“FIRE!!”
by Anne Goshdigian
(From her late mother’s written and oral recollections of the circus fire)
(From her late mother’s written and oral recollections of the circus fire)
By all accounts, July 6th, 1944 was a scorchingly hot summer day in Hartford, likely similar to the kind of weather we’ve been experiencing this week, and pre-air-conditioning as well. But that didn’t stop my mother’s plan to take my brother David, who was a month shy of age 3, to the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus. She was in love with motherhood, and was eager to share the color and excitement of a circus with her young son—to see his eyes grow big with wonder and delight, to watch him laugh and smile and clap his hands. My father was on a week’s vacation from his job at Underwood. His plan was to spend the afternoon golfing—his passion—at Keney Park, where he kept his clubs in a locker. The three of them boarded a Park Street bus to downtown, and then transferred to a Barbour Street bus, and the site of the big top. Dad’s plan was to part with them at another stop and continue on to Keney. But the bus was crowded with circus-goers; standing room only, and he couldn’t make it to the door at his stop. Mom convinced him to change his plan and attend the circus with them.
Inside the enormous tent, they took their seats in the lower level, but by the time the show began the heat inside had already become overpowering Figuring there might be more air where the tent walls met the roof, they moved and found seats near the top of the bleachers. Soon, Mom asked Dad to please go down to the concession area and bring back some cold drinks. Not long after he’d left, the big cats act had ended and the Wallendas were ascending to the high wire and trapezes. At the first few cries of “Fire!”, my mother looked across the arena and saw still-small flames on the tent wall opposite. And then my father was coming up the bleachers, holding two bottles of Coca-Cola. The few cries became an increasing number of shouts and screams as the fire began to spread; people began rushing to the exit. Mom stood and started to descend the bleachers with David, but Dad quickly assessed the situation, noticing that the animal cages had not yet been removed and were blocking the exit. “No, Vi”, he said. “We have to go up to the top and slide down the outside wall.”; there was an opening between the roof and sidewalls, for ventilation. Mom—always an orderly woman—felt the only proper thing was to go out the same way they’d come in, and refused the idea.
The flames were increasing, and mass panic was setting in. Dad took David in his arms and handed the Coke bottles to Mom. As she watched, he climbed out the opening, and jumped to the ground—about a 25’ leap. He looked up and pleaded with her “Come on, honey! You can do it!” Decades later, Mom told me that she was frozen with fear, still clutching the soda bottles, and could not move. “I looked down at them, and thought ‘This is the last time I’ll ever see my husband and my son.’” But fate stepped in, and the crowds behind her who had chosen the same escape route were pushing and shoving their way to the opening. She took the leap and slid down the sidewall—saved! They didn’t stop and look back as they ran from the soon-to-be inferno that caused the death of 167 people. But my brother, looking back over my father’s shoulder as they ran, cried “Go ‘way fire! Go ‘way fire!”
Later, my parents grieved for their good friend Fred Boyajian, whose wife and two young sons perished that day.
And my brother David—who will turn 79 next month—is no doubt one of the youngest survivors of that tragedy.
I am eternally thankful for the quick thinking and bravery of my late father, John Goshdigian.
Inside the enormous tent, they took their seats in the lower level, but by the time the show began the heat inside had already become overpowering Figuring there might be more air where the tent walls met the roof, they moved and found seats near the top of the bleachers. Soon, Mom asked Dad to please go down to the concession area and bring back some cold drinks. Not long after he’d left, the big cats act had ended and the Wallendas were ascending to the high wire and trapezes. At the first few cries of “Fire!”, my mother looked across the arena and saw still-small flames on the tent wall opposite. And then my father was coming up the bleachers, holding two bottles of Coca-Cola. The few cries became an increasing number of shouts and screams as the fire began to spread; people began rushing to the exit. Mom stood and started to descend the bleachers with David, but Dad quickly assessed the situation, noticing that the animal cages had not yet been removed and were blocking the exit. “No, Vi”, he said. “We have to go up to the top and slide down the outside wall.”; there was an opening between the roof and sidewalls, for ventilation. Mom—always an orderly woman—felt the only proper thing was to go out the same way they’d come in, and refused the idea.
The flames were increasing, and mass panic was setting in. Dad took David in his arms and handed the Coke bottles to Mom. As she watched, he climbed out the opening, and jumped to the ground—about a 25’ leap. He looked up and pleaded with her “Come on, honey! You can do it!” Decades later, Mom told me that she was frozen with fear, still clutching the soda bottles, and could not move. “I looked down at them, and thought ‘This is the last time I’ll ever see my husband and my son.’” But fate stepped in, and the crowds behind her who had chosen the same escape route were pushing and shoving their way to the opening. She took the leap and slid down the sidewall—saved! They didn’t stop and look back as they ran from the soon-to-be inferno that caused the death of 167 people. But my brother, looking back over my father’s shoulder as they ran, cried “Go ‘way fire! Go ‘way fire!”
Later, my parents grieved for their good friend Fred Boyajian, whose wife and two young sons perished that day.
And my brother David—who will turn 79 next month—is no doubt one of the youngest survivors of that tragedy.
I am eternally thankful for the quick thinking and bravery of my late father, John Goshdigian.