Morro Castle, Mohawk and the end of the Ward Line : Part 2

The epic history of the Morro Castle disaster.

Final Departure

1934 proved to be an uneventful year for the Morro Castle after the turbulent latter half of 1933. Cuba remained unstable, but through September the Morro Castle managed to avoid being drawn into shore based trouble, and if any untoward events took place they did not make the papers.

In June she was chartered for a second time by the Philco Radio Corporation to serve as a floating convention center, and to judge by the name count on surviving passenger lists, business was normal throughout the summer. People who had been in Havana in the months before the Morro Castle was destroyed would later tell author Hal Burton that it was hardly a tranquil vacation spot, but the Ward Line ships were once again fostering the illusion of safety and most passengers came away from their vacations favorably impressed.

A complete scrapbook from the ship’s second to final round trip survives, in which was preserved virtually every piece of paper accumulated during the seven day voyage. After reading it, one gains insight into how the Ward Line managed to put a favorable face on a city, and a country, in the grip of a revolution: passengers were kept moving at a brisk clip through selected parts of the city, visited sites that were pretty or frivolous, and were given almost no free time in which to roam. They came away from the city having seen Havana without actually seeing it. One of the few passengers who did venture off on his own before the fatal voyage later recalled being arrested for violating curfew, and being able to escape back to the ship by walking out of custody when a bomb detonated next door to the police station. Most people, however, viewed the beautiful beaches, public parks and mansions of the “better quarters” of Havana from inside one of the Ward Line- provided busses or limousines; drank ‘exotic’ mixed drinks at one of a series of Line-sanctioned bars; danced to Cuban music at an open air nightclub, and probably returned to the US under the impression that the stories about the turmoil of the previous year and its ongoing repercussions were exaggerated.

Advertisement for Morro Castle’s Final Voyage

When the Morro Castle departed Havana for the final time on September 5^th 1934, she carried aboard her 318 passengers and a crew of 231. Her complement was typical of what could be expected on the final late summer voyage before the opening of schools and the start of hurricane season. There were a number of students who had spent the summer in Mexico and Havana returning to their respective high schools, preparatory academies and colleges. Just short of a dozen doctors and their families were aboard, as were a priest and a minister. A former Yale tennis star and his family sailed, as did a former Dartmouth football team member and his new wife. The large- and entirely doomed- family of a Cuban doctor who resided in both Havana and the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in NYC settled into a pair of boat deck cabins, and a Brooklyn dentist and his grammar-school age son, aboard to discuss the doctor’s impending remarriage in a pleasant environment settled into their less lavish rooms aft on D Deck. There were bank presidents and bank secretaries; an orchestra leader turned architect turned insurance salesman and his family; police officers, and a former child actress turned model and her new husband. More than 100 who boarded were members of the Concordia Society, a German singing club with membership from Brooklyn and Queens. Below decks, there was a steward anxious to return to New York City where his wife was due to give birth the day the ship arrived, and a printer worried for the safety of his stepson- a crewman also- who had been carried off the ship seriously ill in Havana and hospitalized. There was a Columbia University dropout working as an oiler, and a musician making his final voyage before starting a shore based job. Perhaps best known before the fire was the “Millionaire Stewardess” Sarah Kirby who had been the subject of many a human interest story after it was discovered that the elderly woman had parlayed a small inheritance into a relative fortune (one suspects, however, that the million dollar figure was an exaggeration) but kept working because she loved her job.

Passengers on deck during a Morro Castle Cruise

On September 7^th, as the voyage drew near to its conclusion, the series of events that culminated in disaster commenced. Captain Wilmott, who had been – anecdotally – described as “not himself” was found dead in his bathroom at the start of the final Gala Evening at sea. Stories of poisoning and intrigue later circulated, but Wilmott’s final recorded words (‘could you mix me up an enema?’ delivered by telephone) and the fact that he was found toppled over into his bathtub with his pants around his ankles strongly suggest that he died of a heart attack or a stroke while trying to force a bowel movement; the doctors who were summoned agreed that it most likely was a heart attack. That night, as the new chain of command was being established and the weather deteriorated a fire was discovered in a storage locker in the port side B deck Writing Room. The ship was kept sailing into the wind for a regrettably long time, driving the fire aft, up through the lounge well, and out onto the boat deck. Passengers, unable or unwilling to risk running through the flames to reach the boats congregated on the open decks aft on B, C and D Deck. The vast majority of those who escaped in the Morro Castle lifeboats were crew members, a fact later to draw much negative criticism, mitigated somewhat by the fact that they were quartered forward on the ship and had a knowledge of onboard shortcuts and crew staircases that the passengers did not possess. Those trapped at the stern began jumping when it appeared that the flames were about to burst from the superstructure on to the aft decks. Many broke their necks or knocked themselves out jumping improperly with life preservers on, while others jumped or were thrown from the ship without any life saving devices only to weaken and drown struggling in the increasing storm.

Passengers who did not awaken in time had to jump from the cabins in which they found themselves trapped by the fire. Few survived – crew members on the bow spoke of how the passengers were coming out of their portholes head first and knocking themselves out as they somersaulted towards the water and struck their heads against the side of the ship, or landed on their stomachs hard enough to stun themselves and then drifted astern face down in the water. Those who stayed with the ship until after daybreak had a high survival rate- rescue ships had arrived on the scene and those who remained went overboard to cling to the ropes which hung from the liner’s side until help arrived. Those who jumped during the first hours, before sunrise, had mixed prospects. Some formed large groups in the water and supported one another until rescue came. Others struck out for the clearly visible shore and a surprising number of those survived the six mile swim. However, many who drifted alone or in small groups died of exhaustion and exposure waiting for the rescue vessels that had too little time to search too large an area for survivors.

Dolly Davidson : I won’t die! I won’t!

Dolly Davidson : I won’t die! I won’t!

Courtesy of Anthony Cunningham – September 12, 2003

Dolly Davidson

“In those days, Cuba was an exciting and exotic destination so my husband Sydney and I decided to take a honeymoon cruise aboard the Morro Castle because the ship was so beautiful and the length of the cruise was just right. We hoped it would be a romantic start to our married life.

I had been a child actress both on screen and stage and by quite an early age I had appeared with the legends Katherine Cornell and W.C. Fields. At the time of the Morro Castle trip I was 21 years old and working as a model on Fifth Avenue, New York. My husband was the owner of a fabric business, selling to the fashion houses. Being reasonably comfortable we decided to splash out and go first class.

The night before we were supposed to dock in Havana I fell over on the boat deck and sprained my ankle. Sydney and I therefore stayed on board instead of exploring the city. It wasn’t so bad ‘though, as Sydney surprised me with a wedding gift of a fur coat and a diamond watch. These, and all of our other possessions, were lost during the tragedy which followed.

Our cabin was pleasant enough, but some of the staterooms were quite enchanting. I particularly recall the first class lounge and dining room as being quite exquisite. The service on board was attentive and the food was very good indeed. In all we were more than happy- being newly married adding to our general good spirits I suppose!

We didn’t have a lifeboat or fire drill once while we were onboard.No one seemed bothered about it ‘though and we didn’t give it much thought- not then, at least.

Happier times on the Morro Castle
Michael Poirier Collection

There was quite a bit of drinking and partying going on. Everyone was very sociable and determined to have a good time. The ship’s orchestra piped out lovely tunes, which we danced to every night.

For the last night of the cruise we were invited to attend the gala dinner at the Captain’s table. Naturally, we were both very excited and looking forward to it tremendously. Suddenly word was sent out that Captain Wilmott had died of a heart attack and that all subsequent festivities were to be cancelled. A sort of gloom spread over everyone after that. Some passengers were suspicious because the Captain had appeared to be in such good health a few hours before. So Sydney and I had a quiet dinner followed by a nightcap and went to bed early.

At about 3Am Sydney was awakened by a noise in the hall. He opened the door and people were running up and down calling out, “Fire! Fire! The ship is on fire!” Sydney threw on his trousers and buttoned his coat around me and we went out with the other passengers. One of the crew- who I recognized as our Cruise Director Mr. Smith- led a group of us to one end of the ship, but there was simply too much smoke and fire to proceed any further. Back we trouped to the other end, but we were driven back by the intense heat. So the only way was up a stairwell to a higher deck. Wherever we went, the fire turned us back. It was total bedlam with people running and screaming- heat smoke and flames all over the place. By now passengers were shouting out “where are the lifeboats?” but we hadn’t seen any being made ready- ‘though there already appeared to be some bobbing around in the water below.

People began jumping into the water. Sydney had managed to find two lifejackets from our stateroom and he now fastened one on me and put on his own. A young child asked us for a lifejacket and Sydney gave his to him. He then went searching for another one because he knew that he would never survive in the water without it. I saw none of the crew other than Mr. Smith.there was total panic and people were pushing and shoving in order to get off the ship before they were burned alive. I was both numb and scared out of my wits. Finally, in desperation, Sydney told me that we had to jump for our lives, but the thought of it terrified me. It was so far down to the ocean from the deck and the waves were so high. Sydney jumped, and as I looked overboard another passenger grabbed hold of my feet and just tipped me over the rail.

We were in the water more than seven hours. To keep our spirits up we joined hands with other passengers in a circle. Sometimes we sang songs, and sometimes we just prayed. We had to keep our feet moving because the lifejackets were the old “Mae West” type. We tried to keep a child up, passing him along from one of us to another, but finally he was taken from us by a huge wave. By then he was already dead.

It was simply terrible seeing dozens of burnt corpses floating by. People called out that there were sharks, which didn’t help! Twice I tried to swim to a lifeboat but was either turned away by people who said it was too full or the size of the waves further deterred my efforts. The older people didn’t stand a chance in that water- they either disappeared or drowned. I remember seeing this girl in the water with long black hair. She was completely burnt. It was a dreadful sight, but in a strange way it gave me hope. I just became more determined to live. I kept repeating to myself, “I won’t die! I won’t!”

When it got light, we saw another lifeboat between waves and Sydney said that we had to try and make it. We couldn’t survive any longer in the water. When we got to the boat the people said again, “No, no! Too full!” but Sydney pushed me up and then climbed aboard himself; in doing so, he broke all the fingers on one of his hands.

It was daylight by now when a big ship appeared, and they threw a rope down to us and we were hoisted aboard. We were taken to the boiler room to dry off and generally we were treated very well..

I credit my survival to a plain determination to live, a refusal to think of myself as ‘lost at sea’ and lying in a casket- plus a lot of praying and faith. Ever since the Morro Castle disaster, I have not set foot on another ship and cannot watch movies about disasters at sea. In fact, just looking at the ocean from the beach makes me feel a little odd even today. It just brings it all back.

Sydney and I returned to New York and soon after we had our first child- a boy. I was diagnosed with tuberculosis, which the doctors thought was a result of the long exposure I had undergone in the water. I was sent to a sanitarium in upstate New York for a lengthy stay. Sadly, although Sydney and I had endured so much already we were not able to survive the long separation and eventually we divorced. I returned to the fashion industry, remarried, had another boy and was widowed. I continued to work until my retirement at 65.

I have been to a number of reunions but although I found them interesting I, and the other survivors, did not generally like discussing our experiences in any detail. I still get bad dreams about it, and it feels too sad thinking about picturing the dead floating around me in the sea. It was horrible- just horrible. So many people died because of plain negligence and poor organization. The whole affair is still such a mystery, isn’t it? No one really knows why that fire started, do they? It’s a story full of intrigue and not something I feel ever likely to forget.

Photo from the collection of Dolly Davidson McTigue, courtesy of Anthony Cunningham.

Sydney Davidson died in New York in December 1980. Dolly Davidson McTigue died in Buffalo, New York, on September 24, 2005.

The Long Swim to Shore

The Long Swim to Shore

Abraham and Harriet Cohen of Hartford, Connecticut were finishing their honeymoon aboard the Morro Castle. They had married on August 28th 1934, in a ceremony at the bride’s home and departed for Havana four days later. Photos taken on the southbound leg of the voyage, which Harriet mailed home to her mother from Cuba, represent the last known images of life aboard the ship. The athletic young couple swam the six miles to shore together, after escaping from the flaming vessel, and survived to be photographed beaming at one another, and raising glasses in a toast, from their adjoining hospital beds in New Jersey. A few days later, Harriet Cohen wrote this account:

I heard screaming outside our cabin. I rushed to the door, opened it- flames filled the hallway. My husband awakened and we put on our bathrobes. We went out through the flames and finally made our way to B Deck. The decks were filled with people- everyone seemed excited. The smoke hung low and the fumes almost suffocated us.
People were milling and jammed close together. There didn’t seem to be anyone who could keep the people quiet.

My husband and I made our way to the railing and decided the best thing to do was to jump. We did. I guess we were scared, but there wasn’t time to think about it.

Once in the water our first thought was to get away from the boat. There were other struggling around us in the water, but after we got started and swam a while we didn’t see any more. We saw no lifeboats around us. We saw the lights on the shore.
We struck out for shore. The water was warm. The waves seemed to help us along towards shore. Best of all, we kept side by side all the way. We’d help one another keep afloat now and then, one of us taking it easy for a while. Then we reached the beach. People on shore rushed into the surf to drag us out and they took us to the hospital.

The Cohen’s long swim took over six hours.

Mr. and Mrs. Cohen were well known in Hartford, and their return home drew much attention. Harriet carried with her the child’s lifebelt with which she escaped from the ship (Abraham’s belt, which had been cut off of him, would later be mailed to them from New Jersey) and after attending Rosh Hashanah services at Temple Beth Israel they retired to the home of Harriet’s parents’ where a small group had gathered to give thanks for their rescue. A transcription of an interview they gave soon after follows:

H: I didn’t see any flames along our corridor, but above me and on the other side of the ship I could hear screams.

(The Cohens’ cabin was an outside on C-Deck, just aft of the Purser’s Lobby, on the port side. Leaving Abraham sleeping, Harriet walked astern on B Deck to learn what was wrong. She soon returned to the cabin, wearing a child’s life jacket a man had handed to her.)

H: I returned to our cabin and found my husband dressing and putting on a life preserver. He had one for me, but I kept the one I had on.

A: I went out into the Purser’s Lobby. There were members of the crew in the four corners of it squirting water against the ceiling. There didn’t seem to be much pressure, but if there had been all the pressure in the world it would not have made any difference. I spoke to one of them and he swore.

We found our friends all dressed up as if they were going out shopping.. They were alright, and we left them. The reports say they were saved.

(The shipboard friends were Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Vitale of Detroit, Michigan)

A: Then we went toward the stern of the ship. The corridor was full of people all moving toward the stern. It wasn’t crowded and the fire seemed all above us, on the upper decks. No one jostled or hurried. We went back to the open part of B Deck.

We couldn’t move around. Someone began to sing “Hail Hail the Gang’s All Here” and someone else said they ought to say their prayers. Some woman say, ‘yes, that’s right. Prayers.’

There were two members of the crew huddled with the rest. They were sobbing, with tears streaming down their faces. Everyone was excited, but some big stocky fellow seemed to have them well under control. Then the lights went out. The big fellow said it was all right, that the ship was steel and guaranteed not to sink, that people would get to us right away.

A little while later the fire began to increase.

The smoke began to pour back. People were choking and the women began to scream again. I wet the shoulders of my wife’s gown and buried my face in it. People were crying out that we would suffocate. It couldn’t last long. Some of the passengers tried to go up to A Deck but were apparently warned not to.

People on the inboard edge of the crowd around us were pushing and screaming for those near the rail to jump. They were afraid to, and we who were quite far from the rail were suffocating. I took my wife’s shoulders and pushed her through the crowd until we reached the rail. All we wanted was to get to the water. We both had life belts on. Anything was better than this.

H: We were right in the middle of the stern. I could see the lights on the shore in a low line to my left. Except for those, it was pitch black.

A; I put my arm around Harriet after we climbed over the rail. We said ‘Let’s go’ and jumped. I hit the water flat on my back and it knocked the wind out of me. Harriet hit feet first. When we recovered from the shock, Harriet said ‘The water’s fine!’

There was some sort of light like a tin can with a flare on it that was floating in the water. Some of the people called out to stay near the light. Then a funny thing happened. The lifebelt my wife had tied on me was a little loose and we called out to some people who seemed good natured and went over to them. I turned around and one of them fixed it.

H: The whole ship seemed afire. There was smoke on the water and the waves were high, but it was warm. We were afraid the ship might sink so we moved away from the light on the water. Then we thought the ship might explode, being full of oil, and we swam further away. We had our lifejackets laced up the back and it was easy to swim. After that we never saw another person and we drifted away from the ship.

When it began to be light we could no longer see the lights on shore as the waves lifted us. They must have been turned out, and it began to rain. I never saw such rain. We were never discouraged. We thought that at any moment a boat would come along. When we saw one about an hour alter we thought another would soon be along when they failed to see us. We talked all the time. We worried about the people at home. We could see the smoke from the ship for a long time after we jumped.

A: It was a long time, and it wasn’t pleasant. We swallowed water. I was sick. We began to get cold. It must have been 9 O’clock when we first saw the houses at Point Pleasant. We said ‘Take it easy’ and talked about a lot of things.

H: Sometimes we thought we were getting nearer shore, then we didn’t know. Then we knew we were getting nearer and soon saw a tremendous crowd on the beach. When the waves lifted us on their crests, we waved. Then we were able to see that the people were waving back to us. There were no other swimmers near us. We couldn’t understand why they didn’t come out to get us. The surf must have been too high. The last quarter mile was the worst of the six hours. There was a bathing beach there and some sort of wooden things holding up a barrier. It was about 100 yards from shore. My husband and I were thrown against it. Still no one came out. We were tangled in the ropes. My husband was thrown clear after swinging around them and then someone swam out and got him. Then they got me. He was pretty sick and the men, big ones, I don’t know who they were, were almost tired out with taking us in.

A: It was awful. They told me there were bodies being washed ashore, some of them with their arms charred. These people had been afraid to jump.

There is one thing that was lucky for us, ‘though. The engines of the boat had been stopped when we jumped.

We saw the vessel where she was beached at Asbury Park We couldn’t believe we had ever been on her. It didn’t look like the same boat.

Abraham Cohen was remembered in 1934 as an outstanding athlete from his high school and college years. After being awarded ‘Most Outstanding Athlete’ and ‘Most Outstanding Student’ at Hartford High School he attended the Dean Academy, and later Dartmouth where he played on the championship basketball team two years running and was a member of the varsity football team. At the time of his marriage, he was the manager of the Grand Department Store in Hartford.

Harriet Elsner Bacharach Cohen was salutatorian of her graduating class at Bulkeley High School. She attended Smith College from 1930 through 1932, and then transferred
to the Prince School of Simmons College, from where she graduated in 1933. She served as president of the Temple Beth Israel Junior Congregation, and at the time of her marriage worked in the comptroller’s office of the G. Fox Department Store in Hartford.

1934 articles did not mention it, but Harriet celebrated her 22nd birthday on September 9th, one day after she and Abraham made their six mile swim. The Cohens had two children, and Harriet maintained a busy professional and social life, working as a bank officer at Washington Federal Savings and Loan, and functioning as the president of the Society of Real Estate Appraisers; the president of the Emma Lazarus Chapter of B’nai Brith, and the President of Renanah Chapter of Hadassah. She was also active in South Shore Hospital. Mrs. Cohen died in New York City on November 25, 2002. Abraham predeceased her, dying in West Palm Beach, Florida on May 13, 1988.

The Cohens’ onboard friends, the Vitales both survived. Mrs. Vitale left this brief account of the disaster:

Seven hours we had been in the water. We were bruised, our eyes burned from smoke and salt water. Our flesh was singed and raw from the fire.

I was ready to give up, let go, let the waves take me. My husband said:

“I know how you feel, but if we give up who will take care of Donna Joy.?”

She’s 17 months old, our baby. I couldn’t let go then. So, we locked our hands together and hung on. Dead bodies slapped against us- and floated on. A boy, about 13 years old, drifted up to us and asked if he might hold on to us, too. He was afraid, he said, and lonely. So, three were three of us, hanging together in the sea.

And it couldn’t have been more than an hour after that when a coast guard picked us up, put us on the City of Savannah and we began to live again

Many passengers, seeing no sign of lifeboats or rescue craft set out to swim to shore. Among them were Charles and Selma Filtzer, a honeymoon couple from Queens, New York. Unlike the Cohens, the Filtzers had trouble making their way, and after several hours in the water a large wave submerged the couple. Selma resurfaced and was eventually rescued; Charles was not seen alive again and was identified at a temporary morgue in New Jersey. A 1934 account is worth quoting in full:

Life has not dealt kindly with Mr. and Mrs. Bernard F. Filtzer of 115 Eastern Parkway, Brooklyn.

Seven years ago their daughter, Mrs. William F. Yarm died following the birth of her first child. Yesterday, their one remaining child, Charles, 27, was buried in Mt. Hebron Cemetery.

Two weeks ago they saw Charles married to Selma Widder, of Mayfair Road, Kew Garden, Queens. Two Saturdays ago they went to the Morro Castle to wish the young couple Godspeed on their honeymoon.

Yesterday, on the eve of the Jewish New Year, at Kirschenbaum’s Funeral Parlor, Throop Avenue, they stood beside Selma and listened mutely while the widow told how Charles had drowned.

They jumped together from the Morro Castle, Selma said, and swam side by side in the cold sea for six hours. Suddenly a huge wave separated them. Two hours later she was picked up by a rescue boat. Her husband’s body was swept ashore.

The young bride accompanied Charles’ mother and father to the side of the coffin. She touched her husband’s cheek with her hand. Sobbing, the three walked away arms linked, supporting each other in their grief.

Charles, a buyer for the May Company, was a brilliant young businessman and a sterling sportsman. His bride was his first love. He had a happy future ahead of him-but fate ruled otherwise.

Bernard Filtzer, Charles, father survived until early 1936. Ellen, his mother, lived only a year longer dying at age 57 in 1937. Efforts to trace Selma Widder Filtzer have so far been unsuccessful.

 

Alexander and Freda McArthur of Philadelphia, jumped from the Morro Castle together, and like the Cohens and the Filtzers attempted to swim to shore. Alexander began to weaken after three hours in the water and finally, after saying, “Don’t try to help me, save yourself.” slipped into unconsciousness and then died. Freda continued to swim while carrying her husband’s body. John Bogan, Jr. of the Paramount later told author Hal Burton that Mrs. McArthur had initially refused to abandon her husband and was hauled aboard, weeping, as his corpse floated away:

“We couldn’t waste time with the dead, but it took us at least ten minutes to convince her.”
(Shipwrecked. Hal Burton. Viking press. 1973.)

Alexander washed ashore at Sea Girt later in the day. The 37 year old insurance man left two children, Dora, 15, and Alexander Jr., 5, neither of whom made the voyage.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Edward Brady of Philadelphia were returning from Havana with their teenage daughter Nancy. The three leapt from the stern together, but Nancy was soon separated from her parents by the waves. Edward Brady had been in poor health and the trip was meant to act as a restorative. The two swam together, but Mr. Brady began to fade as exhaustion set in. He told Mrs. Brady “I am not afraid to die, but I hate to leave you.” and his last words were, reportedly, “I’m going. I can’t keep up.” He then slumped forward, unconscious, and soon died. Mrs. Brady survived, as did Nancy.

Una Cullen, a pretty 21 year old from Queens, was part of a large group of women who swam and drifted most of the way to shore that morning. For two of the group, there was a literal last minute tragedy:

Because it was our last night on the ship, a group of us were staying up very late. I was in the lounge with Mae Maloney and two other shipboard friends. We heard the crew moving about and smelled smoke but did not think much about it, as a steward told us not to be alarmed. He said it was just a small fire and the crew could put it out easily.

Then suddenly a great cloud of smoke came right through the lounge. My room mate, Helen Williams, was in our stateroom, and the life preservers were there, so I ran down. I woke up Helen, put on my coat and a life belt and went back up on deck. By that time some of the crew had lowered a life boat and we were directed to go down a rope ladder. As I was climbing down my heel caught and I fell into the water. I thought that was the end of me.

But, when I came to the surface I saw Mae Maloney and her mother, and another girl Dot Vergenstein floating near me. So we all joined hands in the water and thought we’d stick together. The four of us, still holding hands floated for about seven hours. We didn’t try to swim much, but we were carried towards shore.

Then when shore was only a few hundred yards away, Mrs. Maloney (actually, Mrs. James Dillon of Brooklyn) died as we held her hands. I suppose the shock and exhaustion and immersion were too much for her. It was horrible.

The remaining women drifted in the tidal zone until they were picked up by a small boat and brought ashore alive. Mrs. Emil Lampe, another member of the group, recalled for author Hal Burton in the early 1970s:

We all held hands but pretty soon Mrs. Dillon became delirious. Then she smiled, her head slumped forward, and I could feel that her hands were cold. Mae kept saying ‘I hope mother will wake up’ but I knew she never would. Just the same, I kept hold of one of her hands until a lifeboat picked us up.

(Shipwrecked, Hal Burton, Viking Press, 1973.)

Mae Maloney, a young lady in her early 20s who bore a strong resemblance to Susan Hayward, was hospitalized for shock, and the after effects of immersion, in New Jersey. Photographs of the strikingly beautiful survivor lying in her hospital bed were widely run in the newspapers in the days following the disaster.

 

53 year old August Sheely, of Glendale, Long Island was taken directly from the Furness-Bermuda Line pier to his Cypress Hills Road home, still in the wet clothing in which he had jumped from the Morro Castle. The father of three was put to bed under his doctor’s orders, suffering from shock and badly bruised legs.

August, and his wife, Frieda, had been awakened by the smoke and noise in the corridor outside of their cabin. They made their way to an upper deck, where they kissed one another before jumping into the sea together. Mr. Sheely told his children that he and Frieda had stayed together in the water. He fell into a stupor, but he recalled being pulled into a lifeboat from the Monarch of Bermuda, and was certain that his wife had been pulled aboard as well. He awaited her return, but Frieda Sheely was never seen alive again; she may have died aboard the Monarch of Bermuda, or may not have been pulled into the lifeboat at all.

I think you’d better get up

I think you’d better get up

Madeline Desvernine, 19, of Tuckahoe New York boarded the Morro Castle along with her cousin, Alice Desvernine (1911-1984) of Plainfield New Jersey and her aunt, Mrs. Florence Brown of New York City. Madeline had spent the summer of 1934 visiting with relatives who lived in Cuba, while the other two women traveled to Havana for a short end of summer vacation. Since the majority of the Morro Castle’s peak-season passengers booked round trip, the women were unable to secure passage until after the ship departed from New York on the southbound leg of her journey and the amount of available space known. The three subsequently ended up in separate cabins; Madeline sharing a room with a woman whose name she could not later recall.

We went to our cabin shortly after eleven o’clock. Things were quiet on the ship because the captain had died and a storm was raging outside. I went to sleep a short time later. We were scheduled to dock in New York around 8 o’clock in the morning.

The first I knew of any trouble was when my companion shook me and told me to get up. I was half awake. Someone had pounded on the door of our cabin. I said that I did not want to get up-I was too sleepy. My companion said “I think you’d better get up and hurry, too. The ship is on fire.” I jumped out of my berth, out on my shoes and dressing gown, and grabbed a life preserver. We opened the door and found the corridor full of smoke. We could see flames. I don’t recall just how we got out on the deck, but we found ourselves there. There was great confusion. The rain was coming down hard. I didn’t think that there was any real danger. It didn’t seem possible that such a big boat could be in danger of burning up or sinking. After I while I began to wonder just what was going to happen.

Finally most of us realized that we were in serious danger. I didn’t see any lifeboats into which I could get. I asked someone what to do and they said “it’s a case of jump or get burned, I guess.” It was hard to make up your mind to jump. I saw other people jumping. I hadn’t seen my aunt or cousin and in the confusion lost my cabin companion. I decided I’d better jump off- the flames seemed to be getting closer very fast. I saw a rope hanging over the side and thought I’d slide down. I made up my mind that I had to get off somehow. I was glad that I learned to swim while I was in Cuba- the thought of it gave me confidence. I climbed the rail and took hold of the rope. I went only a few feet and let go. The drop to the water was terrible, it seemed so long. Just as my head came up a wave caught me and hurled me against the side of the boat. I was thrown against it several times.

I began to try to swim away- it wasn’t but a short time before I was clear of the ship. There were people all around me in the water. I was able to keep my head up as I tried to swim. I kept hoping all the time that I’d see a lifeboat or that someone would see me. I don’t know how long I was in the water. I was cold and was getting very tired. The sky began to lighten after a while. I began to think I would never see a boat. Finally I did see one as one of the waves carried me high in the air. Then I didn’t see it anymore. A short time later I saw a lifeboat- it was nearby. I could hardly believe it: I was so tired. I turned my head to look again and then I did not see it anymore.

I kept on trying to swim but it was difficult. I was nearly exhausted. I was too tired to go on when a lifeboat came up behind me. I hadn’t seen it until it was right up to me and I was pulled into it. It was a lifeboat from the City of Savannah.

All three members of the Desvernine party were rescued by the same ship. Their names were not printed on the initial survivor list obtained by their families and it was not until after 4PM on the day of the fire that Madeline was reunited with her father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. Henri Desvernine. She was hospitalized for observation overnight, and returned to Tuckahoe with her parents the following day.

Madeline, who was a French major at Hunter College in Manhattan, went on to become one of the final Morro Castle survivors, dying in Florida in October 2003 at age 88.

Janet Pruzan, 21, an employee of Walker Freight Service, composed this account a few days after the fire:

It’s too horrible to describe. I was in cabin 290, on C Deck aft. It was utterly impossible to get into a lifeboat. Realizing this, there was only one thing to do; strap on a lifebelt, jump and trust in God. That’s what we had to do or burn.

I will never forget the heroism of the women aboard. They forgot themselves completely in an effort to help those in more serious trouble.

I was knocked unconscious on hitting the water. It was much like diving off a cliff. I must have been in that condition for several minutes. The sight I witnessed on regaining consciousness was tragic indeed. There were bodies everywhere. Amid the shrieks of the dying, women struggled against terrific odds to help someone near death. I’d rather not talk about it. After being in the water for six hours I naturally want to forget this awful tragedy.

 

Katherine Liebler, a young lady from Bellerose Long Island, later recalled that the possibility of an accident had been discussed over dinner on the final night:

No one who hasn’t gone through what we had to go through last night can possibly begin to imagine the horror of it.

I was awakened about 4 o’clock by a steward pounding on my door. He said nothing about a fire. He gave me and my room mate, Mildred Weiser, life preservers. We were scared stiff because only last night at dinner we had discussed the possibility of anything happening and said how everybody should keep their heads in an emergency.

We rushed out in our nightclothes. Flames and smoke were sweeping through the corridors. We rushed out and dashed up the stairway. We were on C Deck.

When we got out in the open, it seemed we were in a madhouse. Screams and yells and cries. I was slammed here and there and up against a porthole. I lost Mildred and haven’t heard from her since.

I saw one woman screaming for her boy. I was going to talk to her, but somebody shoved me ahead and I found myself along the rail. Some of the crew were there, they were fine. They kept their heads. One helped me over the rail and told me to slide down the rope he put in my hands. I had only my nightclothes on- I never saw anything so horrible as that water. I hesitated and a man said “Go on, kid. Scram!” I took one look back- the whole ship seemed to be on fire- and I thought it would be easier to drown than die in that hell hole behind me.

I made sure my life preserver was okay and then I said to myself “God help me, here I go.” And I went.

I did nothing in the water. Just let the life preserver hold me up. Once in a while I thought I saw someone floating by. It seems funny when I think about it now, but the water did not seem that cold. Maybe I was too scared to notice!

I think I was in the water about a half an hour when a small boat from the Andrea Luckenbach came alongside me and pulled me in.

Miss Liebler, one of the most photogenic- and photographed- of the survivors testified before the Government Inquiry Board in Manhattan within the week:

Q: Where was your stateroom?
A: Room 403, on C Deck

Q: When did you learn about the fire?
A: I was awakened at about 4;10, daylight saving time, by my room steward knocking on my door.

Q: Were the rest of the passengers aroused by the stewards?
A: I couldn’t tell you. I was so excited about getting out myself that I didn’t notice anybody else.

Q; What did you do?
A: I was led to the boat deck with my girlfriend Mildred Weiser and her parents. Later, we were led back to C Deck.

Q; How did you get off?
A: I slid down a rope and was rescued by the crew of the Luckenbach steamer.

Q: Have you anything to say about the conduct of the crew of the Morro Castle?
A: There was one very nice young man, a bellhop. He was concerned about me going down the rope, and told me to take my coat off so it wouldn’t hamper me. I took it off. He gave me a lot of encouragement.

Q: When you were on the after deck was the smoke so dense you couldn’t see through it?
A: Yes, you couldn’t even see the rail.

Q: Did you see any use made of the hose?
A: I didn’t see any use of hose until I came back down stairs, about 5 or half past 5.

Q: After you had been on deck and hour or an hour and a half?
A: Yes.

Q: There seems to have been a good deal of drinking done onboard. Can you tell us anything about the crew in that respect?
A: After we got on the boat in Havana there were quite a few intoxicated waiters.

Q: Do you know how many there were?
A: I came in contact with three.

Q: What kind of contact?
A: They just waited on the table. One of them had to be taken out of the room and my room steward took his place.

Q; That was on Wednesday, when you left Havana. Did you see any intoxication among the crew after that?
A: No.

Q: Were you around the deck before you went to bed on Friday night?
A: No, I came right downstairs from the lounge

Q: What time was that?
A: One-thirty.

Q: What time did you go to bed?
A: Quarter after two.

Q: Did you smell any smoke at that time, or see any evidence of fire?
A: None.

Q: Was there any noise at the time you retired?
A: There was a party going on at the end of the hall.

Q: Where was that?
A: In a stateroom.

Q: What time did you leave the ship?
A: I went over the side about a quarter after six.

9. All Overboard!

All Overboard!

Augusta Pusrin, 27, of Queens (1911-2001) was unconscious and believed dead when she was pulled from the water on the morning of the fire. Blue faced and in deep shock she was placed with the bodies of Morro Castle victims aboard the City of Savannah, but as with the Lusitania’s Theodate Pope nearly 20 years before, someone saw a sign of life and she was revived. She later wrote:

There was a farewell dinner Saturday night. The dining saloon was hung with flags, balloons floated around, and the singing and chatter was interrupted only by the popping of champagne corks. Towards the end of dinner I noticed the doctor and some of the officers leave their tables, but neither I nor anyone else thought anything of it until an hour or so later in the lounge when the assistant cruise director gave us the news of Captain Wilmott’s death.

I went to bed about 1:30 AM Daylight Time, but I didn’t sleep. I had been seasick and didn’t sleep at all. After a long while I smelled smoke but there are so many peculiar odors on a boat that I thought nothing of it. Almost the next minute passengers started knocking on the door shouting “Fire! Fire! Get out! Fire!” I looked through my porthole and saw flames. I ran out of my cabin- I was in there alone at the time- and passengers were rushing for the stairs. One of them yelled to me to go and get a life preserver. I hadn’t the faintest idea of where they were. We never had a boat drill, despite reports that they were held every day. Someone told me to look under the bed. I did, and with the belt on I ran upstairs to C Deck.

Then I met Eleanor Friend (1907-1995) my chum, and some other girls. We weren’t frightened at all then, in fact we thought it was fun, because we were sure the lifeboats would take us off and we could see the lights from shore blinking. They looked so near it gave us courage.

Finally the flames reached the deck we were on. Someone yelled “all overboard” and people started jumping. We had to do it- the flames were suffocating.

I was really scared then. The belt kept me from sinking, and the water wasn’t cold. Eleanor was holding onto a rope from the boat, and I held on to her. Then we became detached and began drifting about. The waves were very high.

There Miss Pusrin’s memories all but ended. As so many of the passengers and crew did, she fell into a stupor and then lost consciousness after prolonged exposure. She had a fragmentary memory of briefly returning to consciousness in a lifeboat, but remembered nothing beyond that until she awoke aboard the City of Savannah.

27 Year old Pauline Kurland (1907-1988) of the Bronx returned to her family on the Jewish New Year, her survival giving them additional reason to celebrate. She had suffered a fractured arm, bronchitis and shock, and bore cuts and bruises across the front of her body. Like her traveling companion, Augusta Pusrin, she had leapt from the Morro Castle and drifted – mostly alone – for six hours before being picked up by a Coast Guard vessel. Friends and relatives gathered at her Morris Avenue apartment, where she was photographed embracing her mother and sister as she related the following account:

The passengers for the most part behaved very well, but as far as I could see the crew made no effort to help them. Captain Wilmott was very human and well liked. I had dinner with him, at his table, two hours before he died and he complained of no ailment then.

Miss Kurland had been at a stateroom gathering on D Deck, when smoke and passengers fleeing from the forward part of the ship were the first warning she and her friends were given. Thomas Cannon, one of those attending the small party procured a lifebelt and helped Miss Kurland put it on before they climbed the stairs to B Deck.

After Mr. Cannon got the lifebelts he gave me one and took one himself. We arrived on B Deck just as a man shot himself. The smoke and heat were terrible. I couldn’t see very well and when I was running to the rail I tripped over the body of a man lying on the deck.

At the rail, Mr. Cannon adjusted my life belt, then he jumped. I hesitated a moment before I jumped because I had lost all hope. I didn’t see how I could come out of the water alive, but I jumped.

In the water I grabbed a rope hanging from the stern of the ship and held on for several minutes but the sea was so rough I lost my grip. I started swimming. There were people all around me, floundering. A man grabbed me and held on for about a half hour but a wave cut him away. I couldn’t see whether or not he had on a lifebelt.

I can’t tell you much about what happened during the six hours when I was in the water. I didn’t lose consciousness, but I couldn’t see. The sea was tossing me around and the rain was beating down very hard. I was picked up after 9 o’clock by a Coast Guard cutter, and I passed out as soon as I was pulled into the boat. When I was revived I recognized two of the Morro Castle cruise directors in the boat.

One wonders about Miss Kurland’s claim to have witnessed a passenger shoot himself. The rest of her account is unexaggerated and ties in with those of other passengers. On the same day that Miss Kurland gave her account to a local reporter in the Bronx, 16 year old Louis Perrone, was claiming to a different reporter that he had heard shots and saw an officer standing over the body of a dead a crew member and that he, too, saw the body lying on the deck. While Miss Kurland’s account was not syndicated outside of the Bronx and went unnoticed, young Mr. Perrone’s drew a great deal of attention. Federal investigators wanted to question him, but he “collapsed” at home soon after meeting with the press , and his family took him to Princeton Hospital where he was shielded from the men from the United States Attorney’s office and from reporters as well. His aunt, Mrs. Howard C. Warren, issued a statement denying the story and, apparently, it ended there.

 

Miss Sidney Folkman of Riverside Drive, Manhattan recalled:

I was awakened about 5 o’clock by the smell of smoke. There wasn’t much time to get into clothes. The passengers were huddled on the rear of B Deck waiting for the fire to diminish, but soon the flames became higher and we realized how serious it was.

There was no chance to get a lifeboat, so I jumped. That took a lot of nerve, but I would have burned to death if I had stayed on the boat much longer. I had on a life preserver and floated around a while until a big piece of burned wood floated by.

At first there were three of us and later two more grabbed for it. One was an old woman who said she couldn’t hold on much longer. Finally she said “I can’t make it” and she slipped off into the water.

We seemed to be in the water all morning until a fishing boat came along and picked us up. I never felt better in my life as I was pulled into the boat.

 

Louise Taubert, 24, of Providence, Rhode Island, was returning from her Havana vacation with friends Florence Roberts, of Pawtucket, Floride “Flora” LaRoche, of Providence, and Ann Conway of Brooklyn. New York. The experiences of Miss Taubert and her companions demonstrate how, on the night of the fire, seconds separated life from death and a moment of indecision could easily prove fatal.Floride LaRoche, her head bandaged where it was cut by glass falling from a shattered promenade deck window, gave this account from her Freeborn Avenue home:

Louise Taubert

The ship’s orchestra was playing “For All We Know We Shall Never Meet Again.” Louise and I were dancing, and now see what has happened.Florence and I were in the stateroom. We were sound asleep. Louise and I had been dancing. Then Louise went to play bridge – she later came in.

Suddenly we were awakened by a terrific pounding on the door. It was Ann calling for us to open the door and leave the stateroom. She said there was a fire on the ship. I stopped to put on a dress and some shoes and stockings and a coat. The other two girls who were dressed in pajamas went ahead of me. When I reached the promenade deck, Florence was there but we couldn’t find Louise. We screamed for her to join us, but we had lost her.A deck hand yelled “Follow me.” We followed him. Smoke was pouring in waves on both sides of us.

We made our way through the smoke to A Deck. We just got through the door and to the upper deck and it was filled with flames. Only Ann and Florence and I , and eleven members of the crew, were there. There was no one else on deck. We got into a lifeboat and they began to lower it. When we reached the surface of the sea the lifeboat was attached to the ship, somehow, and hot glass fell all over us. A piece struck me on the head, and Leroy Kelsey of Albany, New York, put his coat over my head. He also was bleeding very badly from a cut on the forehead.

The sea was terribly rough and it was pitch dark. We could not see a thing and there was no torch in the boat. When we finally got clear of the ship the seas were so high that they nearly swamped us. We couldn’t see anything, and I was never so thirsty in my life.When the boat was lowered we were right near the propeller.

It must have been three hours and a half before we finally reached shore. All the way it was raining very hard, but there was no lightning. Our boat was the first to reach the shore. There was no one there, but there were two people at the life saving station. We hollered to them, and they came out.

The three women were among the fewer than 25 Morro Castle passengers to escape by lifeboat. A report by Florence Roberts, not given in the first person corresponds to that of Floride LaRoche, but contains the additional information that the womens’ escape route took them through the galley, on D Deck, and that as she recalled, Miss Taubert became separated from the group on the stairs leading up to the boat deck. The ‘Galley’ reference is so far removed from the accounts of the other two women in Louise Taubert’s party that one wonders if perhaps itr was an improper transctription of “alley” used as a synonym for corridor. Ann Conway, in her account, which like that of Miss Roberts, was paraphrased by the newspapers rather than directly quoted, agreed with all of the details of Flora LaRoche’s account except for one. According to Miss Conway, Louise Taubert made it as far as the boat deck with the other women, but hung back for a second as the others-along with the unnamed deck hand who saved them-hurried into the smoke and flames that were pouring out of the windows along A Deck and up from the Promenade Deck. Miss Conway’s account agreed that Louise had been called to, but that it happened at the lifeboat station. When Louise Taubert’s body was recovered, it was unburned, so it can be assumed that she either jumped from the Boat Deck or somehow made her way back to the stern and left the ship from there.Floride LaRoche lived out the rest of her life in East Providence, Rhode Island. She worked for 25 years as a legal secretery, and died on January 17, 1991 at age 84 as Mrs. Floride Calabrese.

Louise Taubert was buried in the Corcoran family plot in St. Francis Cemetery, Pawtucket, Rhode Island. The monument marking the plot is impressive but Miss Taubert’s name is not inscribed upon it, nor does she have a footstone or plot marker. The others in the plot predate her by a good 40 years, and how she came to be buried there is unknown.

Everything had been burned away

Everything had been burned away

Reginald Roberts of Yonkers, New York, had graduated from Roosevelt High School and entered Columbia in New York City. However, whether it was because of wanderlust or depression era hard times, he withdrew from his studies and went to sea for three years, spending one year sailing around the world, and two years aboard the Morro Castle as an oiler. He returned to Yonkers a day after being rescued, and met the press with his parents:

I first learned of the fire about 3:10 when smoke came into the engine room through the ventilators. There was no fire in the engine room. I notified the engineer in charge and went back to my post. I’m an oiler and I have to be on close guard. I was then ordered to go above and notify the other engineers.

I went to the elevator and went up, but when I got to B Deck I couldn’t open the door. Then the lights of the car went out. I couldn’t move it. I pressed the button but she wouldn’t go down.

Roberts struggled with the lever to open the door, but it seemed jammed. Finally, the elevator sank back down the shaft:

She went down slowly. I went to the officer and told him I couldn’t get out. Then I went back to my post.

We tried to continue moving the ship but it was no use. At last Third Engineer Stamper told us to leave the engine room. We went through the shaft alley and came out on D Deck. The shaft alleys are long runways though which the driving shafts run to the propellers. There is just barely room for men to squeeze through them. There were hundreds of people huddled at the stern. I saw that many passengers were jumping off B and C Decks into the sea rather than take their chances on being suffocated. The smoke was choking everyone. But there was absolutely no panic. Everybody was excited, of course, but everybody seemed to be trying to avoid panic. They jumped into the sea every few minutes. I was nearly suffocated until I wrapped a wet rag around my face and got close to the floor where the air was better.

There was no sign of rescue ships. In the distance we could see the lights on land. Everybody was looking for ships. At daybreak the people grew quieter. Everybody though we were going to be saved. We could see rescue ships drawing near. People kept jumping into the water and forming groups waiting to be picked up.

Finally we smashed into an unoccupied cabin and I got a life preserver. Then the deck we were standing on began to burn so we jumped. The ship was just a hollow shell. Everything had been burned away. We couldn’t stay any longer.

Roberts omitted any details of his experience in the water, saying only that he “floundered.” He was picked up by a lifeboat from the City of Savannah.

They were short handed in the lifeboat because they were sending out so many boats. I took an oar with another fellow and we rowed in near the Morro Castle. We picked up five women from the water.

Reginald Roberts was taken to Marine Hospital in New York, where examination showed him to be “over tired” but otherwise uninjured. He was reunited with his “frantic” parents the following day, and posed with them on the lawn of their home wearing the life jacket in which he escaped from the Morro Castle.

Police officers James Butte and Charles O’Connor, of the Lawrence Avenue Station in Brooklyn, chose the Morro Castle for their respective yearly vacations. Both survived, with O’Connor returning to Brooklyn suffering from immersion and shock, and Butte with eyes damaged by exposure to smoke. A portion of his 1934 account survives:

I was awakened by a knock on the door. “Jim, there’s a fire” a voice shrieked. O’Connor and I jumped from our berths and dressed. We donned life preservers and ran outside- we were on C Deck and the noise was something awful.. Men and women dashing here and there.

Charley and I ran up to B Deck with several members of the crew trying to bring down panicked passengers.. Flames were sweeping towards us from both sides. On the way down I lost site of Charley- I haven’t seen him since.

A girl came up to me and asked me to giver her my lifebelt. She was crying and at the same time trying to hold back the tears. I gave her my belt and the second engineer of the ship- whose name I do not know- did the same for another girl. Many of the passengers had left their cabins forgetting to put on their lifebelts. And when they realized it, it was too late to return for them- the staterooms were full of smoke and fire.

We had to heave a number of passengers overboard because they were too scared to jump. Meanwhile, members of the crew ran up to B Deck to get deck chairs. They hoped to throw the chairs into the ocean so that swimmers could cling to them.

A sad coda to this tale of heroism was provided by passenger Martin Renz (1891-1967). The Brooklyn house painter disembarked from the Monarch of Bermuda shocked and angered by the death of his wife, Marie. Mrs. Renz, a non-swimmer who was not wearing a life belt was picked up by men determined to “save” her who, despite her protestations threw her overboard, where she immediately drowned beside the ship.

There was no reason for so many women being thrown overboard. It seemed to be a regular practice to throw every woman overboard whether she was wearing a life preserver or not.

A similar fate awaited Mrs. Carrie Clark of Howard Beach, New York. Her husband, William, survived the disaster and gave two brief interviews to separate Long Island newspapers. By pairing them we came up with this account:

At first I wasn’t afraid when my wife and I got the fire alarm. I’ve seen fires on ships before. We dressed fully- I even took my Panama hat and my wife went back for her shoes. But when we went on deck the whole ship was wrapped in flames and I knew it was a goner.

We staggered through the smoke and met an officer who told us the fire was serious. We brought our life preservers but did not know how to adjust them. Someone threw my wife off of the upper deck before I could intervene. If I could only have stayed with her she would have been saved. A rescue boat picked me up almost as soon as I got in the water.

 

William Weil, of Hollis, Queens, left this account:

It was impossible for us to get to the boats, which were inaccessible on A Deck. The crew fought the flames with thin streams of water, and then when the water failed I saw them try to pound out the flames with the nozzles. There were no lights on the ship, but many of the crew had flashlights which they used to guide us to the ropes.

Considering the absolute darkness, heavy smoke, and frenzied passengers I have no blame to put on the crew. I was awakened by one of them and told to put a ,life preserver on.. As I placed one on my wife, tying it on with a bow knot, one of the crew untied the bow and made three heavy knots.

The Weils jumped separately from one another. Clara Weil, a member of the Concordia Society, died of exposure while awaiting rescue.

 

Officer William Price made the voyage with his wife. Mary Price, 59, was “in delicate health” and it was hoped that the sea voyage and days spent in Havana would be beneficial to her. The Prices were in the same crowd as officers Butte and O’Connor at the stern on C Deck. Morro Castle legend has it that Price drew his gun to keep a portion of the crowd back until his wife could be lowered safely to the water, though no first person 1934 account stating this has surfaced. According to witnesses, Mrs. Price died as soon as she entered the water, possibly of a heart attack. Her body was identified at the Bellevue Morgue in New York City: William Price survived the fire.

Less fortunate, still, was veteran officer Adolph Kosbothe, of Brooklyn. Both he and his wife, Mary, perished on September 8^th: Mrs. Kosbothe was identified by her nephew at the temporary morgue in Sea Girt New Jersey where she had washed ashore on the 9^th. Adolph was never found.

Nelson Ruscoe, 37 (1897-1978) led the Morro Castle orchestra. Wrapped in a blanket, his burned foot bandaged, he met the local press at his Bronx residence:

I was awakened by the fire alarm. It meant ‘hit the deck.’ I woke the boys- we shared two rooms- and told them to get dressed and get on their lifebelts. I rushed aft on B Deck to learn the extent of the fire. I saw plenty! I hurried back and told the boys to hurry- that the middle of the ship was an inferno. We thought of the lifeboats and went to B Deck, but there we were stopped by a wall of flame. Other were already on deck-passengers and crew.

We decided to try D Deck aft. As we started, the lights went out. We were in darkness- around us we could hear the screams. The ship was bedlam-smoke and flames were pouring out of the stateroom windows. All of us got aft safely, including one man who fell down the steps and broke his leg, I think.

With flames shooting out of the bulkhead, the crowd became panicky. Some rushed to the rail and jumped overboard. Then I found Al (Alfred Kurland, saxophonist) and Hersch (Harry Herschkowitz, drummer) missing.

In the darkness we could hear bodies hitting the water- we could see nothing but the sheet of flame in front of us.

Then the dawn came. We saw shadows around us. Then we could see them clearly- they were ships. But they could not come close enough. The sea was rough, a gale was blowing and we had rain. From the ships the lifeboats were lowered. Even they could not come close.

Now we could see the water below us. People were there, clinging to the ropes we had thrown overboard in the night. There must have been 40 in the water. None appeared dead.

Then we heard a whistle, and right across our bows came the Monarch of Bermuda. It was just after dawn- we knew then rescue was near. We even cheered. Almost immediately the boats were lowered and came over to us. We slid down the ropes- I guess there must have been 50 of us- to the water and in a jiffy we were picked up together with those who were already in the water. We were drenched to the skin, but we were alive. Instead of dropping ladders to us, the ship hoisted the boats aboard where we were given first aid, hot drinks and food.

An interesting account written by Harry Herschowitz, the drummer with the ship’s orchestra, survives.

I was asleep in my berth below decks when I was awakened by the ringing of the general alarm. I was tired, tight asleep, when it happened.

It was creepy, what with the boat tossing in the storm, fog outside and the dead captain in his cabin. I didn’t like it- it was a strain on the nerves. When I got to bed I was so exhausted I didn’t stay awake a minute. And then came the sound of those bells.

I heard the members of the crew rushing around outside in the corridor. I slipped into my underwear and threw open the door. “Take your stations” was the order. My station was on the Boat Deck. Flames were lapping up the side of the ship. The smoke blew across and burned my eyes. Somewhere along the trip from below I had picked up a lifebelt- I seem to remember tripping over it at the foot of the companionway.

I tried to get to my assigned position through the smoke and flames. Finally a gust of fire swept across that section that almost blinded me. Then I turned my back and went to the opposite side of the deck. The boats there had all been lowered to the water. The davits were empty.

Passengers and crew were jumping over the rail 30 feet to the water. I looked around- that seemed to be the safest thing to do, so I jumped ,too. I bobbed to the surface and swam around.

A woman dropped from the Main Deck, almost on top of me. She was hysterical. Although she had a lifebelt on, she threw her arms around me like a maniac and tried to crawl up on my shoulders. Finally, I quieted her. We were in the water seven hours, floating away from the ship all the time. Then, we were picked up by a fishing boat.

Mrs. Herschkowitz, of The Bronx, a wife of two years, later recalled:

I became panicky when I heard the news. I called the Ward Line but could learn nothing. My brother went to the pier hoping to hear good news, but nothing came. I tried to keep from thinking of the worst, how so many had perished in the flames. Then came a telephone call. A man said my husband was safe at Spring Lake. Then a few minutes later Harry was on the phone. He sounded tired and weak. The said he had been through a terrible ordeal, that he was in the water for seven hours and saw many people perish.

41 year old Alfred Kurland of Sherman Avenue, the Bronx, was not as fortunate as Harry Herschkowitz or Ruscoe Nelson. He had served aboard the Morro Castle as a cello-saxophonist for three years, and had taken a land-based job starting on Friday, September 14th. He opted to make one final voyage and, like most of those lost, died of exposure waiting for rescue. He left a wife, Alma, and two adult children. Also lost from the orchestra was pianist Irving Bradkin. Saved were William Weintraub, violinist; Max J. Bendit, trumpeter, and Julius Rosen saxophonist.