This story is a work of historical fiction set against the backdrop of the 1934 Municipal Election in KCMO, a day that came to be known as “Bloody Election Day.” Please read with care.

March 27, 1934

“Be good.”

That was what Marie always told me before I left the house, and today was no different. I was twelve years old, walking to St. Michael’s School each morning, finishing my eighth-grade year, living with my older sister, Marie, and her family. 

We were a Railroad Union Democrat family. That’s all I knew. No one ever explained why. It was just who we were. As far as I understood, this was all right and good. We were lucky that Marie’s husband had a job with the railroad, and we were grateful. I didn’t ask questions about that. That job allowed me to come home from the orphanage. That job put food on our table. There was no real reason to ask questions. 

As I walked the block on my way to school, I noticed the yards. One after another, they all carried the same signs for the same Democratic candidates we had posted in our own yard. I assumed that meant everyone liked them. I thought that meant they were the good ones.

Tom Pendergast ran our city. That was no secret. And Kansas City was not a quiet town. I saw the headlines before: Rabbi’s Car Riddled With Bullets After Anti-Machine Speech; Union Station Gun Battle Leaves Five Dead, Including Federal Officers. I had once heard someone say Kansas City was the wickedest city in the world. But I didn’t see it.

I didn’t see it, until I did: a procession of black cars creeping down Lexington Avenue. Windows down. You might have thought it was a fancy funeral procession, but a man with dark sunglasses, in the front seat of one of the cars, held a shotgun high.

Today was Municipal Election Day in Kansas City and these men were there to make sure things stayed exactly the way they were.

When I turned onto Benton Boulevard, I saw two men farther down the block. One had another man pinned to the ground while the second yanked a yard sign from his lawn. Then, quick as if he’d done it before, the man brought the wooden stake down across the pinned man’s head.

I couldn’t hear what was said from where I stood, but I didn’t need to. The bloodied man staggered back into his house. The two men climbed into their car and drove off.

I kept walking.

As I climbed the stairs to the classroom above the church, the first explosion went off. Then another, close behind it. Inside, the Sisters had already pushed my classmates against the inside wall. We were silent.

Outside, two cars burned. I could hear yelling on the street and see smoke billowing past the window. I heard a voice ask, “Are you okay?” I wasn’t sure if I was. Sister Elizabeth began a prayer to St. Michael the Archangel. We followed without thinking.

I spent that evening with Marie, huddled near the radio, lights low in the house. There were reports of beatings, explosions, even murder. 

“They say a deputy’s been killed.”
“Another man… a worker… shot in the head.”
“More trouble at the polls.”
“A bystander dead.”

By the next morning, they said the election was over. The papers said four people had died. But the same signs stayed up. The same men stayed in charge. After all of it. After the yelling and the smoke and the prayers, nothing seemed different. 

I went on to graduate eighth grade from St. Michael’s that May. I was lucky. I knew I would be attending Loretto Academy that fall. Many of my classmates’ schooling would not go beyond eighth grade.

But there were other lessons we all learned that Bloody Election Day. We learned when to be quiet. We learned that silence could save you. But we also learned what it cost.

From the author’s family collection. St. Michael’s graduating class of 1934 in Northeast KC. Nadine is in the second row from the front, third from the right.

Nadine’s Northeast follows the life of Nadine Burnett (née Pulliam), who was born in 1921 and spent most of her life in Northeast Kansas City, where she raised ten children amid the city’s rapid changes in the 20th century. Written by her granddaughter, Betsy Cochran, these historical fiction stories draw from Nadine’s lived experiences, local history, and a little family lore. Each installment stands alone while weaving into a larger portrait of Nadine’s past. For a deeper dive, visit betsycochran.substack.com, where you can subscribe for free or choose a paid plan for extended content.