A City Tossed and Broken (11 page)

He pointed down Valencia Street, which looked badly torn up. There was a large fissure in the pavement of the street and the houses looked crooked, some leaning over the street in an alarming fashion. I saw a large hotel sitting squat on the ground, and he explained that the hotel used to be four stories, and had collapsed during the quake, flattening like a pancake, with many trapped inside. People on the fourth floor merely had a hard jolt and simply stepped out onto the street. The others, he said, were not so lucky. Passersby were able to rescue a few, but the rest perished. The thought of that horror kept us silent for several blocks.

When the carriage got to Dolores Street and Market, our driver was hailed by a friend who came racing up, waving his arms.

“We need you, Will!” he cried.

“Well, can’t you see I’m coming?” our driver answered with some annoyance in his tone, for he really had been traveling as quickly as he could. “I’ve got the food in the back, just giving these people a lift up the hill.”

“Well, they’ll have to get out and walk, then,” the young man said.

“We will do no such thing!” declared Mrs. Crandall.

“What’s the problem, Mike?” our driver asked.

“The fire has broken through Mission and is almost on us. If it takes us here it will go full west. We’ll lose the whole city. We have a chance to stop it. We’ve got the firemen and the trucks at the bottom of the hill, and we’ve got a fire hydrant on Church and Twentieth that’s working, by Jove! But we can’t get the fire truck to the hydrant. The poor horses are almost dead from the work they’ve done and they just can’t pull it.”

“What are you proposing to do?”

“We’re going to push the thing up the hill to Twentieth Street, what else?”

“Push the fire trucks up that hill? You must be daft!”

“It’ll be a job, that’s for certain! We’ve got hundreds of men up at Mission Park and more coming every minute, pouring in from all over the Mission and the hills and the valley, too. Shoulder to shoulder we’ll be with the firemen, poor exhausted devils. We’ve got carpets and brooms and shovels, and we’re going to stamp out every spark. We’ve got water, thank the Lord, and we’re going to use it. We’re going to fight the fire here and not give up until it goes out.”

Such simple words, spoken from a man streaked with dirt, a man not much older than a boy. But something about the way he said it thrilled me.

For two days we had run from the fire. And here was a chance to meet it and conquer it.

I discovered something at that moment, diary. If you see enough destruction, if you feel helpless in the face of it, if you’ve been terrified enough times, there does come a moment when you cannot bear one more thing to be lost. I was tired of being afraid. Tired of moving
away
from the fire. I wanted to fight.

“We’ve got to help,” I said to Mr. Crandall.

“No, Hugh,” Mrs. Crandall said. “I will not allow it! You’re not a young man. And you cannot send me up to my sister with only Miss Sump. Who knows what could happen? We need an escort.”

“I want to stay,” I said, but they were not listening to me.

Our driver turned. “Sorry, folks, but you’ll have to get off here. Follow this street down to Noe and head straight up the hill. I’m going to head to Mission Park.”

“You most certainly are not!” Mrs. Crandall sputtered. “We paid you for a ride to my sister’s!”

“Here’s your money, then,” the driver said, handing it back. “And if you won’t get out, I’ll toss you out myself.” He eyed Mr. Crandall. “We sure could use another man to help, though. Didn’t you hear?”

I could see Mr. Crandall hesitate. He didn’t want to look like a coward.

“You heard him, Hugh — they have hundreds of men to help,” Mrs. Crandall said. “What is more important — your wife and your ward, or a fire that cannot be stopped with the addition of just one extra man?”

“Ah,” Mr. Crandall said, “that describes me in your eyes, doesn’t it, my dear. Just one extra man.”

I almost felt sorry for him then.

Slowly, Mr. Crandall swung himself down. He reached up for his wife and helped her down. Then me. I tossed down our bundles before I stepped off.

Mr. Crandall must have seen what I was thinking in my face. “They will not let a young woman help,” he said. “It would do no good for you to go in any event.”

But he was wrong. I knew I could prove him wrong. What am I but what a boy is — with arms to fetch and carry, with legs to run?

So I dropped my bundles and my suitcase, and as they turned to go and the driver urged his horse and the cart began to move, I picked up my skirts and hoisted myself into the back once more.

By the time the Crandalls turned, startled to see I wasn’t with them, I was halfway down the block.

I jumped off the cart as we reached Mission Park and joined the stream of people running, walking, trudging, because we were all headed to the same destination for the same purpose — to fight.

I don’t know what I expected Mission Park to be, but it was hardly a park, just a long rectangle of dirt that stretched for blocks up the hill. It was filled with refugees and I could see the exhausted horses, their heads drooping, standing on one corner.

I was back close to the fire again, and the sound of it was a continuous roar. The smoke was terrible. At first I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. It seemed like chaos.

But it wasn’t, not quite. As I hurried up the hill on the Church Street side I saw that the firemen were already at the top of the hill. There was a gang of men with their shoulders against the fire truck, another on the sides, and still more pulling ropes. Slowly they were getting that truck up the hill. I could hear their shouts as they egged one another on to keep going.

I could see the hot orange of sparks in the smoky air, and cinders as big as my fist were raining down from the sky. The fire was blazing to the east of us and some of the houses on Dolores were already starting to smolder and burn.

Then I saw that men stood on the roofs of the buildings trying to snuff out the flames with rugs and towels. They were in the yards and on the porches. They were beating out flames. The heat was so intense that within minutes they would be overcome, but others immediately stepped up to take their place. There were hundreds and hundreds of people, maybe more, more than my eye could see, along the fire line. The dynamiting was still going on, and the sound of it was pressure against my ears.

Suddenly through the roar of the fire and the shouting I heard a voice calling.

“Philadelphia!”

It was Jake Jennardi. I barely recognized him. A scarf was tied around his mouth and his face was black with soot. His cap was singed.

“What are you doing here?” he shouted. “It’s not safe!”

“I want to help!”

“We got the steamer up the hill,” he said, his voice raspy with smoke and excitement. He pointed at the fire truck. “We’ve set up a relay of the hoses, we got water, and we’ll get it pumping. Hot dog! We’re just beating out the sparks and we’re filling milk cans to pour on the roofs. We’re going to save the neighborhood, we’ll do it! We’ve torn off some doors from the houses and we’re holding them up for the firemen, to protect ’em, and when they get too hot, we hose ’em down.”

“What can I do?”

“You can help fill the milk jugs, I reckon. My ma and my sister Beatrice are a couple blocks over, setting up a food and aid station for those that pass out — we carry ’em over.”

“Take me there,” I told him. And that was how I got in the thick of it, fighting the last fire of the San Francisco quake.

I don’t remember falling asleep. I do remember falling down somewhere before dawn, right on the dirt of Mission Park. Which I have discovered is mixed with manure. They were about to plant the grass when the quake struck.

Well, it made a soft bed, and I couldn’t afford to be choosy.

I think one of the Jennardis put a blanket over me, because now I have it to hold around my shoulders.

The fire is out.

All is black and smoking. Soot and muck. But the fire is out.

I can see from here, at the top of the park, the ruined city. San Francisco is a city tossed and broken, but from what I saw last night, it will survive.

I think I must have met a dozen Jennardis last night. Jake; his brother, Joseph; his sister, Beatrice; his cousin Robert; several cousins whose names I did not catch; his uncle Angelo; his mother and father; his aunt . . . and a baby called Rose.

People are lying all around me, exhausted from last night. Thousands were on the streets, helping to fight the fire. Thousands of hands, beating at the flames, thousands of boots, stamping on the cinders.

My name over the course of the past twenty-four hours has been shortened from “Philadelphia” to “Philly,” and now I am merely “Phil” to the Jennardis.

“Phil, bring another jug, will you?”

“Phil, can you hold the baby?”

Honestly, diary, I do not know who I am anymore. But I know I feel safe with the Jennardis. I wish . . . I don’t know what I wish. We have been too busy to really talk, but I wish I could tell Jake about the spot I’m in. About how I let Mr. Crandall think I was Lily. About the strongbox and the ledger and how I want to save my family and how I was tempted to
be
Lily because it just seemed easier to have money than not.

And how seeing those firemen drag themselves up that hill when they were exhausted, seeing the steam rise off their rubber coats, seeing the heat overtake them and yet seeing them rise again and take their place on the line . . . that it changed me.

What did that fireman say that night on Nob Hill? That it surprised him when people took advantage of disaster. I feel such a deep shame when I remember that. Because that is what I’m doing. Taking advantage of disaster and taking advantage of poor Lily Sump.

I am going to tell the truth to Mr. Crandall when I see him. Just knowing that makes me feel better. I will tell him about the ledger and ask him to restore my family’s fortunes and just hope that he will do the right thing. Maybe the disaster has changed him, too.

The Jennardis have set up a feeding station. They had loaded up a wagon with everything they could from their grocery, knowing that food would be needed. For hours today we stood and handed out what food they had. Cheese, sausage, olives, tinned sardines.

I asked Jake if the store had burned, and he said he didn’t know. Certainly the rest of the foodstuffs they had to leave have spoiled. “No telling what we’ll find or what we’ll be able to salvage. Have to wait until things cool off to check the safe. Could have lost everything,” he said, but his tone was cheerful. “Pop says starting from scratch isn’t so bad if you have enough friends.” He said
friends
with extra meaning and for the first time since I left Philadelphia I felt at home in the world.

I just realized while writing this that the weather has changed. It is chilly, the mildness of the air gone. And I realize that the sky above me is not full of smoke, but clouds.

I feel something on my face, my hands. I jump away, afraid of cinders.

Then I realize what it is, and I lift my face to the sky, to the blessing that is falling on us.

Rain.

Later

11
P.M.

The rain will put out whatever embers are left. The city is safe.

I am not.

I forgot of course how much could go wrong so quickly.

I was slicing oranges for the children in Mission Park when I saw Mr. Crandall walking toward me.

“Lily!”

My mouth went dry as fear pumped through me. Jake was standing right next to me, helping his mother to chop the stale bread, which will be toasted and then thrown into the vegetable soup.

Mr. Crandall said he’d been looking everywhere for me, and he looked truly exhausted. I told him I was sorry, and that I was planning to go to him when I finished with the food line (and here he looked at the line and back at me, as if to say,
Lily Sump is feeding refugees?
)

Jake turned to me with his easy smile. “So. I finally discover your name. Lily.”

“I —”

Mr. Crandall took notice of Jake in his shabby working clothes, his grimy cap.

He nodded politely.

“Thank you for looking after Miss Sump.”

“Miss
Sump
?”

Oh, Jake,
I prayed,
please don’t give me away
. I could see it in his face, how he knew that I couldn’t be a fine lady, he had met me in a kitchen with my hands full of carrots.

“I’m sure we’re very grateful.” Mr. Crandall fished in his pocket and held out a coin. Jake just looked at it. Then he looked at me.

“This is Mr. Crandall,” I said. “My father’s attorney.”

“Your father . . .”

“My father and mother were killed in the quake,” I said. “And our maid, Minnie Bonner. Mr. Crandall found me that morning and has taken care of me ever since. Otherwise I don’t know what would have happened to me. I am alone.” I emphasized that last word,
alone
, hoping he would sympathize in even one small way.

“Minnie Bonner.” Jake repeated the name. “The maid, you say.” I saw that he didn’t quite understand, but something happened behind his eyes, and I knew I was no longer his friend.

He took a step back. He stuck his hands in his pockets, refusing the coin. “No, thank you, sir,” he said. “The Jennardis don’t believe in profiting from disaster.”

The words sliced me to ribbons. How I wished I could explain! But within a moment Mr. Crandall had taken my arm and led me away.

Now I am in Mrs. Crandall’s sister’s house, a pretty cottage with a view of an enormous hill with two identical crests. It is called Twin Peaks. When the fog rolls in, it spills around the two crests, leaving Mrs. Flynn’s neighborhood bathed in bright sunshine.

I’ve been given the nicest guest room, which makes me ashamed, because of course I only got it because I was Lily Sump. Mrs. Crandall’s sister — Mrs. Flynn — is very kind. She gave me a salve for my blistered palms and wrapped my hands in bandages.