Circus Fire Memories Survivor Recollections of July 6, 1944

Don Massey, Editor

Willow Brook Press | Simsbury, Connecticut

Copyright © 2006 Hartford Circus Fire Memorial Foundation All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Willow Brook Press, Simsbury, Connecticut RINGLING BROS. AND BARNUM & BAILEY® and THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH® are federally registered trademarks and service marks of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Combined Shows, Inc. Publisher's Cataloging-In-Publication Data Circus fire memories: survivor recollections of July 6, 1944/Don Massey, editor. -- 1st trade ed. p.: ill.; cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN: 978-1-930601-22-2 1. Hartford Circus Fire, Hartford, Conn., 1944--Personal narratives. 2. Fires-Connecticut--Hartford--History. 3. Arson--Connecticut--Hartford--History. 4. Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Combined Shows--History. 5. Hartford (Conn.)--History--20th century. I. Massey, Don, 1948– F104.H3 M386 2006 974.63/042/092

2006939191 The Donahue Group, Inc.

www.hartfordcircusfire.com Manufactured in the United States of America First Limited Trade Edition

PREFACE

T

he idea for a compilation of first-person survivor narratives was born during the same three-year period in which the Hartford Circus Fire Memorial was conceived and executed as a charitable mission on behalf of the people of Hartford. As our collaborative mission evolved, it became clear to the Foundation board that the memorial project we envisioned would require more from us than the installation of a permanent architectural tribute to the victims of a tragic event, a commemoration that would be sixty years overdue by the time we installed the circus fire memorial in July 2005. The mission of the Foundation expanded to include the collection and assessment of survivor memories, and public outreach began when we posted a link on our Memorial website that invited survivors and others with a direct first-hand connection to the Ringling circus fire to submit their recollections, no matter how brief, no matter how extensive, so that an archive could be created. Over time, it became clear that there were many people whose memories of July 6, 1944 were still vivid, and those individuals expressed avid interest in contributing their thoughts. During the memorial

Circus Fire Memories installation ceremony, hundreds of people signed advance requests for copies of the narrative compilation, leading the Foundation to believe that there was an emotional void within a community comprised of thousands of people from around the country, a vacant space in the landscape of our memorial mission, a space that would have to be filled. With the approval of my fellow board members, I was given the responsibility to compile, edit, publish, and present the finished narrative compilation on behalf of the Foundation, and that has been my personal mission for the last two years. Whether sent to me by mail or submitted online, the collection of personal accounts soon grew exponentially, and I found myself inundated with material, much of which included information that had never been revealed before. The scope and purpose of the proposed book project, as well as the emotional impact it would have on the survivor community and the public at-large, crystallized quickly. The first-level editorial process began late in 2004, continuing through 2005 with an eye toward creating a book of survivor memories. Because of the sheer volume of submissions and the varying size of each recollection, my first obligation was to sort the documents, and I did so without paying close attention to specific content or an inherent message. Having previously written A Matter of Degree, the nonfiction account of the Ringling blaze, with Lieutenant Rick Davey in 2001, I was convinced that my knowledge of the circus fire was extensive, if not complete, and that my emotional reaction to the facts of the tragedy had already been fully mined, and that there was nothing trapped on the tips of my nerve endings, waiting to be released. I convinced myself that I had previously culled the facts and had gone through the necessary catharsis that comes after a long period of committed effort. I was certain that there was nothing more to learn, nothing more to be uncovered that would stake another emotional claim on my inner turf. I had researched the fire, written about the time in which it occurred, and I had long ago experienced and accommodated the emotions that arose with the telling. iv

Circus Fire Memories I was wrong. As I read each story more intensely during the editing phase, the sheer emotional force carried by the stories, recollections, memories, revelations that were sent in brought the circus fire to life for me in a way I could not have imagined. Here, at long last, were the actual voices of the actual people who had experienced the actual blaze, felt its heat, witnessed its destructive effects, suffered the loss of loved ones, come to grips with the sorrow—and the guilty knowledge of their own survival—that followed their escape from the burning grip of death, often with physical and emotional scars that would be carried for a lifetime, symbols of a tragedy that most had never spoken of in all the years since the blaze destroyed the Ringling circus and the innocent expectation of happiness with which the people of one small city in one small state had lived their lives, even while their country was at war. Until the summer of 2005, there had never been a place to visit, a means to remember, an opportunity to come together as a group with an awareness of shared experience, albeit tragic and devastating, no way to express what had been on their minds, in their hearts, trapped in silence, in some cases condemning survivors to a life of social constraint, a life inhibited and circumscribed by the limits of their memory, and their fear, and the incessant search for safe spaces in public places. All at once, there would be an opportunity to speak the unspeakable and not be afraid, to reveal secret truths that had moved restlessly within their spirits for so long, and they would not be alone in the telling. Although written and published for all to read, they would be among their sisters and brothers in survival and suffering, each of whom would have something unique and precious to reveal, an emotion to express, a loved one to remember, a regret for which they would seek forgiveness. In a way, they would be gathered under a symbolic covering of collective memory, and that emotional linkage to pastmade-present would give them the comfort they would v

Circus Fire Memories need to expose their experiences—and a part of themselves—to the world, often for the very first time. I have been granted a profound privilege. I have been given free access to the hearts, minds, souls and memories of people whose tragic experience I did not share, but whose pain I once wrote about, all in the attempt to bring as much truth to that experience as could be gleaned from the distance of six decades. They opened themselves to me, a stranger, for the purpose of collecting and presenting their stories, an act of trust for which I will always be grateful. I have tried to be faithful to each person, each family, each fact, and I ask the survivors themselves to judge how well their memories have been preserved and presented. I hope they find that their trust was well placed. Whether it is the revelation of grief and loss, or the joy derived from recovery and restoration, the reader will find it in the stories compiled here. The narratives in this collection are presented in the voice of each writer, their words shown just as they were composed and submitted. On rare occasions, minor grammar, syntax and spelling corrections have been made because they were necessary, but my purpose in doing so was merely to assist each writer in fully and effectively expressing the meaning of their personal narrative, not to change the content of their work. You are about to enter a world of emotional memory. I have made this journey before you, and I can promise that it will be worth your time and attention. The Ringling circus fire of July 6, 1944 was a national tragedy of immense human proportions, a wartime homeland holocaust that is still too little known by the American people, even six decades after the fact. If a catastrophe of the same size and scope were to happen today, the victims and survivors would be granted the kind of attention and assistance that the circus fire community needed but could not obtain in 1944, to say nothing of the worldwide media attention that would be accorded such a tragedy. vi

Circus Fire Memories I am immensely grateful to the circus fire survivors and their families for permission to have entered their lives, if only as a medium for their voices, their histories. At various points along the way, I have cried for them, and cheered for them as they reached deep within themselves to find the power to carry on. I have marveled at their courage and perseverance, and I have been inspired by their belief in the possibility of recovery, restoration and the continuation of life, even when unforeseen circumstances change that life in ways both simple and profound, calling for more spiritual strength than most human beings believe they possess. Although the circus fire survivors are the authors of this narrative collection, it is to them that this book is dedicated. Without their commitment and cooperation, without their courageous willingness to share the truth of their experiences in that defining moment in 1944, this work would not exist, and the chain of revelation would have lost its final link. Don Massey November 2006

vii

2:40 PM

As the wild lion act ends, a small ball of flame breaks out high on the sidewalls of the Ringling circus tent. Precious time ticks by before the audience feels danger. Flames climb high to the Big Top, causing a desperate stampede.

Circus Fire Memories Although I turned ninety this past May, it’s difficult for me to recall the circus fire sixty years ago without tears coming to my eyes. July 6, 1944 was filled with emotional extremes—intense joy and immense sadness. That day, my husband John took our five-year-old son, Ronnie, to the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey circus, while I stayed home in Rocky Hill to bake a birthday cake for our daughter, Janet, who was turning one that day. I was ironing when I heard the radio announce that there was a catastrophic circus fire in Hartford. At first, I thought I must have heard it wrong, but the news was continually repeated. Within moments, my next-door neighbor, Margaret DiMartino, was at my side, promising to remain with me until we heard more. Minutes seemed like days. I can still recall the joy I felt when my husband drove into the driveway. John had seen the fire start on the opposite side of the tent, and quickly raced across the supporting ropes. He also heard the orchestra change its tune. He grabbed young Ronnie and, with the help of a stranger, he somehow pulled a portion of the tent up and escaped. Ronnie was crying because he had lost a shoe during the escape. Both John and I laughed, assuring our young son that we would buy him many shoes. Our joy was short-lived. Within a few hours, John’s brother-in-law Frank called, asking for help in finding his wife, Dorothy. Unbeknownst to us, Dorothy had taken their three children to the circus. Their daughter Roberta and son Barry had escaped, and daughter Georgina was brought to the hospital, but Dorothy was still missing. John drove off to search for his sister, with Frank at the armory, which had been transformed into a makeshift morgue. When my husband returned hours later, he 3

Circus Fire Memories couldn’t speak. He had seen the unspeakable—bodies of charred victims, his sister, Dorothy, among them. I visited Georgiana in the hospital. She was badly burned, and her breathing was labored. I believe that she was in a netherworld, free from pain and earthly concerns. I knew death would come soon. It did. Just as we returned from Dorothy’s funeral, we got word that Georgiana had joined her mother. Sixty years have passed. John died in 1984, having lived an additional forty years after the fire. Our 65-yearold son, Ron, lives in Oklahoma City, a grandfather with nine grandchildren. People may wonder: Why now? Why put up a memorial after so many years? I say because it acknowledges the human toll. More than 6,000 people were under the Big Top that day. The memorial will not only recall the loss of the 168 people who died. It will also acknowledge the 700-plus people who were injured. And it recognizes those who were lucky enough to escape that inferno. Moreover, the memorial will stand as a silent testament to all the families whose lives were forever altered that day and whose stories seldom get heard. Sixty years may seem a long time, but there is no time limit on grief—it is a lifelong process. Lilla Burke

4

Circus Fire Memories My mother and older brother, Rosaline C. Adams and Thomas E. Adams, were survivors of the fire. They were from Canton, CT at the time of the fire, and were lucky to be attending with a friend who was pregnant: she wanted to sit near an exit. I was not born at the time of the fire. I heard little about it while I was growing up, but it still affected my life. I never attended a circus, and I always look for seating near an exit myself. My mother passed away in 1999 at the age of 93, and my brother, who was almost three at the time of the fire, now lives in New Hartford. Mary Adams

 Joy Petersen, who was just six years old in the summer of 1944, wrote about her circus fire experience, and recalled that several family members were with her that day, including Hansine Andersen (Joy’s grandmother), Cora E. Andersen (Joy’s mother, who was 94 years old at the time this account was written), and Hans Andersen, her then-five-year-old brother. DM On that terrible, tragic afternoon, July 6, 1944, four members of our family managed to escape from the Hartford circus fire. We were sitting on the bleachers, but not very high up. Grandma Andersen was very arthritic, and could not walk up too far. When the fire started, we got down and exited the tent at the exit that was closest to our seats. Grandma held onto my brother’s hand, and Mom held onto mine. My shoe came off as we tried to get away as fast as possible. We were so lucky on “the day the clowns cried." I remember reading the captions in the newspaper, and finding it so hard to understand why no one could identify Little Miss 1565. It seemed that her picture was shown over and over in an attempt to have someone recognize her. Joy E. (Andersen) Petersen 5

Circus Fire Memories I lived in the north end of Hartford all my childhood, "born and raised" as they say. One of my relatives was Dave Blanchfield (“Uncle Dave” to us), who ran away and joined the circus in earlier years. Every July, he would come down the hill on Winchester Street in a Jeep, wearing a cowboy hat with a red kerchief around his neck. He would stop at our home and drop off reserved seat tickets for my brothers and me, then go on up the street to the Blanchfield’s home. Any of the neighborhood kids would get some tickets in reserved section of the tent. On this July 6th, I was nine years old, sitting on the curbstone with Billy Dineen while his sister, Marion, was visiting a girlfriend's house, when down the hill came Uncle Dave. He stopped when he saw us and told me that he had already given my mother our tickets, and that Billy's sister had his. He then went on up to his relative's home and handed out some tickets to some friends who lived on the first floor. I asked Billy if he was going in the afternoon, and he said his sister was taking him. I ran into the house and asked my mother if we were going in the afternoon. She said no, we would go at night (so exciting to a nine year old), as she had a migraine. My brothers were going to go to the Lenox Theater, as it had air conditioning and it was so hot. Later on in the afternoon, I walked up to the Blanchfield’s home and visited with my Aunt Ann Blanchfield and my cousin, "young" David. It was David who looked up and saw this huge black cloud and immediately knew it was the circus. He was the only one on the street who had a car in those days, as he was home on leave from the service, so he could get gasoline. The lady on the first floor and I went with him up to Barbour Street. Mrs. Kelliher was her name, and both her daughters were at the circus with the Dineens. We couldn't get any closer than Martin Street. The roads were filled with hoses snaking up and down the middle of the street, and people running every which way. It was utter chaos, so we quickly drove to the Dineen’s home and 6

Circus Fire Memories waited. Finally, the Kelliher girls showed up, but no Dineens. That was my first brush with losing a friend. We waited quietly in the yard and I can see Fr. Looney, our St. Michael's parish priest, walking up through the back yard. He was going into the house to tell Mrs. Dineen that he had identified Billy. Then someone told me that Billy had died in the fire. Nobody bothered with me, but I remember just sitting there, trying to figure out if I was ever going to see him again. I remember going home, and young David dropping me off. I told my mother and dad, who were waiting on the front porch. I think they were in shock; for the first time, we hadn't gone to the circus in the afternoon. If we had, we would have been sitting with the Dineens and Kellihers. It's as real to me today as it was then: the heat, Billy's face, sitting under the two trees in front of the Gavins house, talking about the plans to go to the circus.

Annamae Sullivan Davis

 In the early days of July 1944, the war news coming via the radio from France to our home in Storrs, Connecticut was almost all good. My mother, Frances Cook, felt a sense of euphoria, which quickly spread to my two brothers, Wendell, Jr., 12, John, 9, and me. I had just turned eleven. The arrival in Hartford of the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus under the Big Top was definitely the happiest event to take place since the beginning of the war. My mother, in a moment of weakness, decided we would all go to the circus twenty five miles away, in spite of gas rationing, and in spite of the fact that she never learned to enjoy driving the old 7

Circus Fire Memories 1936 Ford. Until the war, our father, Wendell, Sr., had been the only driver. Now, he was serving in France as part of the D-Day Third Wave. July 6, 1944 was exactly one month after the Allies landed in Normandy, and the great battle to push the Germans out of France was well under way. The day was horribly hot and muggy, but in spite of the heat we dressed up in our best clothes for the trip. Finally, all of us hot but happy, climbed into the car, and our brave mother drove the long twisting bumpy road twenty five miles to the G. Fox and Company parking garage in Hartford. Once there, we spent the morning shopping, and had formal pictures taken of each of us to send to our father. After lunch, mother herded us onto a bus (a “first” experience for all of us) that would carry us to the circus. When the bus stopped near the big top, we quickly climbed down the steps and headed for the huge tent. Inside the tent, the heat was stifling. Mother led us past the animal cages and told us to find seats in the first section on the right. Wendell found seats in the seventh row, next to an aisle. John and I sat by the edge, with Wendell and our mother on the other side of us. We soon realized that our seats were in the cheap section. John and I complained vigorously, for it quickly became evident that we had great difficulty seeing what was going on. We missed most of the lion act. The band played loudly. We heard the music, but all the action was over on the other side of the lion cages directed toward the Grand Stand. We could not see! It was hot. We were dripping wet! At least we could hear the band. John spotted a clown. Where? He pointed to the clown. Suddenly, about ten minutes into the show, I heard someone yell “Fire.” I turned around and saw long narrow flames leaping up the tent wall behind us. At first I thought it was a joke. All the clowns would surely come running and put out the flames. But the shouts of “Fire” grew louder, and people were jumping down to the aisle by my seat and running. I shouted to John to jump. We both jumped down. Then Mother and Wendell jumped 8

Circus Fire Memories down. We started to leave. Behind me, I saw that Wendell’s glasses were knocked off. I yelled at him to leave them, but he stooped to pick them up anyway. The crowd pushed me toward the exit, leaving no way for me to wait for Wendell and Mother. I tried to keep track of John, but the crowd quickly pushed him away from me. I ran with the crowd toward the exit where we had entered a short time earlier. Later, I learned that Mother had somehow held the crowd back until Wendell stood up with his glasses. The crowd pushed me on. I kept running and running, past the lion cages, past more animal cages to the right, outside the tent. I kept running until I was across the street from the circus, next to a pole. I turned around and watched the dark heavy smoke billowing up from the tent. People were everywhere. I stood on the spot, next to the pole where I had turned around. Should I go back and look for the others? Where were they? What should I do? Someone once told me that, if a person is lost, he should stay put and wait until a familiar person comes. Shouldn’t I look for the others? I planted myself by that pole in my blue and white dress, scanning the hundreds of people going by for what seemed like hours, silently crying deep inside myself, and making myself stop thinking about “What if?” To this day, I do not know how long it was before I saw John across the street, talking to a policeman. He had lost his package of clothes that we purchased in the morning, and he couldn’t wait to get away from the chaos. As I ran to him, Mother and Wendell miraculously appeared from the crowd and headed toward John, reaching him before I got there. John was in the process of asking the policeman how to get back to G. Fox and Company parking lot. We were all thankful John hadn’t gone back inside the burning tent to look for his package. We were thankful that Mother and Wendell made it out of the tent just before it collapsed. My memory of that day fades just after I found my family. I have no memory of how we got back to the car, or how we got home. In her letters to Father, Mother described how she was in a terrible state by the 9

Circus Fire Memories time we arrived back at the G. Fox & Co. parking garage. She was petrified of driving to Storrs in heavy traffic, with all the sirens screaming. Somehow, Ed Moore, a neighbor, found us and drove the old Ford home. As we arrived home, another neighbor, Roy Jones, had gotten our car registration and was preparing to head to Hartford to look for us. I remember the day the state policeman came to our house. He sat at the dining room table and interviewed each of us separately; he showed us pictures of the burnt tent, bleachers, and cages. When it was my turn, I showed him where we sat and told him about the long narrow flame climbing up the tent wall behind us. John and my interviews were short. Mother and Wendell, however, were in the dining room for a long time. Wendell had extremely poor eyesight, but had a gift for remembering details. He had spent several days drawing diagrams of the fire, and he wrote down every detail he could remember. It was Wendell who had smelled paper burning before a man yelled, “Fire.” He also remembered exactly where we sat. The hand-tinted photos taken at G. Fox and Company that morning are still encased in a leather folder with a real four-leaf clover on the cover. Mother never did send those pictures to Father, for she kept thinking that he would soon return. The homecoming did not happen until the spring of 1945. Mother passed away in Billings, Montana on July 6, 1999, the fifty-fifth anniversary of the fire. Later, I came upon her letters to Father. She told him about the fire and about their friends who survived the fire and about their friends who had died or were still missing. She told him about the funeral she attended for Mrs. Putnam and her daughter Mary, who was a good friend and classmate of John. The packet contained no news clippings of the fire.

Barbara Cook Arnold 10

Circus Fire Memories I am a survivor of the 1944 Hartford Circus Fire. I was thirteen years old when my parents let me attend the circus with my brother, Jimmy Barrows, and my friend, Maureen Moriarty. We were excited when we arrived at the circus, and we first visited the sideshows and then proceeded to view the elephants. As we were a little early, we entered the big tent and proceeded to the right, and arranged ourselves in the folding chairs. Within minutes, we were politely told that this section was reserved for military servicemen. We then went back to the right comer of the tent, where the fire was to start, but being kids, we decided to move once again to the left side corner. The big tent was filling up fast, so we went about three quarters up the bleachers and finally found our seats. We decided that, since it was so hot, cold drinks would be great! While my brother and friend remained seated, I made my way down the bleachers, back to the right side of the tent, and purchased three bottles of soda and was given paper fans. With my arms full, I started back up the bleachers toward my seat, and I heard a roar of fire. As I turned to the left, I saw the flames shooting up the tent within seconds. The other spectators heard and saw the same, and they began to run from their seats down the bleachers toward the exits. In the mass panic, I was pushed between the bleachers to the ground, losing my pocketbook, the soda, and my shoes. I immediately got up, though bruised, and ran outside but I could not find my brother or my friend. Prior to leaving home that day, my parents admonished me to take care of my little brother. Without further thought, I ran back into the burning tent to find Jimmy. But I was immediately picked up by a man running out of the tent, and he forcibly carried me back outside. I remember, sadly, that as he was carrying me away, I was hysterically tearing at his face and trying to get away so that I may find my brother. As it turned out, God was 11

Circus Fire Memories with all of us, as my friend Maureen and my brother Jimmy were found safe and together. Now we were faced with another problem, which was how to get home as we were now without money. We decided to make our way to a nearby house to call home. Though we were allowed to use the telephone at the house, the lines were jammed. On our way to this home, we saw so many burned people running or being carried away on stretchers. We then decided to walk to the bus stop. The three of us walked from the site of the circus fire to the comer of Morgan and State Street. We were disheveled, dirty and exhausted. Fortunately, the bus pulled up and, before we could tell the bus driver that we did not have any money, the bus driver said, "Come aboard and rest." While we were making our way home, my friend's father, who knew we were at the circus, was already in Hartford and was checking the temporary morgues where victims of the fire were brought. While at the Brown Street School, he mistakenly identified me as a victim of the fire. Within minutes, our bus pulled to a stop at the comer of Main and Linden Street in East Hartford. We were home. My loving parents were beside themselves with profound relief. As it turned out, Dad had tried to get to the circus fire site but was turned back by authorities. To this day, the sights, sounds and smells of the Hartford circus fire remain a vivid memory. I still have a lingering fear of walking up bleachers. I am instantly stressed by the sound of fire sirens, and when I enter a room, I instinctively note where the exits are. Dolores Barrows Arsenault



12