Free Eastland by Marian Cheatham Page A

rushing him along even faster until
we’d finally made it through the hospital doors and into the
lobby. I leaned on the wall to catch my breath.
Iroquois Memorial was in chaos. Stretchers with wounded
victims were scattered about the main entrance and lined up in
the corridors. Doctors barked orders. Nurses hustled to comply.
Red Cross volunteers in red sashes darted about trying to calm
hysterical families.
“I heard they took my son here,” one man bellowed. “Take
me to him! Please!”
“Wait your turn!” barked another man. “I’ve been here an
hour.”
“Gentlemen, please.” The Red Cross worker looked flustered
and exhausted. “Everyone will be helped. You must be patient
and stay in line.”
I hurried to get behind the man with the missing son. If his
boy really had been brought here, then maybe Mae was here too.
Karel got in line beside me. “Could be a very long night.”
No problem. Mae was worth the wait.

11
    Around eight-thirty Saturday night, we reached third from the
front of a very loosely formed line. A table had been set up in
the lobby of Iroquois Memorial Hospital with a banner that read
Red Cross Aid Station. A middle-aged woman, her strawberryblonde hair beginning to show signs of gray, stepped up to the
table.
    “We’re looking for our daughter,” the woman said to the
volunteer. “Kathleen O’Hara.”
“Is she here?” An elderly man hobbled up to the table. “Is our
Katy here?” The man looked old enough to be the middle-aged
woman’s father, but clearly he was her husband.
The Red Cross worker ran her eyes down the roster and then
flipped the page. “No O’Hara.” She looked up. “I’m sorry.”
“Check again! Please!” The elderly man tapped the list in
the volunteer’s hand. “Katy O’Hara. Twenty years old. Red hair.
Wearing …” He looked to his wife.
“A yellow dress trimmed in lace ruffles. Katy bought it at the
Boston Store special for the picnic.”
A shriek escaped my lips.
“What’s the matter, Dee?”
“I know what happened to their daughter. You know too.
Remember the redhead in that lacy, yellow dress?”
Karel’s eyes grew wide. “You mean the one …?”
I nodded.
“Excuse me,” the volunteer called to us. “Do you two know
something about Kathleen O’Hara?”
“I’m not sure.” I crept around the man in front of me. “Their
daughter might have been on the Eastland with us.”
“Oh, thank the Lord!” Mrs. O’Hara cried. “Then she’s safe!
Our Katy’s safe!”
“My friend.” I nodded toward Karel. “Tried to save her. But
she slipped from his grasp and plunged—”
“No!” Mrs. O’Hara crumpled against the table. The volunteer
leapt up and placed her arms around the distressed woman.
“We’ll find someone who can accompany you and your
husband to the morgue. Come with me now. I’ll get you some
water.” The volunteer led Mrs. O’Hara down the hall. Another
Red Cross worker rushed forward to help poor Mr. O’Hara.
I trudged back into line. After the man in front of us was
taken to his son’s room, we got our turn.
“I’m looking for my sister,” Karel said to the replacement
volunteer. “Mae Koznecki. Blonde hair. Seventeen years old.”
I held my breath as the volunteer ran her finger down the
pages of her roster.
“I’m sorry. I don’t see her name on our patient list.” She
gave Karel a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps she’s at Franklin
Emergency. If she’s not there …” The volunteer hesitated a moment. “A central morgue has been set up at the Second Regiment
Armory. Curtis Street and Washington Boulevard.”
“How about any unidentified females?” Karel implored. “Any
without names on that list?”
“What was your sister wearing?”
“A lilac-colored linen suit,” I answered for him.
“Rules out one woman. She was all in white. That leaves two
young women not yet identified.”
Karel nearly lunged across the table. “Let me see them!
Please, ma’am.