Refreshments are served in a huge tent. Mourners who mostly converse in German and Spanish are sitting or standing at the white-laid tables as more and more people arrive.
Originally I had wanted to stay away from the event.
“Remembrance has something to do with peace”, I have often thought in the last few weeks. “We should stay home and spend the day at the grave with the family.”
“The mountains are his true grave. I feel close to him there,” my husband replied.
“Lufthansa organised the anniversary. I would rather have had the pastors do it.”
He said, “Lufthansa presented the concept to us. You also liked it, didn’t you? They´ve taken our wishes into account: No speeches from politicians, shielding from the press and participation of the locals.”
“It´ll be a mass event. I want to be alone.”
“Maybe it´s good to get through the day with the other grieving families,” my husband said.
And he´s right. They are also suffering. They give me a feeling of security; we are a community. It´s irrelevant what kind of people they are, what language they speak, what religion and culture they belong to. We are united by the pain of the loss of our loved ones. We only have to look each other in the tearful or empty eyes to know all the nuances of the other´s pain.
We still have time and walk over to the memorial. There are three alpine horns on their racks under a tent nearby.
Behind them are the mountains, which have experienced a drama I would prefer to blot out. The snow covering the peaks is blinding white, the royal blue sky shining down on them.
We enter the newly renovated prayer room. The memorabilia from the neighbouring building was moved here in the presence of spiritual and secular dignitaries. Although I don’t think the room is much larger than the previous one (as is often claimed), it offers a seat in the middle inviting one to linger and reflect. The door is secured by a combination lock and the correct code is only available to family members. This is a perfect solution.
Jens’s things are lovingly arranged on the table to the left of the entrance. Nothing is missing, neither the letter our daughter-in-law wrote to him nor photos of our son.
I hardly manage to convince my husband to remove some of his favourite chocolate, including a Santa Claus from December, which he brought for Jens during the year. Even now he takes a box he bought in Germany out of his backpack.
When we leave he hands me his tissue so I can finally dry my tears.
The memorial service takes place in a separate tent, the interior corresponding to the dignity of the event. The tight fabric walls show no creasing and the roof and chairs gleam in innocent white, a white that spreads the brightness in the room through the sun shining outside.
We sit down.
I am afraid of the time of death, of the minute of silence that symbolises Jens´s violent death and that of all passengers on the plane.
Opposite us there is a window wall made of foil opening up a view of the mountains. The simultaneous translators sit in a separate area and observe the events. The video walls on the sides and in the middle ensure that we can follow the event closely…
The tent fills up quickly.
A year ago at this time Jens still had 30 minutes to live.
(To be continued)
© Brigitte Voß / Translation: Ellen Rosenbaum
A TEAR IN MY SOUL 