“April is the Cruelest Month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.” T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land
April 2020
It is getting warmer, and the air is fragrant with the smell of the fresh mulch and of trees emerging from the dreariness of early spring. The rolling hills here in Litchfield County are once again turning an emerald green; the forsythia is in bloom, bright yellow flames that dance in the wind. The daffodils have suddenly sprouted in well-ordered gardens and arbitrary patches and buds are opening up on the fruit trees in the orchard.
The morning sun shimmers on the lake as gentle waves sway small boats tied to the docks; the glimmers reach across the lake, and back to a narrow inlet that meanders towards the village. A stream runs under a bridge on the main road, engorged by what was left of the snow melt and early Spring rains - the water washes turbulently over polished stones and fallen branches to fall into brightly illuminated pools of water. Patches of sunlight sift through thick pine trees and form patterns of shadow and light on the lawns and white clapboard houses that line the street.
The reassurance and comfort of Spring in these rich hills belie the horror of the Coronavirus pandemic as it rages unabated through Asia, Europe and the United States. Nowhere is safe, but the virus devastated certain areas with a particular vengeance – Italy, Spain and then New York City and its surrounding suburbs. Aging populations, population density, broken and overwhelmed health care systems, failure to prepare – many reasons, but still the unprecedented scenes of empty streets, shuttered storefronts, field hospitals in public parks, refrigerated trucks serving as makeshift morgues waiting to receive bodies. We adjust our perception when we see this, as it becomes almost normal along with the daily body counts – infection rates and the rising number of dead around the world, in this country and in these particularly hard hit “hot spots”.
New York City has suffered, perhaps the worst, or at least in this country. The few pedestrians out in the streets wear makeshift masks, goggles, gloves and any protection that they can procure or make at home. Health care workers stand outside of the hospitals in green scrubs and ragged personal protection gear as there is a dire shortage of certified masks, gowns and basic hospital equipment.
Much of my life has been based around this city – a childhood spent in foster homes in Brooklyn and trips to “the city” to meet my father and siblings in an office building we called “the agency”. Later, I was a teenager opening up to the world, wandering through Manhattan - “head shops” and record stores in the East Village, used clothing and book stalls in the West Village, the wonderful buzz of musicians pan handling in Washington Square and Central Park. I sat near the window in diners, sipping coffee, reading newspapers and books and watching the parade of smiling, angry or simply distracted New Yorkers pass by.
Then came the seventies and the city hurtled towards an abyss – bankruptcy, drug epidemics and burning buildings illuminating the evening sky over the Bronx. Overgrown parks with abandoned sheds, broken benches and rusted gates were littered with shattered glass, crack vials and other drug paraphernalia. Various forms of debris littered the streets and drifted down the steps to filthy subway platforms with walls covered in graffiti. The sides of the trains were spray painted in ever brighter hues, turning them into rolling art exhibitions – out of control defacement or a new form of street art, depending on one’s point of view at the time.
I was then in my twenties and coming of age – a first job in Manhattan, working in publishing and dreaming of a literary career. I spent hours in bookstores, the Strand near Union Square and the Gotham Book Mart in midtown which specialized in books and paraphernalia relating to James Joyce. The city was lost in those dark, grey seventies – but for me, the glitter was still there – the bar at the Algonquin hotel, the Quiet Man Pub, squash games and drinks at a club in the Grace Building on 42nd street, a gleaming space just across from Bryant Park, at the time an overgrown, littered haven for drug dealers and the homeless.
The city has of course, been wounded before, on 9/11. That was a shock that took away 2,700 or so lives in a matter of minutes – but this virus has already taken 12,000 lives here and will continue to take lives for many more weeks. This is not to downplay the horror of 9/11 – I was there to witness it. I declined an invitation to a breakfast event at the “Windows of the World” restaurant at the top of one of the towers in order to attend a pointless meeting across the street at the Financial Center – a decision that saved my life. I watched as flames and black smoke engulfed the top floors of both towers and as dots in the sky turned out to be desperate people jumping from the building to escape the flames, choosing one death over another.
I watched the buildings sink into themselves, leaving an almost liquid grey mass - like lava boiling as it runs down the side of a volcano. Dust, debris and smoke – the remains of the people and all else lost in the buildings raced through the streets, obliterating all light in its path, darkness where minutes earlier it had been a bright September morning. Terrified people filled the streets trying frantically to outrun the black cloud – a scene not unlike one from a cheap Hollywood horror movie.
I was on a “rescue team”, going back to offices across the street from “Ground Zero” each of the next few days. We walked through the buildings and into the Winter Garden, a showpiece of the office complex. The palm trees that towered above the atrium were still standing, but much of the glass around them was shattered - a dark film covered the outside of the building and some of the walls inside. Across the street, the remains of the two towers were still smoking, a few shards of the metal that covered the buildings still standing upright as a further reminder of what was there just days earlier.
The city was said to have come together in that disaster – a mayor attending to first responders and funerals; the President standing in front of the harbor with a bullhorn making a valiant speech – unfortunately, a prelude to another disaster. The country and the world expressed its sorrow for the city as a quietness settled over it – photographs of the faces of the missing appeared on the walls of buildings; pictures of lost police and fireman were posted at their precincts and firehouses.
I gave a speech at a long-planned event not far from ground zero a few weeks later – an acrid odor, almost visible still hung over the downtown neighborhoods. The other speakers and I acknowledged the disaster, and then moved on to prepared remarks that seemed stale beside the scope of the recent event.
Through it all however, we were allowed to mourn together, to find comfort in crowds. The auditorium that I spoke in was full – people were back at work, disseminating the disaster together; there was a black hole downtown but the rest of the city, while wounded, was coming back to life.
The current disaster is different in orders of magnitude – deaths approaching 60,000 across the country. We mourn alone, in the isolation of our quarantine – so many feel the personal loss of loved ones or friends, but as the numbers continue to rise, the individual deaths become abstract, difficult to grasp, the magnitude almost unimaginable, perceived through news reports delivered by commentators in their own homes, sitting in front of bookcases in their studies, kitchen appliances or even their beds. We grieve for New York, but in such a sad, disconnected way.
I am more a voyeur than a witness to this disaster, safe here in rural Connecticut, but wondering what the world will look like when we come out of it. For solace, I listen to Elvis Costello’s “The Birds Will Still be Singing”. They will.
