September 3, 2005

BY ALLEN G. BREED

NEW ORLEANS -- Above the din, a woman is screaming the Lord's Prayer as if heaven can no longer hear silent pleas.

"And lead us not into temptation," she bellows to the unhearing throng, "but deliver us from evil."

Five days after Hurricane Katrina, a walk through New Orleans is a walk through hell -- punctuated by moments of grace.

Along the Mississippi River, pharmacist Jason Dove watches as people scramble for cases of airlifted water and shakes his head. ''We created this Frankenstein,'' he says. ''It's showing how fragile this society is.''

In the French Quarter, armed residents hide behind ornate iron gates like prisoners in a frilly jail. Historic markers on Napoleonic-era houses share billing with signs that warn: ''You loot, we shoot!''

On a sidewalk crowded with children and the elderly around the convention center, a woman pulls down her pants and squats behind a potted plant. A passing man averts his eyes.

''Thank you,'' she says. ''I'm just doing what I've got to do.''

Down the street from the convention center, anxious tourists idle on a bandstand across from Harrah's casino, which has become a National Guard and police staging area. Jill Johnson of Saskatchewan says police don't want them there, but she and others worry they would be easy prey at the convention center.

''We're appalled,'' says Johnson, who tried to buy a car to get out of town. ''This city is built on tourists, and we're their last priority.''

Nearby, Cassandra Robinson huddles in the loading area of a store where a small community has formed. Her niece Heavenly, who turned 1 year old the day before the storm, dozes in Robinson's arms, weakened by a diet of water and mashed-up potato chips.

Robinson says people are behaving like animals because they are being treated as animals.

''We're not born thieves,'' she says. ''We were born Christians.''

'It's a jungle'

Thursday night, a prayer session begins at one end of Convention Center Boulevard and spreads to the other. Please, they implore, let there be no more rioting.

The next morning, someone appears with fresh, cold milk. And instead of fighting over it, able-bodied adults step back and allow the children and the elderly to be nourished first.

Across the city, people have banded together, creating pockets of civility amid the chaos.

The management of the French Quarter's Hotel Le Richelieu fled two days after the storm. Those left behind -- cooks, maids and security officers -- organized to ration supplies, establish foraging teams and set up a schedule for guard duty.

Days after the storm, the kitchen manages to keep serving hot food. Guests have taken to calling the place the Hotel Rwanda.

''It's a jungle, and it's dog-eat-dog,'' hotel security guard Glenn King says, resting his hand on a revolver. ''When you see the police doing the same thing the looters are doing, it tells me you're going to have to fend for yourself.''

Before dawn Friday, the French Quarter is rocked by explosions. A few miles downriver, railroad tanker cars erupt in a tornado of flame, showering a flooded neighborhood with soot and casting a pall of black over the city -- as if New Orleans isn't already under one.

A police officer says snipers fired on workers sent in to fight the fire. They stood down and watched it burn.

AP