What The Montreal Massacre Means To Two People

December 6 is the 20th anniversary of what was quickly termed the “Montreal Massacre”.

I never liked the term. I always thought it should be referred to simply as “Montreal” or “École Polytechnique” which would evoke a more sombre reflection of what went on there (the way “9/11” or “Remember Vimy Ridge” many generations ago did to mark those observances). I think adding “Massacre” gave it a less personal name than it deserves.

I say this from first-hand experience. I was there that bitterly cold Dec. 6, and 7, and 8, and 9, coming back after the funeral for nine of the victims on Dec.11. It was at once the largest (in terms of significance, tragedy and media numbers involved) and most intimate story I had ever covered.

I remember so many things so very clearly. But it is one incident, one moment, that defines it for me.

It started in the newsroom, about 2-1/2 hours from the end of my shift when the city editor came around the corner. “How’s your French, mon ami?” he asked? It was about 5:30 p.m. I and a photog were being booked on the 7 p.m. flight to Dorval.

We didn’t get to bed until 3 a.m. the following morning, up at 6 a.m., breakfast at 6:15, and worked straight through from 7 to 2 a.m. And again and again. If I ate anything after breakfast in that week, I don’t know what. It was the story that kept us going.

The moment came on the third evening. Authorities had released the names of most of the victims and we were now chasing “pick-ups”; words and pictures of victims from family or friends.

I cannot recall the one name I was chasing that night but it was a common French one with a good dozen or so in the phone book. I opted for one listed to a 100-year-old low rise just off campus which looked like obvious student housing.

It was after nightfall, and the building was not well-lit. Adding to the gloom was that a vigil for the victims was being held somewhere and the building appeared empty. I remember what the second-floor door that I knocked on looked like. I hated every pickup, but this one would be the worst. In those few moments of waiting for the door to be opened by a room mate, all that I had seen, all that I’d heard and been through in the previous 72 hours suddenly caught up.

When the door didn’t open, I knocked on the one which abutted it on a corner. A few seconds later, the lock clicked and the door swung in. A woman of perhaps 23 stood in the low light, smiling weakly yet politely. She looked drawn from crying. I felt like an incredible intruder.

I don’t know how long I stood there before saying in French: “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you. I am John Schmied from the Toronto Sun newspaper. Did you know …”

She stood stock still – not in aggression or fear or acquiescence – and simply nodded yes.

There was no noise from the street or other apartments. I could smell the old wood and carpets from inside every unit.

She was uncertain what to do next. Should she invite me in? Should we stand by the door? I’m certain that she would have let me in had I asked.

I stood there. It was my job to get in, but she wasn’t asking, and it simply felt wrong of me to ask. I had done this dozens of times at the homes of car crash, or murder, or drowning victims, but for some reason, I couldn’t do it.

I felt like, for that very moment, she and I were hidden and safe from a horrible storm. The world outside had gone mad and, if we shared any words about it there, we would again be caught up in it.

We looked at each other without a single word, but we said so much. Right then I so wanted to run away from it all with her, from all the horror and the glare and everything this thing was. In her eyes I’m sure I saw anto come with me, to put this behind us both, to share a peace with someone as desperate to find some. understanding of what I wanted to do and a willingness

…

After what felt like 10 minutes but was surely closer to 10 seconds, I simply nodded and thanked her and wished her good night. She also nodded and quietly said goodbye, and started closing the door. Before it hit the jamb, she stopped. Our eyes met again and hers said “thank you” while I hoped that mine said “take care”. It was the most intimate moment I had ever shared with a complete stranger.

I went back to work. I told my editors there was no pick-up.

I never got her name. I have wondered if she ever recalls that scene that no one but the two of us shared.

A scene from Montreal, December, 1989.

John Schmied Toronto News 24 

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