Helen Currivan Redden, whose brother Patrick died in the terrorist attacks of September 11th, 2001, tells Deaglán de Bréadún of her recollection of that day and the wounds that refuse to heal
The sunlit drawing-room in Rush seems a long way from the troubles of the world. But the tragedy of 9/11 even reached into the heart of this quiet north Dublin resort. Three years on, the wounds are still raw for Helen Redden - formerly Currivan - whose brother Patrick Currivan was a passenger on the first plane to hit the World Trade Center on that day.
Before she heard anything, she was out of sorts that morning. "I don't feel right," she told her husband Martin. She was the youngest of three children and the only girl in the Currivan family. Her other brother, Dan, a marine engineer, was on a ship that was sailing from Venezuela to Boston, as it happened, and said later that he, too, felt bad that morning. "It must be something in the genes," says Helen.
Just before 8 a.m. (1 p.m. Irish time), American Airlines Flight 11 took off from Logan Airport in Boston, heading for Los Angeles. There were 81 passengers on board and Patrick Currivan was seated in row 10. There had been a dinner-party the night before: "I like to think maybe he was asleep."
We know from phone-calls made to the ground by members of the cabin crew that when the "Fasten Seatbelts" sign was switched off and the attendants began preparing for cabin service, the five hijackers struck. Two flight attendants were stabbed and a first-class passenger, Daniel Lewin, had his throat slashed. It is believed that the chief hijacker, Mohammed Atta, took over the controls in the cockpit, because he was the only one with flight training. But almost half an hour into the crisis most of the passengers, probably including Patrick, still believed it was a medical emergency.
AT 8:46 P.M., THE plane flew straight into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
Back at home in Rush, Martin Redden had turned on Sky News and saw the second plane hit the South Tower. He told Helen, "They're gone mad in America, they're crashing aeroplanes into skyscrapers." The couple knew Patrick was in Boston but did not know he was caught up in the disaster. Even so, Martin was sufficiently concerned to ring Patrick's mobile phone at about 3.30 p.m. Irish time and leave a message to call him back.
Patrick had flown from Paris to Boston a few days before. He had a high-powered job in computers and stockbroking in the French capital but had previously worked in Boston and still had a house there, as well as many friends. He stopped off to see them before heading onwards to L.A. for a conference.
During one of his regular phonecalls to Rush he had discussed the possibility of stopping over in Dublin on the way from Paris, but it didn't make sense because of the extra cost and the fact that he was meeting Helen, Martin and Dan in Valencia, Spain, for a fortnight's holiday on September 28th, which would have been Patrick's 53rd birthday.
At about 8.45 p.m. on the evening of September 11th, seven hours after the tragedy, Martin took a phonecall from David Smith, Patrick's lawyer and best friend, who was calling from Boston. Patrick had always said to Helen: "If you ever hear from David Smith, you know I am in trouble." Indeed, David's wife had driven Patrick to the airport that morning. But it was common sense to wait until it was officially confirmed that Patrick was on the plane before calling the family. "They couldn't ring us and say he was on the plane until it was confirmed," says Helen. "You never know whether someone got stuck in the toilet or something." Her reaction when she heard was, naturally, one of devastation and disbelief.
MEANWHILE, MARTIN WAS ringing the satellite phone on Dan's ship to tell him the news. They didn't feel it was any business of the media and the news got out through friends of Patrick's from his Trinity College days. The Reddens turned down an invitation to appear on the Late Late Show with relatives of other Irish victims, because they felt it would be inappropriate to appear on an entertainment programme.
As she speaks, Helen clutches a small bundle of papers and memorabilia. She holds up an old photo of her late brother. Their parents, now deceased, had a pharmacy in Crumlin in Dublin (the family was originally from Athlone) and both Patrick and Dan went to the Christian Brothers' School in Synge Street. In fact, I knew Patrick at that time: I was a year behind him in school, but the two classes sat in the same large room, separated by a glass-and-wood partition. Sometimes the partition was folded back and we had classes in common.
Patrick's contemporaries included Eddie Jordan, now a famous name in the world of Formula 1 racing. Patrick also stood in a famous election for auditor of the school debating society where he was beaten by Tony Heffernan, now a well-known member of the Labour Party. It was during his college days that I last met him and we discussed the political upheavals that were part of student life at the time. Short in stature, he was serious but not solemn, highly intelligent and a straight talker.
Helen is a straight talker too and doesn't disguise her feelings about the 9/11 hijackers. "They murdered him and all those other people," she says. Unlike most bereaved relatives, she didn't have a body to bury. She wanted to put up a memorial to Patrick but was told that, in order to buy a plot in the graveyard, you had to have a body. She sees a sliver of humour in it all: north Dublin is famous for property speculation and the council authorities want to prevent people making profits on graves.
In the end she had a plaque made in his honour and this was set into the cemetery wall. Senator Edward Kennedy, who knows what it is like to lose a brother in tragic circumstances, sent her an American flag which was flown over the US Capitol in Washington, D.C., in memory of the 9/11 victims, and it is on display in a glass case at her home.
Helen has not been in good health for the past four years, making Patrick's death an even heavier blow. Now on the mend, she recalls his many acts of kindness and consideration for her, going back to childhood days.
HE WAS EIGHT years older than her and she got to know him best when her parents died and he became a kind of surrogate father. Smiling, she recalls how he tried to induce her to take more interest in homework by offering chocolate as a reward. She remembers her teenage days when Patrick was working in his first job as a college lecturer in Scotland and sent her a birthday cheque for £20.
She is surrounded by reminders of her brother: as we are speaking, Martin brings us tea and puts the cups down on a cherrywood table that once belonged to Patrick. As a gourmet, wine connoisseur, opera buff, world traveller and skiing enthusiast, he appreciated the finer things in life, and his 50th birthday in 1998 was an all-champagne affair. "He was the best party-giver in town."
Despite her travails, Helen Redden shows no trace of self-pity and clearly draws strength from her late brother's positive, upbeat mentality. "Life goes on" was one of his favourite sayings. "My brother would be horrified if he thought there was weeping and gnashing of teeth. He would not like to be mourned in that sense. He had too much of a thirst for life."
Deaglán de Bréadún is Foreign Affairs Correspondent of The Irish Times