January in Chicago was always brutal.

The winter of 1946 was no different.

Freedom Meyer lived on the first floor of an apartment building on North Winthrop Avenue in the Edgewater

neighborhood. She lived there for years. She'd forgotten how long. Moving in not long after

her husband had died. It was a nice neighborhood and she had a few friends,

mostly widows like she was, who went to the movies, played cards, and went shopping together

on Saturday mornings. If there was anything about her life that she would change

Frida would wish away her arthritis. The pain wasn't usually too bad but winter

was especially tough. The temperatures had been frigid and

Frida's knees had been acting up. She even had to postpone her regular shopping

trip with a friend that morning. And now here it was practically the middle of the night

and Frida was still awake. She'd warmed up a heating pad for her knees but it

wasn't doing much good. She just wanted to sleep, but her arthritis wasn't cooperating.

Perhaps she put the kettle on and have a cup of tea with some milk.

That might do the trick.

Frida gingerly got up from her chair where she'd been listening to the radio and walked

toward the kitchen.

She glanced at the clock.

Oh my, it was 340 in the morning. My goodness she thought I'm going to be tired tomorrow or

rather today.

Frida had just entered the kitchen when she heard a loud bang from downstairs.

That's odd.

...