TAKING AWAY AND IDENTIFYING THE DEAD.
In drays and delivery wagons they carried the dead away from the Iroquois
theater ruins. The sidewalk in front of the playhouse and Thompson's
restaurant was completely filled with dead bodies, when it was realized
that the patrol wagons and ambulances could not remove the bodies.
Then Chief O'Neill and Coroner Traeger sent out men to stop drays and
press them into service. Transfer companies were called up on telephone
and asked to send wagons. Retail stores in State street sent delivery
wagons.
Into these drays and wagons were piled the bodies. They lay outstretched
on the sidewalk, covered with blankets. Much care in the handling was
impossible. As soon as a space on the walk was made by the removal of a
body two were brought down to fill it.
One of the wagons of the Dixon Transfer Company was so heavily loaded with
the dead that the two big horses drawing it were unable to start the
truck. Policemen and spectators put their shoulders to the wheels.
When the drays were filled and started there was a struggle to get them
through the crowds, densely packed, even within the fire lines which the
police had established across Randolph street at State and Dearborn
streets.
Policemen with clubs preceded many of the wagons. The crowds through
which they forced their way were composed mostly of men who had sent wives
and children to the theater and had reason to believe that one of the
drays might carry members of their own families.
Eight and ten wagons at a time, half of them trucks and delivery wagons,
were backed up to the curb waiting for their loads of dead.
Two policemen would seize a blanket at the corners and swing it, with its
contents, up to two other men in the wagon. This would be continued until
a wagonload of bodies had been handled. Then the police forced a way
through the crowd and another wagon took the place.
Occasionally a body would be identified, and then efforts were made to
remove it direct to the residence. Coroner Traeger discovered the wife of
Patrick P. O'Donnell, president of the O'Donnell & Duer Brewing Company.
"Telephone to some undertaking establishment and have them take Mrs.
O'Donnell's body home," he ordered one of his assistants. It was taken to
the residence, at 4629 Woodlawn avenue.
Friends of another woman who were positive they identified the body among
the dead in Thompson's were allowed by the coroner to remove it to Ford's
undertaking establishment, in Thirty-fifth street.
HEARTRENDING SCENES WITNESSED AT THE UNDERTAKING ESTABLISHMENTS.
The bodies of the fire victims were distributed among the undertaking
rooms and morgues most convenient. By 8:30 o'clock 135 bodies lay on the
floors in the establishment of C. H. Jordan, 14-16 East Madison street,
and in the temporary annex across the alley. The first were brought in
ambulances and in police patrol wagons. Later all sorts of conveyances
were pressed into service, and during more than two hours there was a
procession of two-horse trucks, delivery wagons, and cabs, all bringing
dead. It soon became evident that the capacity of the place would be
exhausted and the men, who sat drinking and talking at the tables in the
big ante-room in a saloon across the alley were driven out, and this also
was arranged for use as a temporary morgue.
Two policemen were in charge of each load of the dead, and as soon as the
first few bodies were received, they began searching for possible marks of
identification. All jewelry and valuables, as well as letters, cards, and
other papers were put in sealed envelopes, marked with a number
corresponding with that on the tag attached to the body. When this work
was completed all the envelopes were sent to police headquarters, and all
inquirers after missing friends and relatives were referred to the city
hall to inspect the envelopes.
The scenes in the two long rooms of the morgue in the saloon annex across
the alley were so overpowering that they appeared to lose their effect.
Many of the bodies last brought from the theater were sadly burned and
disfigured and almost all of the faces were discolored and the clothing
rumpled and wet.
The condition of many of the bodies evidenced a vain battle for life.
Almost all of them were women or children, and the majority had been well
dressed. Among them were several old women. The men were few. In many
cases the hands were torn, as if violent efforts had been made to wrench
away some obstruction.
As quickly as the work of searching the bodies was completed, the
attendants stretched strips of muslin over the forms, partly hiding the
pitiful horror of the sight.
Persons were slow in coming to the undertakers in search of friends. Many
had their first suspicion of the catastrophe when members of theater
parties failed to return at the usual hour.
Among the first to arrive at Jordan's were George E. McCaughan, attorney
for the Chicago & Rock Island railroad, 6565 Yale avenue, who came in
search of his daughter, Helen, who had attended a theater party with other
young women. A friend had been in Dearborn street when the fire started
and soon after had discovered in Thompson's restaurant the body of Miss
McCaughan. He attached a card bearing her name to the body, and, leaving
it in the custody of a physician, went to the telephone to notify the
father. When he returned to the restaurant the body already had been
removed and the friend and the father searched last night without finding
it.
As it grew later the crowd around the doors increased, but almost every
one was turned away. It would have been impossible for persons to have
passed through the long rooms for the purpose of inspecting the bodies,
they were so close together. Women came weeping to the doors of the
undertaking shop and beat upon the glass, only to be referred to the city
hall or told "to come back in the morning."
Later it was learned that physicians would be admitted for the purpose of
inspecting and identifying the dead, and many persons came accompanied by
their family doctors for that purpose. Two women, who pressed by the
officer at the door, sank half fainting into chairs in the outer office.
They were looking for Miss Hazel J. Brown, of 94 Thirty-first street, and
Miss Eloise G. Swayze, of Fifty-sixth street and Normal avenue. A single
glance at the long lines of bodies stretched on the floor was enough to
satisfy them. They were told to return in the morning or to send their
family physician to make the identification.
"The poor girls had come from the convent to spend the holiday vacation,"
sobbed one of the women.
During the evening the telephone bell constantly was ringing, and persons
whose relatives had failed to return on time were asked for information.
"Have you found a small heart-shaped locket set with a blue stone?" would
come a call over the wire, and the answer would be, "We can tell nothing
about that until morning."
At Rolston's undertaking rooms were 182 bodies, lying four rows deep in
the rear of 18 Adams street and three rows deep in the rear of 22 Adams
street.
On the floors, tagged with the numerals of the coroner's scheme for
identification, were bodies of men, women, and children awaiting
identification. One was that of a little girl with yellow hair in a tangle
of curls around her face. She appeared as if she slept. A silk dress of
blue was spread over her and the sash of white ribbon scarcely was soiled.
Over the long lines of the dead the police hovered in the search for
identifying marks and for valuables. Most of the bodies were partly
covered with blankets.
Outside a big crowd surged and struggled with the police. Not till 10
o'clock were the doors opened. Then Coroner Traeger arrived, and in groups
of twelve or fifteen the crowd was permitted to pass through the doors.
There was a pathetic scene at Rolston's morgue when the body of John Van
Ingen, 18 years old, of Kenosha, Wis., was identified. Friends of the Van
Ingen family had spent the entire evening searching at the request of Mr.
and Mrs. Van Ingen, who were injured. At midnight four of the Van Ingen
children, who were believed to have perished in the fire, had not been
accounted for. They were: Grace, 2 years old; Dottie, 5 years old; Mary,
13 years old; and Edward, 20 years old.
In the undertaking rooms of J. C. Gavin, 226 North Clark street, and
Carroll Bros., 203 Wells street, forty-five bodies swathed in blankets
were awaiting identification at midnight. Of the fifty-four brought to
these places only nine had been identified by the hundreds of relatives
and friends who filed through the rooms, and in several cases the
recognition was doubtful.
An atmosphere of awe appeared to pervade the places, and no hysterical
scenes followed the pointing out of the bodies. The morbid crowds usually
attendant on a smaller calamity were absent, and few except those seeking
missing relatives sought admission. Only one of the men, James D. Maloney,
wept as he stood over the body of his dead wife.
"I can't go any further," he said. "Her sister, Tennie Peterson, who lived
in Fargo, N. D., was with her, and her body probably is there," motioning
to the row of blanket-covered forms, "but I can't look. I must go back to
the little ones at home, now motherless."
In Inspector Campbell's office at the Chicago avenue station Sergeant Finn
monotonously repeated the descriptions, as the scores of frantic seekers
filled and refilled the little office. Several times he was interrupted by
hysterical shrieks of women or the broken voices of men.
"Read it again, please," would be the call, and, as the description again
was read off, the number of the body was taken and the relatives hurried
to the undertaking rooms. The bodies of Walter B. Zeisler, 12 years old,
Lee Haviland and Walter A. Austrian were partly identified from the police
descriptions.
The list of hospital patients also was posted in the station and aided
friends in the search for injured.
Sheldon's undertaking rooms at 230 West Madison street were the scene of
pathetic incidents. Forty-seven bodies, some of them with the clothing
entirely burned away, and with few exceptions with features charred beyond
recognition, had been taken there. Late in the night only four had been
identified. The first body recognized was that of Mrs. Brindsley, of 909
Jackson boulevard, who had attended the matinee with Miss Edna Torney,
daughter of Mr. and Mrs. P. Torney, 1292 Adams street. Mr. Torney could
find no trace of the young woman.
Of the forty-seven bodies thirty-six were of matured women and five of
men. There were bodies of six children, three boys and three girls.
Dr. J. H. Bates, of 3256 South Park avenue, was searching for the bodies
of Myrtle Shabad and Ruth Elken, numbered among the missing.
There were similar scenes at all of the undertaking rooms to which bodies
were taken.
"When the fire broke out I was taking tickets at the door," said E.
Lovett, one of the ushers. "The crowd began to move toward the exits on
the ground floor, and I rushed to the big entrance doors and threw three
of them open. From there I hurried to the cigar store and called up the
police and fire departments.
"When I returned I tried to get more of the doors open, but was shoved
aside and told that I was crazy. The crowd acted in a most frenzied manner
and no one could have held them in check. Conditions on the balconies must
have been appalling. They were well filled, but the exits, had they been
opened, would have proved ample for all."
Michael Ohle, who was ushering on the first balcony, noticed the fire
shortly after it started. He hurried to the entrances and cleared the way
for the people to get out. Then, he says, he started downstairs to find
out how serious the fire was. Before he could return the panic was on and
he fled to the street for safety.
"Mrs. Phillipson, Phillipson--is Mrs. Phillipson here?"
That cry sounded in drug stores, cigar stores, and hotels until three
little girls, Adeline, Frances, and Teresa, had found their mother, from
whom they were separated in the panic. At last at the Continental hotel
the call was weakly answered by a woman who lay upon a couch, more
frightened than hurt. In another moment three little girls were sobbing in
their mother's lap.
FRIENDS AND RELATIVES EAGERLY SEARCH FOR LOVED ONES MISSING AFTER THEATER
HOLOCAUST.
Friends sought for information of friends; husbands asked for word of
wives; fathers and mothers sought news of sons and daughters; men and
women begged to be told if there was any knowledge of their sweethearts;
parents asked for children; and children fearfully told the names of
missing playmates.
The early hours of the evening were marked by many sad scenes. Men would
rush to the desk where the names of the missing were being compiled and
asked if anything had been heard of some member of their families, then
turn away and hurry out, barely waiting to be told that there would be no
definite news until nearly midnight.
"Just think!" said one gray headed man, leaning on the arm of a younger
man who was leading him down the stairs, "I bought the matinee tickets
for the children as a treat, and insisted that they take their little
cousin with them."
"Have you heard anything of my daughter?" asked a woman.
"What was her name?"
"Lily. She had seats in the first balcony with some girl friends. You
would know her by her brown hair. She wore a white silk shirt waist and a
diamond ring I gave her for Christmas. I went to the theater, but I
couldn't get near it, and they said they were still carrying out bodies."
"And her name? Who was she?"
"She was my daughter--my only one!"
The woman walked away, weeping, without giving the name, and the only
response she would make to questions from those who followed her was:
"My daughter!"
Two men, with two little boys, came in. "Our wives," they said, "came to
the matinee with some neighbors. They have not yet come home."
Before they could give their names a third man ran up and cried:
"I just got word the folks have been taken home in ambulances. They are
alive."
The men gave a shout and were gone in an instant.
Men with children in their arms came to ask for others of the family who
had become separated from them in the panic at the theater. Women, tears
dampening their cheeks, hushed the chatter of their little ones while they
gave the names of husbands and brothers, or told of other children who had
been lost.
One man yielded to his fears at the last minute and went away without
asking for information or giving any name. He said:
"I went to the theater with my wife. We have only been married a year.
When the rush came I was torn away from her, and the last thing I remember
is of hearing her call my name. Then I was lifted off my feet and can
recall nothing more except that I found myself in the street. I have been
to all the hospitals and morgues, and now I am going back to the theater
again."
So it went until the last dreaded news began coming in. Identifications
were being made and hearts were being broken. After that time the
inquiries were not for information; they were pleas to be told that a
mistake had been made or that one was possible.