Terror and Response
September 28, 2001
Torn Apart By Terrorism
By Kelly Smits
On the evening of September 15, a procession of children stopped to sing in front of a small shop on East 116th Street in Manhattan, as a magenta sign in the window flashed "Flowers by Sweet William." Rows of glowing candles, sympathy cards, poems, and pictures outlined the storefront and spilled down the sidewalk. There were more bouquets decorating the steps of the flower shop than filling the glass cases inside. Three crosses lined with flowers were leaning against the window. On a yellow ribbon dangling from one of the crosses, an anonymous author had scrawled, "We love you Sweet William's wife." A picture of a Puerto Rican woman occupied the center of the display. She had blond tendrils and luminous green eyes that seemed to gaze fondly over the congregation.
William Cintron stood in the doorway of his shop in the East Harlem neighborhood, listening to the voices. Several similar candlelight vigils and memorials had been held at his store over the past few weeks. The woman on the flyer was his wife, Edna Cintron, who would have turned 47 on October 14. Cintron worked as an office manager for Marsh and McLennan, an investment management company that lost 315 employees in the World Trade Center attacks on September 11. Cintron is among 295 of her colleagues still missing in the debris. Always reliably punctual, she had reported by 8:30 a.m. to her office on the 97th floor of tower one. Moments later, the first aircraft plunged into her floor, and a ball of fire engulfed the building.
For the families of the 6,453 innocent victims that perished in the World Trade Center on September 11, the impact of the terrorist attacks has been deeply personal. The Cintrons and their friends and neighbors represent the intimate, individual face of this mass murder. To add to East Harlem's sorrow, the Cintrons had overcome tremendous obstacles to become stable, productive members of the community -- only to be broken apart forever by terrorism.
William Cintron was working at his second job, as a doorman, when he heard the news of the terrorist attacks. He raced down FDR Drive to the World Trade Center, as the radio blared reports of the second tower's collapse. Mistaken for a rescue worker in his doorman's uniform, Cintron was able to gain access to the site and began digging frantically through the rubble for his wife.
Even now, weeks later, he forces himself to stop calling her cell phone just to hear the sound of her voice on the message. Every night he enters an empty house in Queens only to be constantly reminded of his wife's absence. He notices her extensive collection of angels peering out from every corner, her favorite green plant that needs watering, and their oak wood sleigh bed, which is uncharacteristically disheveled. "It's the worst thing in the world to have someone that you love so much and lose them," he said. "They just took my heart and just ripped it right out of my chest."
William's brother introduced the couple 15 years ago at a friend's house. "It was love at first sight," he said. "She was my puppy true love." But the couple faced countless obstacles throughout their 14-year marriage. "We've been homeless, we ate out of garbage cans, you name it, we were drug addicts," he said. "We were living door to door." The Cintrons spent six years living on the streets. There were many days the couple could only share a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a cigarette. "But even when we were struggling, we never were hungry," he explained. "We could be stranded anywhere together, we had that powerful love. And I had this wonderful, beautiful woman. There isn't a single day that I would do again differently."
With Edna's guidance, the couple was able to turn their life around. William entered a recovery program in 1987, and then obtained his current job as a doorman on 79th Street. Then, five years ago, the couple opened up their own flower shop in East Harlem. "She held my hand and guided me," he said. "I was her always her baby and her best friend. She lifted me up and cared for me when I didn't have a pot to piss in. Right now I'm just trying to take care of myself because I can't fall back." Cintron refused to delve further into the personal details of their early life. These secret struggles had formed an unbreakable bond between them, and they were all he could preserve between them. "We loved each other very much," Cintron said. "We struggled very hard and all of the sudden it was taken."
William described the first ring he gave Edna in 1989. "It cost $225 dollars," he recalled, laughing. "You couldn't even see the stone. But she absolutely cherished it, and showed it off to everyone." He bought her a second ring only four months ago; this time it was a one- karat diamond. "I told her I wished I could buy her a bigger ring. But she just wore it like it was a doorknob. She was so sincere." The other day, when William was looking through his wife's papers, he stumbled across the tickets to Las Vegas that she was going to surprise him with as an anniversary gift. The couple would have celebrated their 15-year wedding anniversary on September 29. To mark the occasion, William hosted a gathering of friends and neighbors at a memorial service on Saturday afternoon. As the sound of Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" echoed down the street, Cintron released thirty white doves in Edna's memory.
The Cintrons enjoyed the simple pleasures in life. They made frequent trips to Atlantic City to play the slot machines and to indulge at the Sands buffet. They loved sitting out on their porch and inviting friends over for picnics and barbeques. On Sundays, they would walk down the street to brunch after attending church at A.F. Montcomo, and then Edna would come by the shop to take care of the bills.
Rosa Morrone, who owns Morrone Bakery next to the flower shop, waited for Edna's weekend visits. "She had a good heart," Morrone remembered, smiling. "And she loved my prosciutto bread." On September 6, Morrone had waved to the couple as they were walking across the street. "Willy yelled, 'It's my birthday, Edna's taking me out,'" she recalled. "Edna just turned and laughed. That was the last time I saw her"
Doris Robles, who helps William manage the shop, has been friends with Edna since she left Puerto Rico 12 years ago. In July, Robles fell from a 12-foot ladder and was in critical condition for twenty days. She had broken her jaw and nose, had four screws and a metal plate on the side of her face, and her jaw was wired shut. Robles remembered Edna's daily visits to her hospital bed. "Miss Edna was my strength," Robles recalled. "She'd say, 'Oh, Doris, you look beautiful. Don't worry, you're gonna be with us again. Get up from that bed, woman. We need you at the store, you're our family.' That's the way I'm going to keep her in my mind always. She was more than a friend." Robles's eyes filled up with tears.
Robles's ten-year-old daughter, Karina, finished the note she had been carefully scribbling across a white poster board on the sidewalk. In careful block letters, she had printed, "I love you Miss Edna and I know that you are in a better place. We will never forget you." Edna had always wanted to have children. However, complications from an operation left her unable to conceive. And so she put all her maternal wishes into spoiling Karina. "She'd help me fix my Barbies and talk about girl stuff," Karina said. "She wore the gold and silver bracelet that I gave to her on Willy's birthday. We used to eat chicken wings and tostones with hot sauce all the time."
Edna's closest friend was Jeanette Hernandez, 40, a billing administrator at New York Hospital. She had known Edna for eight years; Hernandez lives across the street from the flower shop. "We would always go Atlantic City because she loved to play Wheel of Fortune," Hernandez said. "We would get so excited when we'd win. But more than anything she was just such a generous person and a great listener." Hernandez stood at William's side during the vigil, clutching Edna's picture tightly to her chest. The two couples had spent the Labor Day holiday together at Manhattan Beach in Brooklyn. "We haven't heard anything yet, nothing at all," Hernandez said, her voice quivering. "The thing is, I spoke to her the night before. She wasn't feeling well, I was like, 'Don't go to work tomorrow,' and she said, 'I've got to."
Karina's eyes flickered as she studied Edna's picture. "Mr. William says God knocked on her door," the girl remembered, "and told her it was time to move on."
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