A meeting at a church
Five lives were lost in the early morning hours on January 30 in a fire allegedly set by the victims’ neighbor. The Brooklyn Ink plans to chronicle the aftermath of this devastating Bensonhurst fire on the people whose lives it touched and the community in which it occurred. This is part one.
With video by Alyson Martin and Nushin Rashidian, and text by Nushin Rashidian
On the Tuesday before her death, Luisa Ordoñez took her turn leading the 25-member womens’ choir through songs of praise to Jesus at Jovenes Cristianos Evangelical Church in Brooklyn. It was in this church that Luisa had married her husband, Miguel Chan, five years ago, and it is in this church that Miguel would mourn for her in the arms of the same three hundred Guatemalan community members with whom they had worshipped.
As Miguel and Luisa slept early the following Saturday morning, January 30th, a man walked down 86th Street in Bensonhurst toward their building, 2033. The skies were clear, and a cold wind pushed past him. At 2:15, he entered the building through a door attached to H. K. Tea and Sushi, which led to two floors of apartments above the restaurant. Minutes later, smoke crept out of the same door.
At 2:30, as Miguel remembers it, he and Luisa rose from their bed to see their room filling with smoke, and they began to feel the heat from nearing flames. According to multiple news reports, Josias, only two years old, slept alongside his two-month-old sister, Maria, as sirens howled in the distance. Miguel went to a window facing the street, smashed a chair through the glass, and went to help his wife with their children. After putting Maria in a baby carrier and carrying Josias, they ran back to the window that was now their only way out.
As Luisa began to scream for help, a man appeared on the street. Miguel could only try to drop tiny Maria into the stranger’s arms from the third floor window. But beneath the full moon, Maria fell onto the pavement, hitting her head.
Miguel then passed Josias into the arms of a man on the second floor—he was a neighbor named Daniel Ignacio—who in turn handed the toddler to the first firefighters at the scene. Miguel followed his son onto the ladder and reached for his wife, not realizing that during the rescue he had cut deep into the top of his left hand. Luisa must have known Miguel couldn’t save her when she pleaded with him to take care of their children before she disappeared from sight.
Building number 2033 was destroyed and the fire took five lives: Luisa, three men from the third floor, and one man from the second. Maria survived, but was taken in critical condition to Schneider Children’s Hospital on Long Island, where she has slowly begun to stabilize.
That day, Miguel went to his pastor, Erick Salgado—the man who had stood beside him as Luisa walked down the aisle, the man who had pronounced them husband and wife. That evening, Jovenes Cristianos Evangelical Church—a small, white building—was full of Guatemalan community members mourning and paying their respects.
Nearby, firefighters kept constant watch over building number 2033 not only to monitor damages—smoke, fire, and water—but to make sure nobody crossed the lines of yellow caution tape into what was now a site under investigation for signs of arson. They were still monitoring the building on Sunday morning as some passersby stopped to stare or exchange “I heards” while motioning to barricades, debris, and hollowed window frames blackened from relentless flames.
At the church, families prepared for a memorial service that was to take place that evening. Sitting around a table that offered pan dulce—a sweet bread—tea, hot chocolate, and coffee brought by parishioners, mothers rocked babies and watched over restless children. A sign above their heads read “Oye mi oracion, oh Jehova, y escucha mi clamor”—Listen to my prayer, oh Jehovah, and hear my cry.
Miguel sat in the front row of the church with his family. The grief never left his face. The room slowly filled in the half hour before the service until some were forced to stand in the back. A row of baby carriages lined each side of the aisle.
Quiet piano music filled the room at first, but the music picked up to more buoyant songs of praise like the ones Luisa sang on that Tuesday before the fire. Many of those attending closed their eyes as they sang, their hands clasped together or outstretched in front of them, swaying to the rhythms of songs like “En estos dias cristo esta” (Christ is here on days like this) and “En mi corazon hay banderas de amor” (In my heart, there are flags of love). The memorial went on for hours.
The next day, Miguel and his pastor arrived at the church with solemn expressions and bad news for small group of churchgoers and members of the press: The fire had been set. It was arson. The pastor pleaded with the community to step forward if they knew anything, and he promised them anonymity.
Then, he introduced six of the survivors from the second floor of building number 2033 to Miguel and his family, announcing that this was the first time the two groups had seen each other since the fire.
One of the men had helped his roommate, Daniel Ignacio, lower two-year-old Josias to the safety of a firefighter’s arms. Miguel said thanks to him and Daniel, who was not present. Miguel said they held a place in his heart.
He did not know then that Daniel Ignacio was the man who would soon be charged for setting the fire that killed his wife.
Next: A Confession
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