by Victoria Grantham
Monday is the one-year anniversary of the Deutsche Bank tragedy, the deadly inferno that took the lives of two firefighters, Robert Beddia and Joseph Graffagnino. It seems like just a few days have passed since I answered the phone and Jay, my fiancé, a firefighter who was working at the scene that day, was on the other end.
Before he called, I'd heard about the fire on TV. I'd also smelled the acrid smoke, because we live a few blocks north of the condemned building. For hours I'd been admonishing myself to remain calm.
I felt relief when I heard his voice, but then he delivered news I couldn't immediately comprehend: "I'm okay, but Joey and Bobby are dead."
I remember the cold, hammer-like shock. I also recall, days later, sitting in a diner, holding his hands, crying. We were mourning all that we and the Graffagnino and Beddia families had lost and we raged over the circumstances - sealed exits, a broken standpipe, avoidable catastrophe.
I felt gratitude mixed with guilt about the fact that I still had Jay's hands to hold.
We have learned lessons since, some of them painful and infuriating. We now know that Firefighters Beddia and Graffagnino gave their lives fighting a blaze in a condemned tower - one that was exempt from city building codes that went into effect post-9/11. Structures owned by the state or federal government are not required to meet these standards, and the Deutsche Bank skyscraper, owned by the state at the time, was part of this group.
Though some progress has been made in building safety recently - thanks in large part to the Graffagninos' tireless crusade - more than 800 city buildings, including Grand Central Terminal, the United Nations complex and the proposed Freedom Tower, still fall into this category.
That leaves us all unnecessarily exposed.
Then, there are the unanswered questions. Determining which of the many players in the disaster - from contractors to subcontractors to officials at city agencies - are criminally responsible is a complex task. A grand jury has convened twice a week since November 2007 to hear evidence gathered from more than 3 million documents and scores of witnesses. They are expected to hand out indictments next month.
While we wait, we're comforted and haunted by memories.
At the firehouse, Joey's Sunday tradition of serving raviolis the size of tennis balls continues. The robust laughter of two of the most charismatic, fun-loving men in the house echoes. Sometimes, the men who remain catch glimpses of ghosts.
And as everyone who has ever lived through a tragedy knows well, unexpected and unimaginable grief sometimes winds up being accompanied by some small measure of unexpected joy.
Before the tragedy, I didn't make the time to socialize with Jay's colleagues' wives very often. Since the loss, I've come to realize how much we, the "honor wives" (the name the doe-eyed probationary officer at St. Patrick's Cathedral gave us), share. I've come to admire the mixed band of outspoken mothers, high-spirited women and corporate executives. An astounding number of them were pregnant at the funerals. Now they have their babies. The Graffagnino children are growing up too, though they are fatherless.
Amid all that has happened, what has conspicuously not happened is real change to building safety codes - and genuine progress in dismantling the charred eyesore.
How long must we wait?
As we gather to honor Joey and Bobby's lives, we know that we cannot resurrect them - we must all go on living our lives as best we can. But neither can we let them go in vain.
At a news conference last week, Joey's father stood in front of the black shrouded high-rise and said, "We need to stop other people from dying." Eight simple words. So important to repeat. So important to be true to.
Grantham is a freelance writer in Manhattan.
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