Tonight is a night when the world of the living and the world of the
dead collide. We celebrate halloween, the night when the dead walk, and
all the while shake our heads and laugh. The dead don't walk, don't speak...do
they?
The General Slocum
Let me tell you a story about when the dead spoke to me. Although I myself
have long since passed into the world you all fear so, I was once a hair
breadth away from meeting my fate long before I was due to. The world
of the living and the world of the dead collided for me...for only a second
in time. But it was enough. Enough to save my life.
I was raised in what you all know as the lower east side of New York.
The community was called Weiss Garten...white garden. It was a bustling
area of German immigrants, a small enclave within a larger area of Germans.
Weiss Garten is gone now. It was destroyed by the tragedy I'm here to
tell you
about.
It was June 15, 1904. The day was sunny, blue skies, a slight breeze...so
beautiful. At 9 am my friends and I all gathered at the third street pier
to board the chartered steamer, the General Slocum. Although it was a
Wednesday we dressed in our Sunday best. It was after all our annual church
picnic, organized by St. Mark's Evangelical Lutheran Church. Being a weekday
most of our men couldn't come, my husband included...they had to work.
So the third street pier was packed with women and children...so many
children.
The General Slocum was a familiar sight on the river. She was a lovely
boat...a three story wooden steam paddler with hundreds of colorful flags
that were tied from the bow and stern to the tops of the steamer's mast.
She was the biggest and the best -- the greatest excursion steamer in
New York. So we all thought. What we didn't know was her history of mishaps.
She had run into piers, sand and mud bars...collided with four other vessels.
The crew were inexperienced and had never taken part in a fire drill.
The fire pumps and hoses were old, 6 of the lifeboats were stuck to the
ship by paint, and there were barrels of hay on board. Even the life vests
were rotting, many contains rocks to help them pass weight tests. The
General Slocum was a floating deathtrap.
I had been feeling anxious all morning. I dressed and drank some tea,
trying to relax. I had a knot in my stomach...I almost didn't even go
to the pier. I can remember thinking perhaps I was ill. But once a year!
How often did we get to dress up and celebrate in those days? Not enough.
For me, June 15 was a day I didn't want to miss. It turns out I fortunately
did.
Along with everyone else I boarded the ship. There was singing and laughter
and good natured bustling as everyone settled on board. Mother's reclined
on deck chairs and chatted while their children skipped about playing.
My friends made themselves at home and gossiped about various members
of our community. Some people started singing songs. The party had begun
well before the boat set sail.
The queasiness I was feeling got worse. I made my way from the main deck
to the side of the boat, near the railing. I stood and watched as people
moved aboard...
...and it was then that the dead spoke to me. All of a sudden, I felt
breathless. Faint. The world seemed to close in around me and my vision
blurred until all I saw were flames. All I heard were screams. I knew,
without a doubt, that I was in danger and had to get off the boat. I came
to and a man was peering into my face....concerned. He asked if I was
ill.
'You must get off the ship. I see tragedy.'
He didn't laugh. He didn't call me crazy. He turned and ordered his wife
to gather the children.
I realized that the dock was empty. Everyone was on board and they were
taking the gangway away. I stumbled, pushing through the crowd, trying
to see my friends...but then I panicked.
'Stop! Stop! I must get off.'
I rushed to the gangway and managed to slip down it just before it was
removed. Behind me was the man and his family. The children were crying...they
couldn't understand why their father had dragged them off the boat. The
man was silent, staring at me with curious eyes.
I ran around the dock begging the workers to delay the trip.
'Please...I see tragedy.'
They laughed...or ignored me...or pushed me aside. New York has always
been full of crazy people.
The steamer set sail. I could hear the band...there was dancing...laughter.
One hour later, as it entered the Hell Gate, and its treacherous waters,
fire was discovered. There was no escape for those on board. They were
engulfed in the flames. Or they drowned in the perilous whirlpools of
Hell Gate. Many were mangled in the ships paddle wheels. Bodies were washed
ashore for days, many locked tragically in each others arms.
Over 1021 people died that day. Others died later, of madness,
suicide...heartbreak, but the Slocum killed them just as surely as those
who perished in the flames. My community, my home, was devastated. Weiss
Garten had been destroyed on board that boat. The men returned home from
work that day to silent streets. There can be no recovery from a tragedy
that huge. Over the weekend there were long lines of hearses, there were
hundreds of funerals...114 at St. Marks Evangelical Lutheran alone.
Those of us who were left fled the lower east side for Astoria, Brooklyn
and the Bronx. But although we can run from geography, we can never escape
history. New York, and the German Protestant community, changed that day...forever.
As did I.
So take heed tonight. The dead do speak. In my experience they don't
speak often; however, when they do, it's worth listening. But there will
be a price to pay. I lived...but the high price I paid was knowing that
I was the only one the dead spoke to that day. Why me?...What should I
have done with that knowledge? I had the death of my community on my conscience.
Could I have done more? Yes, I paid. And I continue to do so.
