Advocates for the area had been fighting losing battles for years, as one by one, buildings that had been catalogued, researched and placed on “endangered” lists were torn down. The strategy of some property owners seemed to be that if it was endangered, better tear them down before those pesky preservationists got them landmarked, even if you had no idea what you were planning to do with the site.
The empty lots were a dumping ground for rusted automobiles, construction waste, tin cans, garbage and industrial refuse. Using whatever they could find to build with — fencing, old buildings, roofing tin, flattened tin cans, automobile parts — the men built small shelters. Some were able to piece together small houses that resembled Scandinavian cottages, but most cobbled together whatever they could with four walls and a roof. If they were lucky, their huts had a stove of some kind and a floor, but many were as piecemeal and rudimentary as shacks of the desperately poor have been throughout history.
The fire, fueled by the wooden interior, was so fast moving and burned so hot that the priests were unable to enter to save the chalice or any of the other altar treasures. Hundreds of people came out to watch as the stained glass windows melted and fell away into the interior, and as the slate roofing tiles exploded into shards, shooting out into the street. Although the fire department tried its best, the roof collapsed, and the building was totally destroyed except for the exterior stone walls.