New York City Life Commemorating Sept. 11 By Bob Yampolsky	フレームで見る  英文をプリントする  脚注をプリントする
同時多発テロ追悼式の日 米同時多発テロから1年を迎えた11日。破壊された世界貿易センタービルの跡地では追悼式典が行なわれ、ニューヨークの市内各地で犠牲者を悼む集会やミサが催されました。筆者はそのどれにも出席しませんでしたが、夕食後のひととき、家族と共に静かに犠牲者の死を悼み、自分なりにこの日を心に刻みました。

Like many New Yorkers, I felt a certain trepidation as the anniversary of 9-11 approached. Even for someone like me, who was not directly affected by the attacks, last September was a deeply emotional period, and the prospect of revisiting those emotions was unsettling. And yet it did not seem appropriate to let the day go past like any other day.

Like last Sept. 11, this Sept. 11 brought a change in the weather. In both cases, the previous day had been hot and sultry. Last year, there were huge thundershowers the evening before, and the morning brought perfect late summer weather. There were no thundershowers this year, but there were strong winds that blew away the humidity, and again there was a beautiful late summer sky.

The city began marking the anniversary at 8:46 a.m., which is when the first plane hit: There was to be a moment of silence across the city. It just so happens that my kids begin school at 8:45; at my daughter's third-grade class, the teacher invited parents to stay for the morning meeting, which would commemorate the day with silence, poetry and song.

I had intended to stay for this; it would be a little ceremony for me to participate in. I could feel that I had paid my tribute, and then I could get on with the work I had to do. But my daughter, who prefers that I stay away from her classroom, made a face and sent me away, and so I went downstairs and out into the street and started walking to my office.

Outside, there was little to indicate that the day was in any way special. More people than usual were wearing shirts or hats honoring firefighters or police; some storefronts had special patriotic displays; and special editions of newspapers were on sale. But that was all. Certainly there were ceremonies and gatherings across the city, but here on upper Broadway, it seemed like just another day.

At the office (where I am by myself) I turned on the radio. Last September, I listened to the radio constantly, and it has become a habit of mine to turn it on frequently. I don't particularly want to hear the news; rather, I'm just checking to make sure that nothing catastrophic has occurred. So if I hear a commercial, or some trivial report, I am satisfied and turn the thing off, for that means that no urgent news is breaking.

There were no commercials and no trivial news this morning, but that was only because of the solemnity of the day. I found a station broadcasting the ceremony at Ground Zero, where the families of the victims had gathered. It was simple: The names of the 2,801 victims were read, one after another; a child read a poem to her lost father; music was played; the politicians present were, for once, silent; and the greatest noise came from the wind. I went outside on the terrace then, but I could not hear any bells.

By the end of time the day, I still had done nothing to commemorate the day. On the front door to my apartment building a notice announced a candlelight vigil at 7:30 p.m., but I knew I would be eating dinner then. I considered going to the Yankee game: Baseball had been a huge emotional release for the city last fall, and there was going to be a ceremony. But it was a school night, and the kids would get home far too late.

For the past year, the New York Times has published a page called "Portraits of Grief." These are brief sketches, with photographs, of the victims, and they are difficult to read without crying.

For its Sept. 11 edition, the New York Times reprinted the photographs; even shrunk down to a tiny size, these photos filled page after page. After dinner, I looked at these with my kids. "Here," I said. "This man lived on the ninth floor. And this man I went to school with."

My kids tried to count all the pictures, but there were too many, of course, and they gave up. "Everyone's smiling," my daughter said. "Some were mommies and daddies, right?" asked my son. I nodded, but did not tell him that over 3,000 children had lost a parent that day.

And then I remembered a letter that a little girl had sent to the New York Times last September. Her mother had died when she was eight, and she wanted to tell all the boys and girls that even if you lose a parent, it is still possible to be happy. But I did not mention this either.

Then my son sighed and said, "I wish the twin towers hadn't fallen down." "Me too," I said, and I sighed too. For a moment we all sat there in sad silence. But in a small way I felt satisfied, for I had just had my own little ceremony.

Shukan ST: Sept. 27, 2002

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