The Circus Fire (32 page)

From Evanston, Robert Ringling publicly insisted the circus had no priority for fireproofing. Locally, show folks tried to put the fire in a better light, saying it would have been worse if the spec had been on at the time,

with all the horses circling the track and Emmett Kelly's float drawn by eight elephants. Equally lucky was the decision not to raise the menagerie top. The
National Fire Protection Association Quarterly
would later bring up another, worse scenario: What if it had taken place at night, the crowd forced to flee through the maze of stakes and ropes with just the reflected light of the fire to guide them?

Journalists shredded Robert Ringling's excuse of not having priority even before it hit print. The
New York Daily News
reported that the Big Top Circus failed a burn test there the past June and then spent $6,000 to flameproof its main tent. They also cited, along with every other paper, the post—Cocoanut Grove laws prohibiting inflammable curtains, drapes, costumes or decorations in any public theater, and how thousands of nightclubs had complied by using fireproofing.

That argument settled, writers and circus publicists turned to the origin, as yet undetermined. Along with cigarettes, spotlights were obvious suspects. An editor at the
Windham County Transcript
wrote: "Shortly after the performance started, there seemed to be a flash from one of a dozen spotlights which illuminated the performers and at that moment I happened to glance up at the flash and noticed a flame had started about as round as a half dollar which in no time had ignited the whole canvas." This account matched that of a circus hand given yesterday at the scene to a policeman: "I saw the fire start. It was right over the cleanest part of the ring there [pointing to a spot at the west end] and there was a flash among the spotlights at the top of the pole." Several larger papers also mentioned that authorities were first suspicious of the lights "which sat high in the corners of the main tent."

In the
Times,
circus flack Hal Olver flatly denied that the fire started near the men's room. "The fire definitely started at the roof of the tent." One prosecutor said his investigation had established the same point. Asked how it could have started on the roof, Olver said, "We have a theory, but we're not making it public now. We expect to make an announcement later." As for speculation that it had been a cigarette: "I defy anybody to set the canvas afire with a cigarette."

A private eye in Washington, D.C., sent a cryptic telegram to Commissioner Hickey saying he had information "worth your while."

The National Fire Protection Association (NFPA) noted that these

kinds of terrible fires brought about safeguards: the Iroquois Theater fire in Chicago spawning theater regulations; the Triangle Shirtwaist Company fire doing the same for factories; the Cocoanut Grove for nightclubs; the Lakewood School fire in Ohio for schools. Perhaps, they said, the circus fire would do the same and in that way serve some purpose.

The thought that the city would be remembered for providing a bad example was no consolation to Hartford. The fire would have been a civic embarrassment anywhere, but to have it fall on Hartford, whose fire prevention techniques the NFPA and other organizations had lauded as exemplary, awarding them national prizes for fire safety, was especially cruel. To the insurance industry as a whole it was a humiliating blow.

In the minds of the city fathers, the question of who would pay the damages had already been decided. Mayor Mortensen said he'd been informed that the circus carried $500,000 worth of public liability insurance. With no apparent irony, city officials announced that they were investigating the question of the city's liability. One city councilman asserted that he was convinced the city had no liability whatsoever because the Barbour Street grounds "had been leased to Ringling Brothers in their entirety and without reservations." No one in the city government argued with him.

The first claim granted in probate court was an application appointing Salvatore DiMartino as administrator of the estate of his wife Anna DiMartino. Immediately following the appointment a writ was given the deputy sheriff for service on the Ringling Bros, and Barnum & Bailey Circus Inc., with instructions to attach the rolling stock of the show at the Windsor Street yards, preventing any removal of equipment until adequate security could be provided. The deputy was directed to appoint the yard superintendent of the railroad as keeper. The flood of writs on top of DiMartino's kept the deputy busy writing up attachment papers the rest of the night.

Around 7:30, Commissioner Hickey assigned a state trooper to assist Emily Gill in trying to find her niece Eleanor Cook. She'd heard from a nurse's aide and a social worker at Municipal Hospital of a girl fitting Eleanor's description who had died there last night. Along with another man, she'd tried to find the girl in the armory, but had only seen 1565 again. Now the three of them and a Hartford police officer set out to check all the funeral homes in the area that had taken away bodies of girls

Eleanor's age (eight). They looked at all the children at Dillon's, Pratt's, Farley's, Talarski's, Newkirk's and Hartford Memorial, but couldn't find anyone who fit Eleanor's description.

The trooper called Municipal Hospital to see if he could talk to the nurse's aide, but she was off duty. He got hold of the social worker at home; she described the child at Municipal as having severe burns from the waist down but only slight burns on the left side of her face.

The trooper asked Emily Gill for a picture of Eleanor. They stopped by 4 Marshall Street and got one, then retraced their steps. No luck. The case remained open.

Back at the armory, another body returned, #1522, previously identified as Joan-Lee Smith. Though it matched the five-year-old's general description, a tooth she'd lost the week before didn't fit the jaw. William Menser attached a new tag with a different number to the body and set it on a cot.

Mary Kurneta's brother-in-law identified her by shreds of clothing, leaving of their party only Raymond Erickson still unaccounted for. His father was on his way home from Gulfport, having been given compassionate leave.

The machinist from Waterbury who'd been notified at work learned from his wife that the initial report had been wrong; their daughter had
not
gotten out of the tent. He found his mother-in-law and his daughter under one blanket. They were the woman and child discovered together beneath the sidewall.

The armory would be closing at 9:00 P.M., the sound car announced. Besides the nurses and troopers and clerks, the floor was nearly empty, only ten or so searchers, twenty bodies. And still, to Barber and Lowe's surprise, 1565 lay there on her cot, her face seared on the left cheek but otherwise untouched. The rest of the bodies were charcoal.

At Emanuel Synagogue at the corner of Greenfield and Woodland Streets, two girls who escaped the fire attended a special service dedicated to the victims and their families. The rabbi intoned the names of congregation members who had passed away, and those in need of prayers for recovery. The temperature was in the eighties and the building was packed. The two girls had trouble staying in their seats, inching toward the aisle. They were afraid they wouldn't be able to get out if there was a fire.

At Municipal, nurses readied nine patients for transfer to Hartford Hospital. Mildred Cook was among them, in fair condition. With Edward gone, the doctors had no reason to keep her there. Hartford would be better for her. Aides placed the stretchers in the rear of the ambulances, then closed the doors. Riding downtown with Mildred Cook was the birthday girl, Shirley Snelgrove.

At the armory, the night ended with a flurry—which may have been desperation. There were no plans to open the morgue on Saturday, and both Dr. Weissenborn and Mayor Mortensen had made public statements about the necessity of burying the unclaimed dead. At this point, families may have taken whatever they could get.

The man who'd told the detective keeping the list that he couldn't make it to the armory until 6:00 finally came to identify his wife and their six-year-old son. During the fire, the man had their daughter on his shoulders as he made for the northwest chute, hoping to go out the front door. When he realized his wife and son had fallen behind, he threw the girl to a man on the far side of the bars and fought his way back into the mob. He never found them, fleeing as the top collapsed, burning his neck and back. He'd been treated as an outpatient at St. Francis, then tracked down his daughter at Municipal. Now he found the rest of his family.

A cousin identified one mother. After telling her son to jump, she'd done likewise, but the tent came down on top of her, pinning her to the ground. She never got up.

An East Hartford policeman escorted an older woman who was looking for her companion. The woman said her friend had a clubfoot. The policeman searched the women's section but couldn't find anyone with a clubfoot. Some had legs that were just stubs; maybe she was one of them. He went back to the woman and asked for another identifying feature, something she wore, perhaps. She had an odd watch, the woman said, an old one. He inspected the wrists of the bodies and this time he found her. Her feet had been burned off.

The cop told the woman that it was her, but he didn't want her to look at the body because it was so badly burned. As he said this, the woman moaned, "Ooohh," as if to faint. He went to support her, a hand on her back. When he touched her, she screamed.

Her back was raw. She hadn't realized she could suffer burns through

her clothing, and for more than a day had tried to ignore the pain, thinking it was temporary. The policeman flagged down a Salvation Army officer, who took her to Hartford Hospital.

The last body identified at the armory was that of a little girl whose mother couldn't hang on to her in the crush. She was four years old and their dentist confirmed that these were her teeth.

Minutes later, at the strike of nine, a guard locked the grates and closed the doors. Of the 135 bodies brought to the armory, all but fifteen had been identified—two men, six women and seven children. Of these, many had no hands and feet. One woman was almost entirely missing her head. Among them, oddly, was 1565, in excellent condition yet unclaimed. The Cocoanut Grove contingent conferred briefly with Dr. Weissenborn. At this point they could offer him no more help; they would be flying back to Boston tonight. Weissenborn agreed with their assessment. Publicly he doubted whether any of the fifteen would be identified.

It was too hot to keep them here another night. Hartford Hospital offered their refrigerated morgue, and Weissenborn accepted. A mortician embalmed the unidentified as best he could, registering as evidence any effects left on the bodies. The Red Cross enlisted several Sage-Allen delivery trucks to move them. Detectives Barber and Lowe helped load the bodies, then followed them down Broad and onto Capitol, the procession passing beneath the streetlights.

The state guard and the Red Cross and the War Council finalized their lists and packed their typewriters away, folded their tables and their cots, unplugged their silent phones. They cleared the drill floor, leaving the shed empty, its windows open to the night air.

By the circus grounds, police tow trucks were pulling the Chevys out of Mrs. Howrigan's backyard, bumping over the grass. Down the street, a wrecker's winch lifted the front tires of a fancy black sedan—Michael Norris's '41 Olds. Besides Agnes, dead at Municipal, so far the car was the only trace left of the family.

July 8 , 1944

At 3:00 A.M. Saturday morning the deputy sheriff attached the seventy-nine flatcars and coaches owned by the circus at the Windsor Street yards, leaving copies of the writs with officials of the New Haven, New York and Hartford Railroad.

Salvatore DiMartino's was the first suit listed. As administrator for his wife's estate, he was asking for $15,000, the maximum penalty for a death by accident in Connecticut. The complaint said that while Mrs. DiMartino "was sitting in said main show of said circus, a fire broke out which engulfed the tent and surroundings like a wild fire, causing a terrible conflagration, and catching said Anna DiMartino in its force and violence, and burning her to death." In addition to the circus, defendants in the action included Messrs. Haley, Smith, Aylesworth, Blanchfield and Versteeg.

It was the first of hundreds of suits against the circus, the accused, and the city of Hartford. Alert attorneys instructed their clients to hold on to their ticket stubs.

The cause had still not been determined. Commissioner Hickey asked city police to assign the same officer the task of locating the man who'd told him "that dirty son of a bitch just threw a cigarette butt." The policeman succeeded in broadcasting the man's description over WDRC and getting the
Courant
and
Times
to print it, but no one came forward.