Maybe it's that I played many years of t-ball and baseball in the shadow of Cherry's slag pile. Maybe it's that I had grown up hearing about the Cherry Mine Disaster without actually listening. Maybe it's that the modern day Illinois Valley is so familiar, so mundane, that it tends to breed contempt for anything local. But whatever the reason, I was skeptical, only picking up the book because I didn't have much else to read.
But what the author did in this book was incredible. I found myself being more horrified, more disturbed, and more absorbed by a book than I have in awhile. Constrained by historical fact as she was, Tintori makes you feel the chaotic desperation of miners fleeing the swelling inferno, the abiding courage of the rescuers, the horror of often visceral deaths, the disbelief and terror of wives and mothers hysterically seeking loved ones. And she makes you feel the battle fought by those entombed, which was as much against despair as it was against death.
Perhaps it's my relatively new fatherhood, but what hit me the hardest was the torture endured by family. Fathers lost sons and sons stayed behind to die in the arms of their fathers. Wives watched in horror as their husbands descended into hell in the hope of rescuing at least one man. Some families found the kind of jubilation that few will ever experience in life while others, many others, found nightmare.