As a young fireman I learned to dread Christmas. In the firehouse order of things it was expected that young single guys, or married guys with no kids, would offer to work Christmas Eve and Christmas day in exchange for new years. The south Bronx was always active fire wise but most of the fires were in abandoned and vacant buildings… except Christmas.
I was working Christmas Eve and Christmas day, a 24. I made sure I got in early so the man I relieved could get home early, and I told the man relieving me on Christmas day not to rush. The first call of consequence came in as we were having dinner.
The aftermath of a live tree burning out an apartment because of Christmas candles is always sad. The apartments above are ruined with smoke and broken windows, the fire apartment totally destroyed, the apartments below ruined with water damage. The building electricity and gas is shut off and as you pull away all you see is families huddled together against the cold and snow waiting for the Red Cross to arrange relocation. They’ve lost everything but each other.
And so the night went, running from fire to fire, seeing one unhappy family after another. We got some sleep at dawn, never finished our dinner, when things started up Christmas day. These morning fires were different in that they involved ovens burning dinner, pots on stoves burning curtains, people out at church coming home to broken windows and wet kitchens. Always the anxious scared looks of young children filling my head. And so the day went as well, running from kitchen fire to rubbish fire to vacant building fire to car fire… till THE CALL came. Frantic “Any ladder company in the Bronx… who’s available!” silence We were wet, we were exhausted, we were cold. Even more frantic “Any ladder company in the Bronx… respond to a working fire… PD on the scene … people trapped!!” the lights and sirens were already on as our officer acknowledged in a quiet voice “48 responding” and we were racing toward our firehouse. Turning into the block we could smell it before we could see it. “It’s a stairway job! “ Everyone knew what that meant. Someone had torched the staircase, cutting off escape. The front fire escape was packed with people trying to exit the building. Up went our ladders to the fire escape as the aerial shot to the roof so the roofman could vent the stair in hopes of containing the fire. It was the highest building on the block. We scampered up and down the ladders carrying children, elderly, pets, our officer screaming at the dispatcher “ where’s the f***in engine so we can get water on this thing!! Transmit the second alarm!” The only available engine was coming from a mile away and others were in the process of taking up from other jobs.
Everyone we took off the fire escape was helpful, telling us which apartment they came out of and that everyone was out. Everyone but one… an old woman of Chinese descent who spoke no English. She was so agitated, and kept pointing up to her apartment window, talking in a distressed voice. Someone had to be in there, left behind!
We damn near killed ourselves searching that apartment, crawling past the apartment door glowing cherry red, searching every room, just barely getting out before the whole thing lit up. We found no one. The aerial plucked us out of the window and swung us into the cold evening air as it exploded in flames. The rest of this job would be handled by tower ladders and their heavy streams. Sirens could be heard getting closer, coming from as far as Manhattan and Queens. The old Chinese woman remained distraught and inconsolable.
The towers made short work of the major body of fire. Mopping up of remaining pockets of fire was in progress and we returned to the woman’s apartment to search yet again. The aftermath of a tower ladder stream is not a pretty sight, more like a flood that has incinerated everything to ash then receded leaving behind a jumbled mass of furniture stuck in a flat beach of cinder. An interpreter was sent for, but we assumed we were looking for the body of a relative who visited her often, according to neighbors. All we found was a large round smoke stained bowl with some water and a dead fish. I put the bowl under my coat and walked to the firehouse.
The dead fish inside was an anabas, “climbing perch”. It looked a lot like the one we had in the firehouse sitting room, and when examined proved to be a nearly identical match. Without any hesitation I transferred our live fish to the bowl, put it back under my coat, walked up through the burned out staircase and out the fire escape. She remained across the street, staring at the exact window I emerged from. I climbed down and walked toward her, her eyes never leaving me. From under my coat I removed the globe. She took it in her arms, crying with joy and clutching it tight as she finally left her spot, now walking in the company of neighbors who offered to keep her warm. We still had to dig that apartment nearly to the floor to be sure no body was in there, and when done we finally went back to quarters for food, showers, then home.
Someone who hadn’t worked yet and was part of the on-coming tour looked into the sitting room and exclaimed that our fish was gone. Some water had been splashed on the floor and the cat was getting real suspicious looks. I said nothing, nor did anyone else who worked.
A week later, on New Years Day, a truck pulled up to the firehouse and delivered a Chinese feast for 25 men. They had no idea why cause none of the deliverymen spoke a word of English.
A Christmas Story
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