Note: This article was originally published in the Back Bay Courant, July 1, 1997.

School had ended the week before and the summer stretched before me, an aimless infinity of lazy days and homework-free nights. It was Saturday, bright and hot, and I had spent the morning watching cartoons. At sixteen, just finished with my sophomore year, I was probably too old for them. But the television was in the basement, at least ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, and the dark chill of the room was irresistible.

Sometime after lunch, workmen at the old Vendome Hotel noticed smoke. Within minutes fire broke out, flames shooting into the air. Sirens screamed along Commonwealth Avenue. The red trucks arrived and firefighters piled out. Some ran to block traffic, others pulled hoses and fixed them to hydrants. Silver ladders rose from the truck beds and began to extend towards the building. It was a frenetic but oddly coordinated dance, a ballet of activity in preparation for an assault on a well-known enemy.

April 1996. At three in the morning I woke with an acrid scent in my nose. It took a few moments to recognize the smoke-smell. I ran through the apartment sniffing like a hound dog, trying to find the smoke’s source. I could find nothing; it was there, but faint. Residue from the fireplace? My imagination?

Almost as an afterthought I went to the front window, moving aside the curtain. A surreal scene greeted me. Fire apparatus littered the street, off-white hoses curling around trees. A river of water made its way down Beacon Street. There was no noise, however. As is the Department’s practice, the firefighters had arrived silently, the better to allow people to sleep.

My father was never one to allow his children to waste a good day in front of a television. Swim suits in hand, we made our way to the community pool, books and towels with us. Early summer, the water was still cool, but after the first shock of entry my body adjusted, enjoying the enveloping calm.

The fire was out at the Vendome and teams of firefighters began to mop up, securing the site and making sure that no flames lingered that might restart the blaze. The excitement done, many of those who had crowded nearby left. Suddenly a fearsome and prolonged roar shook the Vendome and rattled the glass of buildings throughout the Back Bay. Twenty-five firefighters were trapped as the building fell down on itself.

I ran outside into the cold night air. Flames leapt from the roof of 151 Beacon Street. They jumped to the next-door building and then jumped again. Firefighters scrambled, spraying water from ladders onto the roofs below them, desperately trying to prevent the fire from engulfing the whole block. Residents from nearby buildings were cleared out. They stood, many in their nightclothes, praying their homes would not be lost.

We had a light supper that evening, a good end to a warm summer’s day. After dinner we watched the news and saw teams of men carefully combing through the Vendome, trying to free those who were trapped. For hours they worked until all were recovered. Nine of the trapped men were dead.

The flames along Beacon Street began to recede as the firefighters relentlessly attacked the fire. Three buildings were destroyed. Some pets were lost, but no one was killed.

At sixteen I went to bed, safe and secure, my greatest worry being my still-unformed plans for the next day.

The danger gone, I went back home. I checked on my two children. Still asleep, they had slept through the fire.

And on June 17th of this year, 8,000 firefighters and crowds of ordinary citizens stood by the Vendome to honor heroes who fight in wars we never name, heroes who fight so people like me can sleep at night.