At the time of the fire, I was 12 years old and a 7th grade student ... A student in Room 208. The fire claimed 13 victims from 208 ... Sister St. Canice and 12 of my classmates. As fate had it (or I guess I should say it was the will of God) even though I was in school that day, I was not in Room 208 at the time of the fire. As one of the upper-classmen of the school, I was sometimes called on to assist the nuns in the lower grades. Such was my fate on December 1st. I was one of two students who were asked to help a first grade nun with a birthday party.
It was the end of the day ... Around 2:30 ... When Margie Marzullo and I packed up our books and coats, left room 208 and went down those back stairs to a classroom that was located directly beneath 208. It was 2:30 and we went down those same stairs that would carry that horrendous fire a short time later. We helped serve cupcakes and then began to get the first-graders ready to go home. But the fire bell rang instead of the dismissal bell. We thought it was a mistake ... But knew the drill and started filing out of the building. I had my coat but didn't bring books as I thought for sure I would be returning for the 'real' dismissal. We exited on to Avers Avenue through a door that was directly across the street from my Aunt's house. I also lived on Avers ... Just north of the school at 936.
I will never forget what I saw and heard when I reached the street. The blackest smoke I ever saw was pouring from the windows of the second floor ... My classroom being one of the burning rooms. I saw kids jumping and hitting the concrete. I heard those screams for help. People on the ground were frantic, yet helpless. I heard fire engines but they were nowhere to be seen. Students leaving the building were being brought into neighbors' homes. People were bringing out coats and blankets. Parents were arriving to pick up their children as they normally did and frantically began searching for their family. There were attempts at putting ladders together so they could reach the trapped on the second floor. There was a small grocery store on Avers, right by the alley by the school ... The owner Barbara was out in the alley trying to calm the trapped students. I ran down the street to my home and saw my mother leaning out the second-floor window. I remember telling her to call the fire department. I thought about my brother in third grade, my cousins in sixth and eighth, my neighborhood friends, and, of course, my classmates in 208. My family was one of the lucky ones ... It wasn't long before we knew that my brother and cousins had all escaped unharmed.
But it was a chaotic time ... A body at one of the neighboring hospitals had been tentatively identified as mine. My cousin was a nurse there and corrected the error. But not before my mother received the phone call and a newspaper person came to the door to talk about the bad news. My name was on one of the first published victim lists and we actually received telegrams and condolence cards from relatives in California.
The day blurred into the next and the days to follow. While my second-floor window provided some viewing, the papers and television provided the horrific details. I learned of my classmates and Sister St. Canice who had died; my injured neighbors: Jim Krajewski, Mary Brock and Bob Trybalski; my neighbor who died: Raymond Makowski; and what seemed to be an endless list of victims and injured people. Being down the street from the school, I could not escape the constant sight of that destroyed building and could not help reliving the day over and over.
Over the next year I watched the building of the new school and, though I never attended classes there, celebrated its opening. There was no such thing as grief counseling those days. People coped as best they could. But we were a strong neighborhood and a strong parish and we helped one another. I don't remember being stopped from talking about it; at the same time, never really encouraged to do so.
My mother kept a book with news clippings and those condolence cards. I just looked at it for the first time in a long time; and, must admit, even though I never forgot, I have not thought so much about that day for a very long time. I had lived in California for awhile and there was even less there to remind me. As the years passed and I had left the neighborhood, I found fewer and fewer people I felt could really understand what I had experienced that day. Life does go on; but I can never forget ... I still struggle to light a match and still pause at 3 p.m. on December 1st. Can't help but wonder what happened to that first-grade girl who's birthday party brought me out of 208 that day. I look at my fireman brother-in-law Ron and other firemen I know and marveled at what they chose to do for a living long before 9/11. I don't think I ever experienced 'survivor's guilt' but sometimes can't help but wonder why things worked out for me the way they did.
It is nice to have this opportunity to share these experiences and feelings with others. I read my sister-in-law's note (#63)and learned things about her I had never known before.
I guess that just as we won't forget; we also continue to heal.
joann2speak@ameritech.net
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