Lest We Forget: Chicago's Awful Theater Horror

The crowds fought so in their efforts to escape that they tore away the iron railings of the balconies, leaping upon the people below.

From 3 o'clock, when the alarm was sent in, to 7:30 o'clock, when the doors of the theater were closed, the charred, torn, and blistered bodies were carried from the building at the rate of four a minute. One hundred were taken out across the plank way.

Many blankets filled with fragments of human bodies were taken from the building.

Hundreds of bodies were taken from the building, their clothing gone, their faces charred beyond recognition. Under pretense of serving as rescuers ghouls gained entrance to the theater and robbed the dead and dying in the midst of the fire.

Men fell on their knees and prayed. Men and women cursed. A rush was made for the Randolph street exits. In their fear the crowds forgot the many side exits, and rushed for the doors at which they had entered the theater. Little boys and girls were thrown to one side by their stronger companions.

Ten baskets of money and jewelry thrown in this manner were picked up from the main floor when the fire was extinguished.

Men and women tore their clothing from them. As the first rush was made for the foyer entrance to the balconies men, women and children were thrown bodily down the steps.

A few score of those nearest the doorways escaped by falling or being thrown down the stairs of the main balcony entrances.

Scores were wedged in the doorways, pinned by the force of those behind them. There in the narrow aisle at the balcony entrances they were suffocated and fell – tons of human weight.

All succeeded in leaving their seats in the first balcony. Climbing over the seats and rushing up the slanting aisles to the level aisles above, they fought their way. Those at the bottom of the mass were burned but little. The top layer of bodies was burned till they never can be identified.

Darkness shrouded the theater with its hundreds of dead when the fire was under control that the building could be entered. The firemen were forced to work in smoky darkness when they started carrying the bodies from the balconies.

THE GALLERY HORROR

James M. Strong, a Chicago board of trade clerk, the sole survivor of all the occupants of the gallery who tried to escape through the locked door, smashed with his fist a glass transom and climbed through it. Three members of his family, who followed him down the passageway, shared the fate of others. Their bodies since have been discovered, burned almost beyond recognition.

"If the door hadn't been locked hundreds of persons could have saved their lives," said Strong.

The passageway, along which Strong and many now dead ran to supposed safety, led toward the front of the theater, past the top entrance to the gallery. Strong had been unable to secure seats and was standing in the rear of the gallery with his mother, Mrs. B. K. Strong, his wife, and his niece, Vera, 16 years old, of Americus, Ga. When the fire started all ran toward the nearest exit.

"The exit was crowded," said Strong. "We ran on down a passage at the side of it, followed by many others. At the end, down a short flight of steps, was a door. It was locked. In desperation I threw myself against it. I couldn't budge it. Then, standing on the top step of the little stairway, I smashed the glass above with my fist and crawled through the transom.

"When I fell on the outside I heard the screams on the other side, and, scrambling to my feet, I tried again to open the door, but couldn't. The key was not there. I ran down a stairway to the floor below, where I found a carpenter. I asked him to give me something to break down the door, and he got me a short board. I ran back with this and began pounding, but the door was too heavy to be broken.

"I scarcely know what happened afterward. Smoke was pouring over the transom and I felt myself suffocating. Alone, or with the assistance of the carpenter, I at last found myself at the bottom of the stairway opening into the lobby of the theater. From there I pushed my way to the street. Until then I didn't know I was burned."

GIRL'S MIRACULOUS ESCAPE

The most miraculous escape was that of Winnie Gallagher, an 11-year-old girl, who occupied a seat with her aunt almost directly under the stage. When the panic was started she jumped to her feet and after being thrown about and trampled upon and having her clothing torn from her she managed to climb over the seats and reach the street in safety. What few pieces of wearing apparel she had on at the time were in ribbons and a messenger boy, seeing her predicament, pulled off his overcoat and wrapped it around her. She went to the Central station, where she gave the police her name and asked that someone take her to her home, 4925 Michigan avenue.

AN ACCOUNT FROM THE BOXES

The first two lower boxes on the left of the stage were occupied by a party of young women who were being entertained by Mrs. Rollin A. Keyes of Evanston, in honor of her young daughter, Miss Catherine Keyes, who was home from school in Washington for the holidays.

"We arrived at the theater shortly after the first act," said Miss Emily Plamondon of Astoria, Ore., a member of the party, in describing the fire. "As far as I could see the house was filled with women and children, who occupied seats on the first floor and in the galleries. It was about a quarter to 3 when one of the young women in the party asked Mrs. Keyes if she did not smell something burning and an instant afterward a great cloud of smoke spread across the stage and into the body of the house. Immediately we realized the danger we were in, as did all around us. Instead of a rush to the doors, the audience gazed for a moment at the stage, and as a whole the people appeared very calm, under the circumstances, and as if contemplating how they would escape.

"Again another cloud of smoke issued from the stage and several stage hands appeared, shouting at the top of their voices for the people to sit down. But it was only for an instant that they obeyed, for by that time the smoke had spread through the theater and men, women and children were gasping for breath. Then a mad rush was made for the doors and for the supposed exits, but in vain. Mrs. Pearson and Mrs. Keyes commanded us to keep together by all means and just as we were leaving the boxes the theater became darkened, which, I suppose, was caused by the burning out of the electric light, and thus made our escape the harder. We plodded through the aisles until we came within about ten feet of the main entrance without encountering any violence from the panic-stricken women and children who were fighting for their lives. Then the crush became terrible and the members of our party, Mrs. Rollin A. Keyes, Mrs. Pearson, Misses Charlotte Plamondon, Catherine Keyes, Elmore of Oregon, Amelia Ormsby, Grace Hills, Josephine Eddy and Miss Elizabeth Eddy realized that it would be impossible to get to the street through that door.

"It was only a short time, however, when somebody knocked down two doors, which had been locked, and the majority of the people on the first floor escaped through them without serious injury. Miss Charlotte Plamondon, who was bruised about the face and hands, and I were the only ones in the party who escaped with our wraps. The others had their clothes torn almost from them, as they were hurrying from the burning theater.

"Before we had left the boxes the fire had spread to the first row of seats and the stage hands were endeavoring to lower the asbestos curtain. When it was about half down it became caught and the attempt to drop it was abandoned. A great gush of fire then spread to the draperies over the boxes. The people were wonderfully calm, it seemed to me, for so crucial a moment and it was not until the smoke filled the house that they became frantic and screamed for help. We could hardly breathe and I believe had we been in the theater a few minutes longer we, too, would have been suffocated, as the heat and smoke were becoming unendurable. Had the exits been open and unlocked the loss of life would not have been nearly so great."

"We were seated for half an hour before the fire broke out. Our attention was first attracted by a wreath of flame, which crept slowly along the red velvet curtain. We all noticed it. So did the audience and I could see little girls and boys in the orchestra chairs point upward at the slowly moving line of flame. As the fire spread the people in the balcony and on the first floor arose to their feet as if to rush out of the place. Then Eddie Foy hurried to the front of the stage and commanded the people to be quiet, saying that if they would remain seated the danger would be averted. All the people who were then on the stage maintained remarkable presence of mind and the chorus girls endeavored to divert the attention of their auditors off the fire by going on with their parts.

"I looked over the faces of the audience and remarked how many children were present. I could see their faces filled with interest and their eyes wide open as they watched the burning curtain.

"Then I looked behind me and realized the awful consequence should the people become alarmed. The doors, except for the one through which we entered the theater, were closed and apparently fastened. Up in the balcony I could see people crowding forward in order to obtain a better view. Again the audience arose as if to flee.

"Eddie Foy again rushed on the stage and waved his arms in a gesture for the people to be seated. But just then the shrill cry of a woman caused the women and children to rise to their feet, filled with a sudden and uncontrollable terror.

"'Fire!' I heard her exclaim, and in another instant the eyes of the audience were turned to the exits in the rear. The flames lighted up the stage as the light tinsel stuffs blazed up, and the scene changed from mimicry to tragedy. A confused, rumbling noise filled the theater from the pit to the dome. I knew it was the sound of a thousand people preparing to leave their seats and rush madly from the impending danger. The noise of their footsteps in the balcony was soon deadened by the cries for aid from those who were hemmed in by the struggling mass.

"On the stage the chorus girls, who had exhibited rare presence of mind, turned to flee. Many were overcome before they could stir a step. They fell to the floor and I saw the men in the cast and the stage hands lift them to their feet and carry them to the rear of the stage. By this time the scenery was a mass of flames."

INSPECTION AFTER THE FIRE

Deputy Building Commissioner Stanhope with three inspectors made a thorough examination of the theater building yesterday.

"I first examined the building with respect to the safety of its walls and found them in perfect condition," said Mr. Stanhope. "They are not out of plumb an inch and are as good as they ever were. The steel structure is not injured except that portion which supported the stage. The heat has twisted some of the supports but they can be replaced at little cost. Except the backs of the seats and the floor of the stage the interior of the auditorium was not injured by the fire. The carpets in the gallery, where most of the people were killed, were not even scorched."

A YOUNG HEROINE

Verma Goss is one of the young heroines of the fire. She attended the theater in a party composed of her mother, Mrs. Joseph Goss; her 5-year-old sister, Helen; Mrs. Greenwald of 536 Byron street and her young son Leroy. In the rush for the door Miss Verma caught her young sister's hand and pulled her out of the crowd and carried the child to safety. She thought her mother was following, but she and her sister were the only ones of the party who escaped.

A NARROW ESCAPE

Mrs. William Mueller, with her two children, Florence Marie, 5 years of age, and Barbara Belle, 7, occupied a seat in the parquet.

"I was not in the theater auditorium," said Mrs. Mueller. "I was in one of the waiting rooms, but was on my way to our seats. As I entered the doors somebody yelled fire. I looked up and saw the curtain ablaze. Then came the stampede. I picked up my children and ran toward the door. I was caught in the jam and it seemed that I would fail to reach it. Some man saw my plight and jumped to my assistance. He picked up Florence and threw her over the heads of the rushing people. She fell upon the pavement, but was not badly injured."

FINDS WIFE IN HOSPITAL

The first woman to be rescued over the temporary bridge between the theater and the Northwestern university building was Mrs. Mary Marzein of Elgin, Ill. She was severely burned and lost consciousness after her rescue. A score or more suffered death on every side as she crept over the ladder. They were thrown aside and knocked down, but she clung to the ladder and escaped. She was taken to the Michael Reese hospital and did not regain consciousness until the following day. Her husband, who is an employe of the Elgin Watch Company, searched all the morgues and was making a tour of the hospitals when he found his wife.

When Mrs. Marzein recovered in the afternoon the first person she inquired for was her husband, who at that moment was being ushered into the room. Their eyes met as she was whispering his name to the nurse, and an affecting scene followed.

A MIRACULOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS ESCAPE

One of the most miraculous escapes from the fire was that of Miss Winifred Cardona. She was one of a party of four and with her friends occupied seats in the seventh row of the parquet.

"The first intimation I had of the danger was when I saw one of the chorus girls look upward and turn pale. My eyes immediately followed her glance and I saw the telltale sparks shooting about through the flies. The singing continued until the blaze broke out. Then Mr. Foy appeared and asked the audience to keep their seats, assuring them that the theater was thoroughly fireproof. We obeyed, but when we saw the seething mass behind struggling for the door we rushed from our seats. I became separated from the other girls and had not gone far before I stumbled over the prostrate body of a woman who was trampled almost beyond recognition. For an instant I thought it was all over. Then I felt someone lift me and I knew no more until I revived in the street. It was the most awful experience I have ever had and I consider my escape nothing short of miraculous."

LITTLE GIRL'S MARVELOUS ESCAPE

"I'm the most grateful man in all Chicago," said J. R. Thompson, who owns the restaurant. "My sister was in the theater with my two children – John, aged 9, and Ruth, aged 7. Sister got almost to the door with both of them. Then Ruthie disappeared. She told me she knew the child must be safe, but I was like a maniac. It was an hour before we found her. How it happened I didn't know, but she ran back into the theater and out under the stage, out through the stage entrance."

"Where is the little girl now?" I asked him.

"I sent her home to her mother," he said.

Only ten feet away lay the chestnut-haired girl who "was a great one to scamper."

FOUR GENERATIONS REPRESENTED

Members of four generations of a family were turned into mourners, only one member remaining from a party of nine made up of Benjamin Moore and eight of his relatives, of whom only one, Mrs. W. S. Hanson, Hart, Mich., escaped. Following are the names of the eight victims: Mrs. Joseph Bezenek, 41 years old, West Superior, Wis., daughter of Benjamin Moore; Benjamin Moore, 72 years old, Chicago; Roland Mackay, 6 years old, Chicago, grandson of Mrs. Joseph Bezenek and great grandson of Benjamin Moore; Mrs. Benjamin Moore, 47 years old, wife of Benjamin Moore; Joseph Bezenek, 38 years old, West Superior, Wis., husband of Mrs. Bezenek and son-in-law of Benjamin Moore; Mrs. Perry Moore, 33 years old, Hart, Mich., daughter-in-law of Benjamin Moore; Miss Sibyl Moore, Hart, Mich., 13 years old, daughter of Mrs. Perry Moore and granddaughter of Benjamin Moore; Miss Lucile Bond, 10 years old, daughter of George H. Bond and granddaughter of Benjamin Moore, Chicago.

DAUGHTERS AND GRANDCHILDREN GONE

Three daughters and two grandchildren, constituting the entire family of Mr. and Mrs. Morris Eger, Chicago, perished in the fire. The daughters were Miss S. Eger, who was a teacher in the Mosely school; Mrs. Marion Rice, wife of A. Rice, and Mrs. Rose Bloom, wife of Max Bloom, and the children were: Erna, the 10-year-old daughter of Mrs. Rice, and her 11-year-old brother, Ernest.

After a long search among the many morgues of the city the bodies were all identified, two of them being found there.

CHAPTER X.

HOW THE NEW YEAR WAS USHERED IN

The New Year came to Chicago with muffled drums, two days after the calamity that threw the great metropolis into mourning.

Scarcely a sound was heard as 1904 entered.

Jan. 1 – day of funerals – was received in silence. Streets were almost deserted, even downtown. Men hurried silently along the sidewalks. There were not half a dozen tin horns in the downtown district where ordinarily the blare of trumpets, screech of steam whistles, volleys of shots and the merriment of late wayfarers make the entrance of a new year a period of deafening pandemonium.

Merrymakers were quiet when in the streets and subdued even in the restaurants. Noise, except in a few scattered districts, was unknown.

It was a remarkable, spontaneous testimony to the prevalent spirit throughout the city. Mayor Harrison had asked, in an official proclamation, that there be no noise, but few of those who desisted from the usual practices of greeting the New Year knew that they had been requested to be silent.

MOURNING IN EVERY STREET

There were mourning families in every neighborhood; crepe in every street; grief stricken relatives throughout the city; unidentified dead in the morgues, and sufferers in the hospital. The citizens did not need to be requested to be quiet.

Jan. 1, 1904, meant the beginning of funerals and the burial of dead who were to have lived to take part in merrymaking.

A year before in downtown Chicago the din was an ear-splitting racket of horns, whistles, yells, songs, and exploding cannon.

A year before the downtown streets were filled with hundreds of laughing men and women, roystering parties filling the air with the uproar of tin horns and revolvers.

NOISE SEEMS A SACRILEGE

That night there were a messenger boy in La Salle street blowing a tin horn and a man at Wabash avenue and Harrison street. The other pedestrians looked at them as if they considered the noise a sacrilege. It was with the same feeling that they heard the blowing of the factory whistles in the few cases where the engineers forgot.

A year before the outlying districts were awakened by the firing of cannon and the shouts of people in noisy celebrations. That dread night there was nothing to keep residents awake except grief.

MAYOR ASKS FOR SILENCE

To insure this condition, as the only fitting one, Mayor Harrison had issued a proclamation in which he said:

"On each recurring New Year's eve annoyance has been caused the sick and infirm by the indulgence of thoughtless persons in noisy celebrations of the passage of the old year. The city authorities have at all times discouraged this practice, but now, when Chicago lies in the shadow of the greatest disaster in her history for a generation, noisemaking, whether by bells, whistles, cannon, horns or any other means, is particularly objectionable.

"As mayor of Chicago I would, therefore, request all persons to refrain from this indulgence, and I would particularly ask all railway officials and all persons in control of factories, boats, and mills to direct their employes not to blow whistles between the hours of 12 and 1 o'clock tonight."

Persons not reached by this proclamation had seen the lines waiting entrance at the morgues. The few peddlers who had tin horns for sale found no buyers. This market, which in other years has been a profitable one, on Dec. 31, 1903, was dead. The venders slunk up to the building walls and, even in trying to sell, made little noise with their wares.

MERRIMENT IS SUBDUED

In such restaurants as the Auditorium Annex, the Wellington, and Rector's there were gay crowds, but the merriment was subdued. "No music" was the general rule throughout the city. At Rector's the management took down flowers which were to have decorated the restaurant and sent them to the hospitals where the injured theater victims were.

At the Annex and the Wellington the lobbies had been filled with gayly decorated tables, and this space as well as the cafes was entirely occupied. Congress street was filled with carriages and cabs for the guests at the Annex.

CITY OF MOURNING

Even these gatherings, which were the least affected by the gloom over the city, were ghastly as compared with those of former years. There were exceptions to the general rule, but even in the places which felt the effect the least there was abundant testimony to the fact that Chicago was a city of woe.

The aspect of the downtown district was evidence that there was scarcely a neighborhood in the city which had not at least one sorrowing family.

Not only was this indicated by the lack of noise on the noisiest night of the year but by the absence of lights. Many electric signs and illuminations which usually lighted up the streets had been closed, and gay, wicked, noisy Chicago was clothed with gloom such as it had never before known.

Dark and solemn as was the opening day of the new year it was no circumstance compared with the day that followed. At the suggestion of the mayor Saturday, Jan. 2, was set apart to bury the dead. The proclamation issued in that connection follows:

"Chicago, Dec. 31. – To the citizens of Chicago: Announcement is hereby made that the city hall will be closed on Saturday, Jan. 2, 1904, on account of the calamity occurring at the Iroquois theater. All business houses throughout the city are respectfully requested to shut down on that day.

"Respectfully,

"Carter H. Harrison, Mayor."

The request was generally followed, and on that mournful day the interment of the victims of the holocaust began, filling the streets with processions moving to the grave. From daybreak until evening funeral corteges moved through the streets. Church bells at noon tolled a requiem. The machinery of business was hushed in the downtown district, and long lines of carriages, preceded by hearses or plain black wagons, followed the theater victims to the grave.

In no public place, in no home was the grief of the bereft not felt. Many of the dead were taken directly from the undertaking rooms to the cemeteries and buried with simple ceremony. Before dark nearly 200 victims were borne to the grave. A score were taken to railroad stations, to be followed by the mourning back to their homes.

BUSINESS WORLD IN MOURNING

The board of trade closed at 11 o'clock. The doors of the stock exchange were not opened. Few of the downtown mercantile houses and few of the offices were open after noon. There was little business.

It was a day of mourning, and the army of the sorrowful that for days had searched for its dead performed the last rites. At noon bells in all the church towers were rung to the rhythm of "The Dead March in Saul." Those who heard the solemn dirge stood still for the space of five minutes with bared heads. The proclamation of the mayor generally was observed. Everywhere there was gloom and no one could escape from the pall that enshrouded Chicago.

The demand for hearses was so great that the undertakers were compelled to make up schedules in which the different hours of the day were allotted to the grief-stricken.

Flags were at half-mast, while white hearses bearing the bodies of children and black hearses with the bodies of others took their way to the various churches. In some blocks three and four hearses were standing, and at the churches one cortege would wait until another moved away.

The pall seemed to pervade the air itself. Pedestrians halted on the sidewalk, and in the cold stood with bared heads while the funeral processions passed.

Children saw their parents laid away; parents followed the coffins of their child. Students just reaching manhood or womanhood were laid at rest, while relatives and companions mourned. Kindly clergymen wept as they spoke words of comfort to those bereft of father, mother, brother, sister, or even of all.

Two double funerals passed through the downtown districts just as the department stores were dismissing their thousands of employes. Sisters were being taken to their last resting place, and this cortege was followed by two white hearses containing the bodies of another brother and sister. Both funeral processions went to the same depot, and all four victims were buried in the same cemetery.