I have many wonderful memories of my days as a circus clown(小丑), but there is one day that I would rather forget: July 6, 1944. We were playing a two-day stand in Hartford, Connecticut, and the big top caught fire.
I could hear grandstand chairs slamming inside the tent as people headed toward the exits. Some were jumping twelve feet from the top rows of the grandstand and seats to the ground outside. Most of the crowd was pouring through the regular exits and it soon became a panic.
In the midst of this scene the musicians had kept on playing until the tent was on fire over-head because they knew music sometimes might work wonder; they had jumped off the bandstand just before a flaming quarter-pole fell into their stand.
City fire equipment had arrived by now and was pouring streams of water onto the big top area to cool it enough for firemen to enter. In the smoke and confusion, it was impossible to tell whether or not anyone might have been left in the tent. We circus people were ordered away from the smoking ruins that, only a few minutes before, had been the biggest spread of canvas in the world.
I went outside; doctors, and first-aid workers were everywhere, carrying bodies from where the grandstands and seats had been. The toll(伤亡人数) of dead and dying increased so fast that emergency crews were called in from surrounding cities.
Later it was found that 168 people had died in the fire — the worst circus disaster in history, and an afternoon of horror I can never forget.
