After 25 years, plaque to mark site of deadly fire

Despite its regal-sounding name, the Elliott Chambers offered little charm. Residents got a bed, a dresser, a light, and the privilege of using a common bathroom in the hallway. It was a magnet for people down on their luck, for substance abusers, and for men who had formerly been institutionalized in state mental hospitals.

While few had any real savings, many held jobs and still had dreams. Rick Nickerson was 21, managed a pool hall, and wanted to move to California and play guitar. George Flynn was 18, worked in an electronics factory, and collected baseball cards. Eugene Maciejowski was born in a displaced persons camp in Germany in 1947 and worked as a clam shucker much of his life. He had lived at the Elliott Chambers for three weeks, and hoped to give up drinking.

On July 4, 1984, the men’s dreams - along with those of 12 others - ended when an arsonist took a match to a stack of gasoline-soaked newspapers in the front doorway of the rooming house. Fifteen residents died in the early-morning fire that raced through the Elliott Chambers. After the bodies were carried from the charred ruins, fire officials pronounced it the state’s second deadliest fire, behind only the Cocoanut Grove blaze that killed 492 in 1942.

It took five years to find and prosecute the arsonist, and in 1989 James Carver of Danvers was convicted and sentenced to two consecutive life sentences for setting the fire. Authorities say he set the fire as an act of revenge, after he learned a tenant at the rooming house was interested in dating his girlfriend.

For decades, few people in the neighborhood talked about the fire. Firefighters and first responders say they are reminded of the flames shooting out of the bedrooms and the charred bodies every time they drive by the block. But in recent months, people have started to speak about the tragedy again. Sometime this month, the green vinyl two-story structure that was rebuilt on the site will be demolished and replaced by a CVS. After the pharmacy opens in about nine months, locals will gather on the corner where the fire began and dedicate a small memorial park with a plaque listing the names of the fire’s victims.

“If they were people of status, they would have been recognized better. It doesn’t matter where these people came from or why they ended up in this building. The point is they died, and in a very tragic and traumatic way, and they should be recognized forever,’’ said Amanda Mazzaglia, who remembers watching the fire from her bedroom window as an 8-year-old.

In January, Mazzaglia heard about the plans for the pharmacy and wrote to the Beverly City Council seeking support for a memorial on the site. She convinced CVS to allow space for a plaque, two park benches, and some shrubs. Along the way she joined with City Councilor John Burke, who represents that area, and local filmmaker James Maroney to begin work on a documentary about the fire.

Over the years, many of the survivors have moved out of state, died, or just drifted on to other cities. While the fire persuaded legislators to enact a state law allowing municipalities to require sprinkler systems in single-occupancy units, the new legislation provided little solace to the families of the victims. News of the planned memorial, however, has boosted their morale.

“It’s about time they did something to recognize them,’’ said Stephen Peters of Essex, whose father, William, died on the floor next to his bed in Room 29, on the third floor. The younger Peters described his father, who was 73 and a retired construction foreman, as a hard-working guy who had moved to Cape Ann from Nova Scotia and raised a family with his wife, Edith May, a house cleaner.

Like Peters, George Flynn had moved to the Elliott Chambers because the rent was cheap. It was also one block away from his grandparents’ house and his job.

“They say the place was only for transients, but he wasn’t a transient, he didn’t do drugs. He was just a good kid, just starting out in life,’’ said Tracie Novack, who was 13 when she learned about her brother’s death.

Novack now lives in Danvers and says she often wonders what kind of life her brother would be leading today. Novack was found on the second floor, in front of the fire escape door along with Rick Nickerson. The two had found the door and scratched their fingernails into it, but were unable to open it because it was locked.

Flynn was a loner who built models and loved to draw and rebuild radios. Like other Beverly youths, he played kick-the-can and pickup basketball games at playgrounds.

“It was devastating for our family because he was so young,’’ said Novack, who said her parents worked alongside Carver, the arsonist, at a local bus company.

Retired firefighter Harry Clark also said the memorial would bring a sense of healing to his childhood neighborhood and to the site where he faced his worst fire.

“We called it the ‘Chamber of Horrors’ because we knew if we ever had anything there major, it would be a life factor,’’ said Clark, who noted that the building was up to code and had passed all city inspections.

While there were fire alarms and smoke detectors in the building, they did not sound until much of the building was engulfed in smoke and fire. Fire inspectors determined that the building’s highly combustible wood paneling served as an accelerant, allowing the blaze to spread through the open stairways and hallways in a matter of minutes.

Shortly after the fire was called in at 4:18 a.m., Clark hopped in the driver’s seat of the ladder truck and made it to the scene in about a minute.

“I pulled up and people were hanging out of the windows already,’’ said Clark, who was told his cousin Richard Duest had jumped from the building moments before he arrived.

Duest was one of four state Department of Mental Health patients who died in the fire.

Clark and other firefighters used ladders to pull eight residents out of windows; others made their way outside to the fire escape and were led by fire and police to the ground floor. Clark spent the next day at the site, and helped remove the bodies from the rooms and hallways.

“Myself - I’ve had nightmares about it. I kept fighting the fire in my mind, wondering what could I have done, what should I have done,’’ said Clark.

David Clarizia, who still lives a block from the site, arrived on the scene before firefighters.

“My wife woke me out of a sound sleep, saying she heard a woman screaming,’’ said Clarizia, who ran barefoot down the street expecting to find a car crash. Instead, he found a few dazed people on the street, and looked above to see people hanging from windows and pleading for their lives.

“There were people breaking the windows with their hands, and saying to me, ‘Help me, help me.’ They were in fear of their lives; they didn’t want to burn to death,’’ said Clarizia, who urged them to stay calm until firefighters came.

Clarizia, who plans to attend the memorial, said the plaque would bring comfort to a neighborhood that never forgot the fire.

“I think everybody carries a certain amount of sorrow in their mind about the fire,’’ he said. “It’s there in everybody’s mind, I believe.’’

Steven Rosenberg can be reached at srosenberg@globe.com.