“When are you going to leave?” our daughters demanded, calling from the East Coast. “Don’t wait till it’s too late.”
I didn’t want to think about what “too late” meant. My daughters were watching television coverage of burning houses in our neighborhood just west of the Claremont Hotel. We could see the same scenes from our small iron-railed balcony. TV cameras kept returning to one house up the hill, which so far had escaped the fate of its neighbors. At last, it, too, exploded in orange flames like a giant fireworks display. On and on, the crazy afternoon raced. Our usually quiet street buzzed with people. We heard loud popping sounds as fire claimed more trees, houses, and cars. Horns and sirens honked and shrieked.
About 5 o’clock, a policeman rang the doorbell and warned us it was time to evacuate the neighborhood. My husband and I asked each other what our most valuable possession was, besides the golden retriever and family photo albums that we planned to take with us. We agreed it was our beloved Isfahan carpet, covering most of the living room floor. We would never be able to fit it into the car. Based on this rather faulty logic, we decided to remain until the Claremont Hotel caught fire. Our dog went to bed, but we stayed up all night, watching from the balcony, as more and more of our neighbors fled.
—Mary Montali
Click here to go back to the main feature page.