I Knew You Once

I recently learned of the passing of two men with whom I had the honor and privilege of knowing for a short time. Both died suddenly and unexpectedly in their fifties. One I met through a writing class; the other was the result of an ancestral connection. 

I was stunned to learn about Eugene's death on Facebook. It felt unreal, a social media post. In today's world, it’s a fast and efficient way to disseminate good and sad news. It's how we inform our friends and acquaintances when someone has passed away. It's not a post where you hit the "like" button or add a teary-eyed emoji. It's the kind of announcement that catches you off guard, makes you stop, and then prompts you to read all the comments to confirm what you've read is real. It was real, and the condolences were heartfelt and expressed with thoughtfulness. It was a heart attack in one so young, only fifty, a husband and father. 

When I first met Eugene, I knew he was someone special. I felt it in his beautiful and reflective writing. After an eight-week writing class, five of us formed a critique group and began meeting regularly. We were an eclectic mix, and that was what made our small circle special. Our senior member was in her eighties, an energetic woman with a lovely writing style. Our youngest, fresh out of college, was a free-spirited, intelligent science fiction writer. Another, an introspective woman in her forties, a mom and devoted daughter, who wrote from her heart. I was the second-oldest in the group, and my family and life experiences inspired my writing style. And then there was Eugene. He was a gift. When he shared his writing, we all felt his brilliance.

Eugene wrote about so many things that interested him. He often jotted down thoughts and observations, then read them to us as he tried to formulate them into a story. He was a deep thinker and had an intense love for his family. He was proud of his heritage and showed us pictures of his wedding day, wearing a kilt.

Eugene's eyes drew you in, and his grey beard and mustache did not reflect his age but his style. He listened with intensity and spoke with intention during our critique sessions. Being present is an attribute given to few, and Eugene was a member of that elite group. 

Our critique group met at a local bookstore for many months, and when our senior member no longer wanted to make the drive, she bid us a sad farewell. When Covid invaded our lives, we met at a local park, each toting a lawn chair and a notepad. Looking back, I cannot remember why we eventually stopped meeting. Our youngest member was offered a job out of state, and Eugene's work schedule increased. Suffice it to say, we fizzled out of one another's lives. But not completely, thanks to social media. At one of our last meetings, we took a fun selfie of the four of us, the only picture of our little tribe.

When I read Eugene's obituary, I felt a strange sense of loss for someone I had known for a short time, and I recalled a quote that helped me make sense of my feelings.  

"Some people are not meant to be a part of our lives forever. Some people visit our lives for a brief period, not to stay in it, but to show us something that we have been unable to see it ourselves. In the form of a gift, a lesson or a piece of wisdom, they change the course of our life and help us to fulfill our "destiny." Purba Chakraborty

~~~~~

I never met Professor K in person. He contacted me through Ancestry.com to view my family tree. He was especially interested in my fourth cousin, a child murdered during the Holocaust. His interest was partly due to his field of study about concentration camps, and so I willingly gave him access to my tree. 

For years, I have compiled a list of my Jewish ancestors during World War II. Some survived the Shoah, while many perished. I became consumed with learning as much as I could about my cousin. At six years old, Irene was sent to an asylum the day before the Nazi's ordered her mother onto a train bound for Maly Trostinets concentration camp.

Irene was also of interest to Professor K, and when he found her on my family tree, he was eager to learn more about her. I was happy to have someone in Germany who could assist with research and who also wanted to learn more about my cousin. 

For nine months, we exchanged emails about our research, and I shared any new information about Irene and her family. Her tiny body was buried in an unmarked grave below an empty patch of grass, between two gravestones in a Jewish cemetery in Hamburg. No one should be without a headstone. I went on a mission to find out how I could have one made for her. Professor K shared my concern that Irene did not have a stone, so we became partners to have one made. Our mutual connection made me feel like I had a kindred spirit, both wanting to right a wrong.

The holidays came and went, and the correspondence from Germany stopped. I assumed that Professor K was on vacation or very busy with the start of a new semester. A few months passed, and I sent several emails inquiring about his progress, but I received no response. I had a strange feeling about the lack of correspondence. I wondered if he had transferred to a different university or moved. I logged on to his university website and typed his name into the search bar. And there it was, his obituary.

I could barely read the words. I was looking through a steamed window after a hot summer rain. My blurred thoughts formed pools and fell down my cheeks as I tried to focus on the words.

Suddenly. Unexpectedly. December.

I sat with these words for many days, stunned, as he was only fifty-five. Hesitant to reach out to his replacement at the university, I waited to send my condolences. I wondered what would happen to his extensive research and the status of the headstone for Irene.

After several days, I decided to email her, and she replied quickly. Her response was thoughtful and kind, mentioning that she would forward my email to Professor K's spouse. A few weeks later, I was overjoyed to receive an email from his wife. Professor K had reached out to the stonemason at the cemetery in December, and after hearing Irene's story, he offered to engrave the stone at no charge. A door had closed, but a window opened, blowing in a sweet breeze and a ray of brilliant sun. I will forever remember Professor K and his incredible work for justice, and because of him, Irene's name will live on.

This story, too, reminded me of a "quote…

"They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time  a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time." Banksy

I am forever grateful for knowing these two men. When we meet new friends, we assume they will be in our lives for a long time. And when they are not, many unanswered questions and things left unsaid and undone remain. When we hear the words 'make the most of your time on this earth' and 'live each day to the fullest,' listen to them. Life and circumstances can change in an instant. 

Bit by bit, that’s all she wrote…