Abe Zelmanowitz was a friend of mine. Not a close friend. We worked together - he in the City and me up in Albany, but we had spent a few weeks when I'd worked with him in the City, and we were constantly on the phone.
He took his Judaism seriously. It was nearly impossible to find him after noon or so on Friday in the winters - he had to get home before sundown. I've never really gotten along with a serious Jew before - it sometimes feels like a repudiation of my choices as a non-practicing non-believer.
But Abe kept it low-key. He was warm, kind and funny. About 15 years older than my 42 years. I only learned later that he was never married, but he was the beloved uncle to a number of children.
I had been down to the City in July and worked with the group down there. I hardly remember any names now, not because I can't remember names typically, but because I needed to walk away from all of this.
Anyway, our budget ran out, and I got another gig and went to work on a short-term project for the State.
And the buildings fell down. And people were lost. And stories were told.
Like I said, I don't remember most of the names, but there was a guy that worked with them who was a paraplegic. He was a big guy, well over 250 pounds. And on 9/11 he was at his desk and the planes hit and the lights went out and the elevators were off.
They all got into the stairwell, but they just couldn't get the wheelchair down those stairs. It was only about 15 floors, but the story was that he lost hope and told them to just leave him.
And Abe said he would stay. The others had children and families, so he sent them on and he'd wait. Wait for what? The firefighters? Or just, well, wait?
I'll never know. But here's what I do know. My friend sat there and waited and the buildings came down around them, and on them, and God only knows what they thought or felt.
President Bush mentioned Abe in one of his talks about the disaster. It was fitting, because his was a quiet, mensch-like heroism, the small, enormous act of a friend. I know I'd struggle in that situation, I doubt myself - would I stay? Probably not. I don't have that kind of courage.
It's taken my 10 years to face this, to write about it or talk about it. I didn't travel down to NYC for Abe's funeral - I had something or other that seemed more important. But I really just wasn't ready to think about what he had done, about who he was, maybe who I was.
So to Abe, and to all of those people who went up the stairs when every instinct must have pointed down, I'll raise a glass tonight, and wish them well, and be grateful that they were among us.