I know of a woman that lived an extraordinary life. At a young age she was ripped from all she knew and taken to a strange country where even her name was lost to her. She then had to face a terror few think possible in modern times: the death of a city. Again she was separated from all she held familiar, and again she had to adjust to a new way of life. This time it would prove even harder than before, for now it would take place during the monumental struggle of the city’s rebirth, and even more terrifying, her family could no longer be there to support her. This is the story of Mary Benning, who I am proud to call my great grandmother.

Originally she was Mary Kegger and lived in Germany, but life was becoming more hazardous by the day in that country. The First World War would not start for another decade, but was already managing to disrupt the lives of many innocent families. Mary’s mother protested at the thought of taking their ten-year-old girl, already a very withdrawn child, away from all her friends and relatives, but the father was quite insistent. It’s lucky that he had the foresight to arrange for travel to America when he did, for it was not long after that emigration from Germany became all but impossible due to government rigmarole. The family made their way to San Francisco, not an easy task as most emigrants from Europe came to America by way of Ellis Island, but nonetheless they did arrive after several long boat trips.

This was 1902, and as with many stories of immigrants to America at that time, the family name was mangled during the transition. Usually, however, the names simply lost their original meaning. In this case, the family had the hateful name of Begger forced upon them. I can only imagine what the three children went through at school as a result of this terrible name. Mary’s brothers implored their parents to go to the officials to have the name changed, but they refused, for they feared those officials would become angry and send them back to Germany. Sometime in 1904, Mary’s oldest brother finally became so irritated with the mangled version of their name that he chose the surname of Benning at random from a phone book. Later that day, he took the other two children, and all came home as Bennings.

Mary soon found a job as a laundry worker. It paid only a few pennies a day, but she still hoped it might help her parents with their finances. Finally out of school and beyond the incriminating former name, she was beginning to feel at home in America. Unfortunately, this was not to last. Early in the morning of April 18th, 1906, Mary started off to work as usual, but when she had nearly arrived terror struck her.

She later described the event as an ocean wave of earth flying toward her, slamming people to the ground and leaving huge jagged sections of the street left strewn about the city in its wake. Exposed sections of knife-like pipe were left where the moment before there had been safe ground. These pipes spilled strange and unidentifiable substances into the air and onto what was left of the street. Any remaining unbroken ground was covered by shards of glass and rock, and in many places the path was blocked by chimneys or other sections of buildings that had crashed to the ground. Scarier still was the accidental discovery of what had once been a man under one of the crushed structures.

As Mary ran back to discover the fate of her family, the city seemed to crumble before her. The gas and pools of liquid from the pipes exploded into flames in long chains, each section sparking the next. Homes and shops were instantly engulfed in flame, and the sardine-packed tinder-wood constructions that made up all of San Francisco did nothing to resist the onslaught. Families rushed into the street, their faces smeared with the horrific realization that all they had known was lost. Firemen, policemen and soldiers appeared but were powerless against the blaze. The broken pipes had mixed the water with some form of oil, and both were pooling in the newborn gashes in the street, so even the water was aflame.

Mary was desperate to return to her home but it was impossible to make any progress in the ruins of the city, and finally the inferno blocked any further travel toward her family. The sky, formerly the auburn shade of dawn in the crowded city, was now blood red and would soon be choked off by the fire’s raven cloud to create eternal night. Unsure of what to do, she found herself drifting aimlessly around the former San Francisco street. Suddenly the wind changed, and the incendiary overwhelmed her. She fell to the ground and clutched at her chest, desperately gasping for air. Her eyes stung, and she feared for her life, and it seemed that the world had shrunk until smoke and fire were all that remained. After what seemed an endless nightmare of asphyxiation, the fickle wind changed again and made the air almost tolerable, although clean air remained a distant and unattainable memory.

Provoked into action by the wind and fire’s petrifying demonstration of power, the nearby soldiers now forgot the desperate notion of saving the buildings and focused entirely on the evacuation of the city block. They rushed Mary and the others to a makeshift shelter in the park of a small nearby town. The park seemed more like a cemetery under the black midday sky, the pale sun powerless against the smothering cloud. Immediately on her arrival Mary desperately asked the nurses in charge about her parents, but of course they could not have identified the single refugee family. Forgetting the nurses, Mary ran through the tents, frantically searching. There were thousands of people packed in, and it seemed as though all the people of the Earth were there, yet for all her searching her family was not.

Mary broke down and cried from the shock of the sudden isolation. This act couldn’t have been very noticeable in the chaos of the shelter, but a son of a nearby, formerly well-off Polish family comforted her and they took her in. They tried to comfort her with the doubtful thought that her family might have reached a different shelter, but by this time Mary had given up all hope for her family and was simply glad to be included in the small group. Despite the major cultural differences they shared, this new family was friendly, and this allowed a welcome escape from the panic that consumed her.

Despite the honest efforts of the organizers, the shelters were shoddy, disorganized and completely cut off from each other. This may have been due in part to the death of the city’s Fire Chief, who had been crushed under a falling chimney and was therefore unavailable when the city desperately needed his coordination. The camp was close enough to the city that its residents could hear frequent dynamite blasts. They all knew that the explosions were being used to demolish what remained of San Francisco, in the hope that this might end the fire. The cries of sobbing children did little to brighten the spirits of the displaced population, but still the sound was far superior to the crushing silence that followed every thunderous blast, for each signified the eternal destruction of a family’s former life.

The Polish family decided that they should leave and try to find a new place to settle before the rush of refugees from the burning city entered the suddenly strong market for buying homes. As they left an official jotted down their names and planned destination, but in her state of quiet despair it didn’t occur to Mary to specify that she was of a different family from the one she traveled with, and so her name was registered as Mary Safratowich instead of Benning.

After all this, it wasn’t too hard for Mary’s life to improve. Soon, the fires ended and the skies cleared, and a house was found in the formerly undesirable outskirts of the city. Together with her adopted mother, she helped to turn it into her new home. The fears from the recent disaster had subsided and were now replaced with a determination to create a better life during the construction of the new city of San Francisco. The rest of the family found good jobs related to this construction, and soon the entire neighborhood was revitalized by the common goal of rebuilding their city.

After a few years, Mary fell in love with the older of the two sons in the family, and they made plans to be married. Soon before the wedding, however, Fate showed its face once more. Somehow even without the aid of correct registration, Mary’s family had heard of her whereabouts and came to find her. Initially, they were less than pleased at the prospect of the wedding to a Polish man, but hearing the tale of how the other family had taken Mary in, it was accepted. There was, however, one condition imposed: The man had to agree to change his last name, for the German family could not stomach the Polish surname Safratowich being applied to their daughter. Kegger, a clearly German name, was just as offensive to the Polish family, but as fortune would have it Mary already addressed herself with the name of Benning. This intermediary name, being of unknown cultural origins, was acceptable to both families, and so the intricate details of the wedding were eagerly designed by the two new mothers in law.

The wedding took place soon after, and together the two families bought one of the recently constructed city houses for the young couple. Still, there was yet one more little adventure in store for Mary. Having been brought up in a strongly traditional German household, she would not have had the basics of reproduction explained to her until the age of sixteen. Since she was with the Polish family at that age, who believed in explaining these ideas much earlier, each family assumed the other had instructed her in such matters. As a result, on her wedding night she ran screaming back to the mother (the Polish mother, interestingly), that her son was a pervert and had tried to do unspeakable things to her. Surprised and not knowing quite what to do, she contacted Mary’s mother, and together they nervously explained the facts of life to the young woman. Apparently she must have understood well enough, because she eventually had many healthy children, including my maternal grandmother, also named Mary.

My great grandmother’s life was incredible. Many of the events she had to deal with are beyond my imagination. She hails from a half-forgotten time between the old west and the modern age, but that did nothing to lessen the amazing events in her life. Every time I think of her stories I am in awe of what her world was like. Stories like this must be everywhere, yet I have never heard one like it. In our history books we reduce the events of 1906 to two sentences citing the date, time and magnitude of the quake. Why don’t our books reflect the inconceivable struggles the city’s inhabitants went through to save themselves and their families? Where is the timeline of ill-informed decisions that led to the disastrous and unstoppable fire, or the report of the countless disregarded attempts by the Fire Chief to better prepare the city for just such a catastrophe? Where is the legend of a city completely rebuilt from its foundations in less than a decade? I’ve never much cared for the history we learn in school; it pales in comparison to that available at home.