by Ed O'Donnell
The creators of Luna Park’s Fire and Flames show, however, knew that when it came to fire, the other side of fear was fascination. Nothing drew a crowd quicker than a fire. As George Templeton Strong, the indefatigable diarist and chronicler of mid-nineteenth-century New York, wrote one evening, “They consider fires a sort of grand exhibition (admission gratis) which they have a perfect right to look at from any point they like and choose the best seats to see the performance.” In the nineteenth-century city, fires were the closest thing to a modern spectator sport.
New Yorkers not only found fires uniquely entertaining, they also came to revere the men who put them out. This was what Strong meant when he referred to the performance. Beginning early in the nineteenth century, men began forming neighborhood volunteer fire companies. They were neighborhood fraternal clubs as much as they were firefighting forces, and by the 1850s, New York City had several thousand of these “fire laddies” organized into dozens of neighborhood companies with evocative names like the Black Joke, Dry Bones, and Big Six. They donned brightly colored uniforms, pulled gaudily decorated pumpers, and in an age before professional sports heroes, engaged in conspicuous acts of bravery in saving lives and extinguishing fires. So intense was the competition between rival companies that brawls—to see which company would earn the honor of extinguishing the blaze—frequently erupted when two arrived at a fire simultaneously.
That other fixture of nineteenth-century urban America, the beat cop, could not compete with the fireman for the public’s affection. To be sure, policemen enjoyed a certain degree of respect for their bravery and service, but they also suffered for their association with patronage, corruption, extortion, and violence. Despite the grumblings of a few elitist malcontents over their occasional brawls, firemen were loved by nearly everyone. Only the American soldier, and perhaps not even him, was a more revered figure among Americans, especially young boys. “They play fire-engine vigorously with a piece of string and restive snorting boy-horses,” wrote one visitor to the East Side, “a real fire sets them wild.”
Firemen were lionized for their bravery and strength in short stories, dramas, popular songs, and most especially the series of color prints produced by an enterprising duo named Nathaniel Currier and James Merritt Ives and called “The Life of the Fireman.” With scenes depicting heroic firemen at work putting out fires and carrying victims to safety, the series sold hundreds of thousands of copies to an infatuated American public.
New Yorkers’ love affair with fire laddies eventually led to the development of an urban superhero named “The Mose” to take his place alongside cowboy king Pecos Bill, lumberjack Paul Bunyan, riverboat legend Mike Fink, and railroad worker John Henry. A creation of the Bowery stage, the Mose stood eight feet tall and possessed the strength of ten men. When he wasn’t rescuing women and children from burning buildings, he brawled with rival firemen or ne’er-do-wells who preyed upon the weak. In less stressful moments he swam across the Hudson in just two strokes or leaped the East River in a single bound. To slake his mighty thirst he carried a fifty-gallon keg of beer on his belt. Long after the Mose had departed from the Bowery stage and the city of New York abolished the volunteer system in favor of a professional force, the fireman endured as a heroic figure in the city’s popular culture. They starred in countless dime novels, adorned everything from sugar bowls to weather vanes, and even the first feature film with a discernible plot was about them, Edwin S. Porter’s 1903 The Life of an American Fireman. One of the hit songs of 1900 was “The Midnight Fire Alarm March and Two-Step.”
Fire and Flames was surely a brilliant idea, given the public’s obsession with fire and firemen, but it was also quite risky. What if, after expending many thousands of dollars to build the set and hire the hundreds of performers, the crowds failed to come? What if they found Fire and Flames a little too close for comfort, a little too real and scary?
Any fears the promoters harbored were immediately squelched within a week of the show’s opening. Almost overnight it was clear that Thompson and Dundy had hit upon a brilliant idea. By mid-June, Fire and Flames had become Luna Park’s biggest draw and the only show mentioned in its advertising—THE ORIGINAL OF ALL SUMMER SHOWS—UNEQUALLED BY THE WORLD OF IMMITATORS—ASK YOUR NEIGHBOR. There was no need to, for the show was the talk of the city. Every performance sold out as thousands plunked down their dimes to see for themselves what their neighbors had been talking about. The show’s believability was such that dozens of patrons routinely fainted as the fire reached its crescendo while others got caught up in the frenzy and joined the actors in shouting for somebody to save the poor unfortunates.
That evening as the steamers returned to Manhattan, many of their exhausted passengers doubtless replayed the scenes of Fire and Flames in their minds. By choosing so familiar, so real a theme, Thompson and Dundy had taken the disaster genre to a new level. Fire and Flames was not a disaster spectacle viewed at a safe distance of time and space. Rather it was an event that audiences immediately recognized and plunged into as though they were part of the storyline. And why not? They did it nearly every day in their neighborhoods. Only this time Thompson and Dundy provided them with what they craved: a guaranteed happy ending. They allowed New Yorkers to join their firemen heroes in vanquishing a tenement fire—their single greatest day-to-day fear.
And the best part? It only cost a dime.
PERFECT DAY
From the moment she awoke the next morning, Mary Abendschein knew her prayers had been answered. Bright sunshine streamed in through the windows of her apartment, filling it with the warmth and glow of a magnificent spring morning. As the one in charge of organizing the St. Mark’s seventeenth annual Sunday school outing, she had done everything to ensure that the day would go off without a hitch. Still, there remained one thing she could not control, one thing that could make or break the event: the weather. Now as she looked out the window into a cloudless sky and felt the caress of a gentle breeze on her cheek, the last of her fears melted away. Today would be perfect.
A cross town at its Hudson River pier, the crew of the General Slocum scurried about performing routine tasks in preparation for the day ahead. Some brought the requisite supplies aboard while others cleaned and hosed down the vessel until it sparkled in the early-morning sun. Still others attended to specific jobs related to their rank and position.
Walter Payne, an African-American porter whose responsibility it was to fill the boat’s lamps each morning, arrived in the lamp room at 6:30 A.M. Already the windowless storage room located belowdecks just forward of the pilothouse was partially illuminated by an open torch held by Elbert J. Gaffga, the Slocum’s oiler. He was hard at work making sure the steamer’s vital steering machinery was in working order. Payne stepped into the room, removed a lamp from a hook on the wall, and placed it on the large table in the center of the room.
The small compartment seemed even smaller this morning because the previous evening three large barrels filled with glassware for the picnic had been brought aboard and stored there. Payne could tell that someone had already removed the glasses, because the hay in which they were packed lay all over the floor. He struck a match, lit the lamp, and, as was his custom, threw the match on the bench. A few minutes later the room was again in darkness as both men left to attend to other duties. The ritual was identical to that performed every morning aboard the Slocum, but with one exception. One of them had unwittingly left something behind.
Throughout Little Germany on the morning of June 15, 1904, family after family was awakening to the same delightful realization as Mary Abendschein. Many children—and as a result their parents—had slept poorly the night before, too filled with eager anticipation to fall asleep. But all signs of grogginess dissipated within minutes of awakening as excitement filled the air. The long-awaited event—a whole day by the waters of Locust Grove—had finally arrived and the weather was simply gorgeous.
The Zipse household was no exception as it buzzed with joyful enthusiasm. Soph
ie Zipse and her seven children scurried about their little apartment at 335 East 21st Street, getting dressed and packing the last of their blankets, towels, games, and, of course, good things to eat. The younger children could hardly contain their excitement, but the three oldest Zipse children, Mary and Sophia, twins age seventeen, and William, age fifteen, looked forward to a day of flirting and dancing with other teens. For William the day held special significance. Although only fifteen, he was a successful sales representative for a die company and a part-time student. A driven young man determined to succeed, he rarely took time off from school and work. The annual St. Mark’s outing to Locust Grove, however, was one occasion when he made an exception. Besides, he told himself, all would not be fun and games. With his father staying behind, unable to take time off from his job at a bottling factory, William would fill the role of man of the family. It was a responsibility the mature and ambitious teen welcomed, even as he fully expected to have his share of fun.
Oscar Piening was of a different mind. Ten years earlier as a young boy he’d accompanied his father on a boat excursion that ended in disaster. He was saved but his father was killed. Ever since that day Oscar vowed he’d never set foot on another boat as long as he lived. His mother and sister, however, had not been on the fateful trip and were thus of a different mind when it came to the St. Mark’s outing. That morning Oscar watched with an uneasy feeling in his gut as they prepared to go. They would be five in all, since his sister was bringing her three children.
For nineteen-year-old Lillie Pfeifer, this year’s trip would be different from all the others she’d attended in the past. In previous years she’d gone as a child, even into her late teens. This year, however, she’d go as a woman, for only a few months ago she’d married Charles Pfeifer, a policeman. As much as she might want to frolic and dance with the other teenagers on the boat that day, she knew that custom and propriety dictated that she spend the day in the company of ladies—the married women, mothers, grandmothers, spinsters, and widows of the parish. This was especially so in her case, because her husband would not be along for the trip. The difference between last year and this would be enormous. She’d dress, speak, and carry herself differently. It was an experience that many a young woman in her situation eagerly looked forward to, an affirmation of her passage from childhood to adulthood. As a young newlywed, she also could expect to be fawned over by the other women. And with no children she’d have no responsibilities other than to make conversation and partake of the food and drink. It promised to be a thoroughly enjoyable day—certainly better than a day all alone as a childless housewife.
Not everyone in Little Germany greeted June 15 with a smile and a skip in their step. Modest as the ticket price was, many families simply could not afford the trip, especially if it meant taking a day off from work. Others chose not to go out of fear. For people not accustomed to traveling the waters on steamboats, the trip to Locust Grove appeared too risky. They read of steamboat accidents all the time in the newspapers and feared the prospect of a boiler explosion or sinking. The father of sixteen-year-old Wilhelmina Rauch held this view. A veteran of the New York City Police Department, he had seen his share of accidents and death and wanted no part of it for his family. He knew the unsafe condition of many of the city’s steamboats, and despite weeks of tears and protest he had adamantly refused to let her go on the trip. She hated him for his stubbornness and dreaded the coming days when all she’d hear were stories of the glorious day at Locust Grove.
Similar grumblings emanated from the home of the Knell family. None of the family’s six children were allowed to go on the trip because one of them, George, was still recovering from serious injuries suffered when he was struck by a trolley over a year before. The accident cost him a foot and several fingers and his recovery was slow in coming. By early June it became clear that he would not be strong enough to attend the St. Mark’s outing. That meant no one could go, because their father could not take the day off from work, and their mother needed to remain at home to attend to their brother. No, despite the endless pleas, they could not go without their parents as some of the neighborhood children would. Having suffered the trauma of nearly losing one child, their parents were leery of letting any of them venture too far from home, no matter what the occasion. So while the sun shone brightly outside, the atmosphere in the Knell household that morning was decidedly chilly.
Another young boy named George—George Oellrich—had nearly done the same thing to his siblings. Just the day before he’d fallen ill and would not be allowed to go on the excursion. But his parents decided the other Oellrich children—Frederick, age six, Wilhelmina, age five, Elizabeth, age three, and Helen, age eighteen months—would not be deprived of a day at Locust Grove. The Oellrichs, simply put, were better off than the Knells and could thus manage to have George stay home with his father while his mother took the rest on the trip. William Oellrich owned a prosperous poultry business in Brooklyn and had no trouble taking the day off to look after his ailing son. Besides, for a man like Oellrich, being able to send his family back to Little Germany—the old neighborhood—was an opportunity to keep in touch with old friends, but more important, to exhibit his success. The only disappointment was that he would not be able to accompany his beautiful family in their holiday finery and personally receive the praise of his former neighbors.
For the family of Paul and Anna Liebenow, the St. Mark’s excursion likewise marked a return to the old neighborhood, albeit a more modest one compared to the Oellrichs’, for Paul was a bartender. Several years previous, he’d moved his family to Harlem, then the city’s fastest-growing neighborhood, to be closer to his place of work at the fashionable Pabst Harlem, a restaurant and entertainment venue at 256–8 West 125th Street. Like most who left Little Germany, the Liebenows did so with mixed emotions. Moving to Harlem, then considered one of the most desirable white middle- and upper-class neighborhoods in the city, was a step up for the working-class family. It also meant that Paul could walk to work from their apartment at 133 East 125th Street, a luxury not to be scoffed at in 1904. Still, they missed the familiar faces and institutions of St. Mark’s parish and the surrounding German enclave. Today was a welcome chance to return to the fold. To mark the occasion, the day before Paul had stopped in at Palmer’s haberdashery just a few doors down East 125th Street for a new fifteen-dollar suit and a one-dollar hat—nearly a week’s wages. Even a humble bartender wanted to look his best on the excursion, accompanied by his young wife and their three daughters, Helen, age six, Anna, age three, and the baby Adella, just six months.
Joining the Liebenows were Paul’s two sisters. Annie Weber lived with her husband Frank and two children, Emma (age eleven) and Frank, Jr. (age seven), at 404 East Fifth Street, just one block south of St. Mark’s Church. Martha Liebenow was Annie and Paul’s unmarried younger sister. The two families, plus Aunt Martha, had planned to spend the day together—just as they had so often when the Liebenows lived in Little Germany. Both Paul and Frank considered themselves fortunate to have the day off.
The ten Webers and Liebenows were hardly the only extended families planning on a day at Locust Grove. Indeed, for many in the neighborhood the annual St. Mark’s excursion served as a kind of family reunion—especially in recent years with so many families having moved uptown to Yorkville or across the rivers to Brooklyn or New Jersey. Three generations of the Kassenbaum, Torniport, and Schnude families, eighteen in all, were scheduled to meet at the pier. The party of relatives from the Muth, Schnitzler, and Hessel families totaled fourteen. Ten members and three generations of the Weis family, including Tillie Weis, her seven children, daughter-in-law, and first grandchild, were assembling down the block at 532 East Fifth Street.
While some husbands and fathers like Frank Weber and Paul Liebenow managed to take a rare weekday off, most families were under the care of women. Mary Prawdzicki had her hands full preparing her brood of five children in their small apartment at 85 East Third Stre
et. Emilia Justh, wife of cabinetmaker Joseph Justh, would have her four daughters and one son to look after. Louisa Hartung, wife of tailor Magnus Hartung, had a similar number of children, but perhaps an easier day ahead of her since her five girls were older. Maria Fickbohm and Frances Iden, mothers of three and five children respectively, had them all beat—for both would bring a servant to help them look after the children. As these women bid their husbands good-bye, they reminded them to be at the pier that evening to welcome them home and help carry their belongings and very likely a slumbering child.
Amelia Richter could not count on any such help, at least not from her husband. He had died several years earlier, leaving her a widow mother of seven young children. Determined to keep her family together, Amelia worked up to twenty hours a day, often seven days a week, at cleaning of fices, doing laundry, and taking in piecework. “Her hands were hard,” one neighbor remembered, “but her children were always clean.” Things had begun to lighten up somewhat for the beleaguered Amelia in the past two years, as her oldest three children left school for work to support the family. Today, perhaps to recognize her accomplishment, Amelia would take the day off and head for Locust Grove. So too would all her children, except her oldest boy, fifteen-year-old William, who dared not risk his promising job at a downtown commission house. He would join the other men of the house at the pier that evening to help get everyone home.
By 7:30 A.M., hundreds upon hundreds of residents of Little Germany and surrounding neighborhoods began filling the streets for their formal walk to the pier at the end of East Third Street, where they expected to find the steamboat General Slocum. They could be seen gathered in front of tenements waiting for stragglers, standing at prearranged rendezvous points for other families to join, crowded in front of groceries picking up last-minute items.