnage. Years of destitution had made them monstrous.
There are stories of cannibalism, the murder of priests, and of boiling people alive; all said to have been perpetrated by the sans-culottes. It becomes hard to tell fact from fiction. Marxists brand them as misunderstood heroes, and conservatives as commie devils.
Under Robespierre’s control, these frustrated poor became pawns to carry out acts of violence and mayhem.
Throughout the Reign of Terror, 17,000 French citizens were said to have died. Princess de Lamballe was just one of many victims.
Was it better to be a puppet of the psychopathic Robespierre and his hypocritical bourgeois Jacobins, or a puppet of the decadent and buffoonish King Louis XVI and other selfish monarchs of his ilk?
In the end, the French Revolution achieved everything and nothing. Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were deposed and executed, but what followed?
A Napoleonic dictatorship and wars that claimed millions of lives, and a Bourbon monarchy that was restored in 1814- only to be overthrown yet again.
France went through several revolutions and republics, the way Marie Antoinette went through pastries.
And yet- would we claim that any of us are truly free men and women? Why celebrate Bastille Day when there is now a Bastille around every corner?
It also begs the question: did the Princess de Lamballe deserve her headless fate?
It depends on how you look at it. To some, she was just a dutiful member of the monarchy; wrongfully caught up in the zeitgeist of her time, inside something that was totally beyond her control.
The princess was not a particularly offensive royal, unlike vulgar thots such as the Duchess de Polignac, or Madame du Barry.
By all accounts, the princess was a restrained, dutiful individual- not one for excessive indulgences, starting feuds, or participating in racy love affairs. She was a surprisingly chaste and upright woman.
Not only this, but the princess showed remarkable strength of character and bravery towards the end of her life. She died with dignity, unlike Madame du Barry- who, in comparison, begged for her life like a dog before the executioner guillotined her.
The princess lived a life of wealth and privilege, and, grateful for all that fate had given her; she chose to give her life in return, as payment for the fabulous existence she was briefly granted.
Her loyalty is inspiring, and even surprising. Not many would die for a friend the way she did.
A contrary argument could also be made: why should we pity a woman who had so much, in a time where others had so little?
She had two extremely wealthy benefactors: Marie Antoinette, the literal Queen of France + her father-in-law, the richest man in France, the Duc de Penthièvre. She refused to reduce her salary or riches, even though she knew those below her were suffering.
The princess received a massive dowry at her wedding: it was said that the amount of jewels that the Duke gifted her could fill up literal pages of text if recorded. When she made out her will, she left a comedic amount of monetary provisions to care for her dogs.
Meanwhile, the diet of the average Frenchman was limited to overpriced bread, and even that was difficult to obtain due to famine and shortages. The princess could arguably be described by her detractors as just another clueless rich bitch.
Marie Antoinette did not actually say the words “Let them eat cake.” However, her ignorant actions were sufficient to prove that she was not fit to govern. But then again, how many political leaders are today? There are many others who deserve the guillotine, yet she was just unlucky enough to actually receive it.
The Royalists (those that were for the monarchy) used the princess’ horrific death as propaganda to discredit the Revolution, and to depict the lower classes of France as senseless barbarians. In death, the princess became a politicized martyr, and many depict her as positively Christ-like
On the other hand, corrupt and degenerate elected officials tell us that the French Revolution was necessary, as the flesh and blood of fallen monarchs paved the way for a more equal, democratic society. Ironically, we now need a revolution in our current time period more than ever.
There is no clear-cut conclusion to be reached in this story, no obvious moral lesson to be preached.
But! If a woman as mild-mannered as de Lamballe can be slaughtered in the name of liberty, we can surely guillotine a celebrity or politician or two…right?
To conclude, the internet is full of histrionic individuals worshiping the tragic bromance of Princess de Lamballe and Marie Antoinette. The princess perhaps may be the ultimate Ride or Die. She is the type of girl we all need by our side.
Images of the princess’ gory demise have consistently been painted and engraved, for hundreds of years after the fact. The world is obsessed and captivated by this woman’s death, as it came to symbolize everything that was deranged and scary about the French Revolution.
Regardless of everything; the princess and her decapitated head will definitely live on forever in infamy, tragedy and controversy. She embodies the darkest side of glitz and glamour; the highest high, and the lowest, bloodiest end.
And now, I will definitely have nightmares about levitating disembodied heads after writing this massive wall of text.