I spend many of my days researching, and I often come across strange and fascinating tales that don’t quite fit in my books. Thus, Friday story time is born. Because, really, does a great story need a reason?

This week’s tale was inspired by my snarking about stockings. Though I have no wish to wear them, they were once highly coveted, and I suppose I shouldn’t take them for granted!

Strong as steel.

Fine as a spider’s web.

More elastic than any of the common natural fibres.

That’s how Charles Stine introduced the invention of nylon in 1938, in a presentation called “We Enter the World of Tomorrow” at the 1939 New York World’s Fair. He told 3,000 women’s club members that his team of scientists had invented a completely new material using coal, water, and air.

The women were impressed. In fact, they were ready to tear off their expensive, easily-torn silk stockings at a moment’s notice and try this new invention, even if it did feel a little cold and clammy against the skin.

They weren’t allowed their prizes for long. By the early 1940s, every once of nylon was being used to make materials for World War II – parachutes, cords, and ropes. Women were reduced to wearing rayon hose or painting their legs with specially-marketed leg make-up. They hoarded actual nylon stockings for special evenings out, and followed women’s magazine advice for making them last longer: wash them in vinegar to keep the color fresh, and rub face cream on your heels to prevent snagging the fabric.

When the war finally ended, it took two years for companies to stockpile enough pairs to meet the demand in clothing shops. Women stood in line-ups several blocks long just for the chance to buy a pair. And in Britain, Canadian and American soldiers took to impressing their girlfriends not with chocolate or flowers, but with brand new packages of nylon stockings.

I spend many of my days researching, and I often come across strange and fascinating tales that don’t quite fit in my books. Thus, Friday story time is born. Because really, does a great story need a reason? Here’s this week’s tidbit:

March 2004

Yuri Katrayev was finishing work on the diesel generator when the ground beneath him began to shake. He heard his station chief shouting. Dropping his tools, Yuri ran from the building. And there, in the dim half-light of the Arctic winter, he saw what looked like a huge chasm opening. It was as if two giant hands had grasped the ground and ripped it apart like a piece of paper.

But it wasn’t really ground – it was ice. Yuri was part of a 12-person Russian research team stationed on North Pole-32, a floating iceberg. For almost a year, they’d been circumnavigating the north pole. In April 2003, their iceberg had been several kilometers (miles) long and as thick as a three-level parking garage. By January 2004, it was less than half that size, and cracks under the makeshift runway had caused part of it to break away. But the scientists only had a few more months to work, anyway, and glacial ice was usually very stable. They hadn’t foreseen any problems with staying on board the station until April.

Now, Yuri could see a problem. A massive, looming, crushing problem.

Like a slow-motion tidal wave, a frozen wall rose four storeys above the crevice. Massive ice chunks rolled over one another, pulverizing debris in between. It looked like an enormous meat grinder. And it was grinding its way toward the station’s buildings.

* * *

When Russian rescue officials heard of the crisis at North Pole-32, one of the first people they called was deputy parliament speaker Artur Chilingarov. Artur had circled the pole himself, and he understood exactly how difficult it would be to lift the researchers off the ice. The problem was their distance from land. Rescue helicopters had a maximum range of 1600 kilometers (994 miles). The research station was 750 kilometers (470 miles) from land, meaning a 1500-kilometer round trip with no chance to refuel. A trip of this length had never before been attempted.

Artur worked with rescue officials to devise a plan. As a backup, they enlisted the nuclear-powered icebreaker Arkitka, already in the region, to head for the station. It would be a 10-day journey and the researchers only had heating fuel left for half that time, but at least the ship was almost guaranteed to successfully make the trip.

For the main rescue effort, they sent a cargo plane and two helicopters to Spitzbergen, an island half way between the northern edge of Norway and the north pole. From there, the helicopters set off on the search.

* * *

For more than three hours, the pilot of the small Mi-8 helicopter flew through darkness. He and his co-pilot stared with strict attention at the white below. In every direction, bumpy, curled chips of glaciers and flat expanses of sea ice made a crazy puzzle out of the ocean. On one of those puzzle pieces, they would find two buildings and 12 stranded scientists.

This was uncharted territory, a constantly shifting landscape where few people had flown. And there were no landmarks – just vast stretches of water and sea ice, all shrouded by the winter darkness. If the men failed to find the research station, there were few places stable enough for them to land.

“There!”

It was a tiny splash of red amidst the white – one of the two remaining structures of the station. The tension slipped out of the pilot’s body, replaced by the thrill of success. In what seemed like seconds, he was settling the light helicopter onto the ice and emerging into the cheering circle of researchers. He couldn’t lift them off the ice – his vessel was too light and too small for so many people. But he could transmit their exact location.

Now the heavier transport helicopter – the one with larger fuel needs and an even smaller margin for error – could churn its way through the darkness with a precise target in its sights.

A few hours later, tilting slightly in the wind, the giant vessel settled onto the iceberg. And a few minutes after that, all 12 researchers and the station’s two dogs scrambled aboard.

I spend many of my days researching, and I often come across strange and fascinating tales that don’t quite fit in my books. Thus, Friday story time is born. Because really, does a great story need a reason? This week’s tidbit is one I considered for True Stories from the Edge: Rescues!, back in the day. It eventually lost out to a different Italian tale. Personally, though, I like the romance of this one better.

951 A.D.
Adelaide lay awake in her bed, listening to the rhythmic chip, chip against the stone. He was getting close. Would it be tonight that he finally broke through? She prayed that none of the guards outside the walls could hear the sounds of digging.

For months, Adelaide and her maid had lived as prisoners in a remote castle on the shores of Lake Garda in northern Italy. She wasn’t used to this sort of lonely life. As the daughter of Rudolph II, King of Burgundy, she had spent her days in plush audience chambers or grand dining halls. When she was two years old, she had been betrothed to a prince named Lothar. She married him at 16, and together they ruled Italy.

That life was over now. A jealous duke, Margrave Berengar of Ivrea, had poisoned her husband and seized the throne. Now Berengar was spending her treasury money, even selling her jewels.

Of course, Berengar had made it clear that there was one way for Adelaide to escape. She merely had to agree to marry his son, Adalbert. That would put all of Adelaide’s lands into Berengar’s control and cement his claim to the Italian throne.

With no intention of ever marrying Adelbert, Adelaide was putting her hope in another option. Her priest, one of the few people allowed to visit her in exile, had been building an underground tunnel for the last four months. Every night, she could feel him getting closer. Until finally, with Adelaide and her maid both scrabbling at the inside wall and the priest digging from the outside, the tunnel broke through. There was just enough room for the two women to squeeze out, race down the tight passageway, and escape into a waiting rowboat.

Adelaide found refuge with nobleman Adalbert Azzo of Canossa… until Berengar heard the news.

Furious, Berenger brought his troops bearing down on Canossa’s land, surrounding the castle and demanding Adelaide’s release. He was absolutely determined to hold onto the throne of Italy, and for his claim to be legitimate, he needed Adelaide under his control.

Inside, Adelaide was just as determined as ever to escape Berengar’s grasp. She would never ally herself with the man who had killed her husband. But she was also in a desperate situation, putting Canossa and his people at risk.

Marriage seemed the only way out.

But not marriage to the killer’s son. Instead, Adelaide sent a man to steal away from the castle and slip through Berengar’s troops. The man bore a message to Otto the Great, King of Germany. Adelaide knew that Otto wanted to control all of Germany, Burgundy, and Italy. And she offered him the only valuable thing she had — her hand in marriage. If Otto would bring his army to Italy, conquer the forces of Berengar, and rescue her from imprisonment, she would marry him. And with a single signature on the marriage papers, he would control all the lands of northern Italy.

Otto the Great said “I do” by bearing down on Italy with his powerful army – the largest in Europe at the time. In September 951, he scattered Berengar’s forces and sent the usurper scurrying into the Alps. For the second time in a single year, Adelaide was rescued from a castle and whisked away to safety.

Within a few weeks, Otto and Adelaide were officially married. She continued to rule her traditional lands on their behalf, and together the couple added to their holdings. By 962, eleven years after their marriage, they had five children and controlled all of Germany, Burgundy, and Italy. They traveled to Rome, where the pope crowned them emperor and empress of the reborn Holy Roman Empire.

I spend many of my days researching, and I often come across strange and fascinating tales that don’t quite fit in my books. Thus, Friday story time is born. Because really, does a great story need a reason? Here’s this week’s tidbit:

All day, the prisoners of Auschwitz stacked wood, lumber intended to expand the Nazi death camp in Poland. But the prisoners built the woodpile extra-carefully. In the center, they left just enough space for two men to lie side-by-side.

That afternoon, Alfred Wetzler and Rudolf Vrba slid into the opening and their fellow prisoners covered the entrance. The men hid for four days, while soldiers searched the surrounding woods.

Finally, the men slid out and escaped beneath the camp’s outer wires. They walked 80 miles to safety, using a map torn from a child’s atlas. Wetzler and Vrba later created a detailed report and a map of Auschwitz, allowing the Allies an inside view of the camp.