Chelsea Hotel: Nadia’s Severed Hand

In the 1920s the Chelsea Hotel was still at its peak even though the theatre district had moved uptown to Herald Square. At this point the 23^rd street neighborhood was getting a little rundown. This story is about a family who lived in a large suite of rooms at the Chelsea. 

Nadia was their spoiled daughter who grew up with the Chelsea’s artistic influence around her. So it was no surprise when she became a painter—her delicate work was done in the Japanese style on sheets of the finest silk cut from bolts of cloth that her father, a successful silk merchant, would bring home from his warehouse.

Nadia still in her teens met and married a handsome playwright and songwriter who sold his songs along old Tin Pan Alley on 27^th Street. The newlyweds struggled with finances moving from one rooming house to another. Nadia discovered early on that her husband loved the drink too much, he managed to avoid serving in the war but he rarely found work. Nadia tried to sale her paintings but when even this failed, the young couple that already had two children found themselves in dire circumstances.

Nadia’s father made her a deal if she agreed to do all the housework she and her family could move back in with her parents at the Chelsea. Nadia didn’t like the idea but her husband convinced her to accept. She quickly regretted her decision because she found herself doing all the cleaning, cooking and washing for her large extended family. Her husband’s drinking worsened and he was no longer able to bring in the few dollars he had in the past. To top the situation off her mother was incontinent and had to have her undergarments washed out by hand on a regular basis.

Nadia’s father viewed her marriage with displeasure--he had originally been against her choice of husband so he decided to teach her a lesson –he refused to give her any money. A religious man he felt she must reap what she had sewn. Already stretched to the limit with work Nadia was forced to take in piecework to make ends meet. Despite this Nadia was able to snatch a few minutes each day for her intricate art.

Unfortunately, even her art could not console her. As the years passed she became more and more bitter and disillusioned. She found her hands could no longer translate her ideas onto the canvas. All the washing, cleaning and needlework had left her hands calloused and knotted. Her joints felt stiff and sore. Her skin, which once had been creamy smooth was now coarse and reddened. One day as she viewed her hands with distaste Nadia started to even resent them. She felt a deep anguish as she cried out, “I’m working my fingers to the bone.”

Still in her early twenties Nadia started to manifest signs of a mental illness. At one point she was hospitalized in a facility on Long Island for a nervous disorder and hysteria. She insisted something was wrong with her hands but her doctors found no evidence of this. Her father not willing to continue paying out money for her care and finding her “loss” to the upkeep of the household too great brought her home. Soon Nadia was back at work but her problems returned.

One night as her children slept, her husband passed out on the floor from his latest binge. Nadia bent over a wash tub scrubbing out her mothers soiled undergarments,  stiffly moved off her knees so she could approach a canvas she had been working on. In her mind it was to be her masterpiece—it was a scene of cranes cavorting in the Bethesda Fountain. She picked up a brush with great effort and added some final strokes. She stepped back to survey her work.

Not liking what she saw she became enraged and grabbed a pair of industrial shears she used to cut the silk fabric she used, she proceeded to slash the canvas to shreds. She then placed her right wrist between the blades and fell upon the handles with all her weight—severing her delicate hand.

The pain seared through her, it became unbearable. Screaming in agony Nadia gave up—she rushed to the window, threw open the French doors, and flung herself over the balcony. She continued to scream as she fell five floors to her death. 

Since her suicide Nadia returns to the Chelsea on moonless nights to haunt the hotel. She is seen hovering outside peoples’ balconies. It is said she waves her bloody stump, but it appears that she cannot enter the Chelsea. Some say this is the retribution she must pay for taking her own life.