Life for a Newtown Parent, One Year After the Massacre

The father of the youngest victim talks about life without his son.



Noah lighting Hanukkah candles on December 13, 2012, the night before he was killed.

photo courtesy of the pozner family

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“I sent three children to school this morning. Only two returned.” 

That was our friend Lenny Pozner’s unimaginably heartbreaking text to us last December 14, after we’d called and texted repeatedly to ask if he and his family, who lived in Newtown, Connecticut, were safe. 

“He was a perfect child,” says Pozner, a soft-spoken man in his mid 40s whose only son, six-year-old Noah, was one of 26 people, including 20 children, murdered by a madman who shot his way into Sandy Hook Elementary School that mild December day. “He was kind, smart, and full of life—just perfect in every way. He was my son—we had a special connection.” 

Noah’s cherubic face—with his huge hazel eyes, long eyelashes, and heart-melting smile—quickly became one of the most recognizable images associated with the tragedy. He was the youngest child murdered, having recently turned 6, and, like all the children killed, was a first-grader. “He was in school; he was where he was supposed to be, at his desk,” says Pozner, “and somebody decided, ‘You don’t get to live anymore.’”

Pozner and his wife, Veronique, still relive that day, and Pozner remembers clearly the “regular” night before. “I was ‘Mr. Mom,’ for half the week, because my wife and I were separated at the time and we shared childcare. It was a typical Thursday night. We did homework, I cooked dinner, the kids played, Veronique dropped in on her way home from work to watch them take turns lighting the Hanukkah candles. Then I bathed them, and Noah fell asleep on my arm.” Earlier that evening, Pozner recalls, “I was working at my desk, and Noah, who had been playing video games, stopped playing, and, out of nowhere, ran over and jumped in my lap, kissed me on the cheek, and said, ‘I love you, Dad.’ It was almost as if he knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.” 

The next morning, “like most days, the kids didn’t want to get out of bed, and I had to rush them along. On the drive to school, we listened to Noah’s favorite song, ‘Gangnam Style,’ and we were a few minutes late.” Pozner told his children to “have a fun day” and watched as they made their way into school. It was the last time he’d ever see Noah’s beautiful eyes, which were so much like his own. “He got out of the car, kind of juggling his jacket and his backpack. That’s the last image I have of Noah: walking along the path, juggling to get his brown jacket on.”


Noah with his twin sister and best friend.  
photo courtesy of the Pozner family

Pozner was at the gym when he got the call. “I finished at about 10:30. When I got my stuff out of the locker, I saw a couple of automated messages from school, voicemails from Veronique, voicemails from friends.” All the Pozners knew at this time was that the school was on lockdown, and Veronique, who was at work 45 minutes away, and Lenny, who was 20 minutes away, raced to the school, amid the sounds of sirens and the sight of rescue vehicles.

“It took maybe five minutes to locate both of my girls,” Pozner recalls, “but it felt like a lot longer.” Still, there was no sign of Noah. Pozner’s older daughter told him that all the children were asked to close their eyes as they exited their classroom, but she “peeked.” 

As they continued to search for Noah to no avail, the Pozners were instructed to go to a back room in the firehouse. The mood there was somber and, as religious leaders, including a rabbi, priests, and other clergy, began to gather in the room along with the governor, fear turned to dread and then to despair. “There was the sound of continuous crying,” Pozner remembers, “like a long, continuous wail.” For hours, he recalls, “we were kept in the dark by authorities about the true nature of the horror we would all have to face. At one point, I remember Veronique saying to the governor, ‘You have to level with us! Is it a morgue up there? If my son is in there, I want to cover him.’” Soon, the room was filled with state troopers, FBI, and other law-enforcement personnel. “Then we were asked for details about him so they could identify him.” 

A year later, Pozner, a one-time Dobbs Ferry resident, and his family—his wife (with whom he reconciled shortly after Noah’s death) and two young daughters, including Noah’s twin—have yet to truly grieve, let alone try to begin healing. 

It’s not that they don’t cry, that they’re not devastated, that they’re not often still numb, still hoping it’s somehow all a nightmare from which they’ll awaken. In fact, the shock and horror of Noah’s death, and the day-to-day challenge of living without him, have so traumatized Pozner, an IT specialist, and his wife, a registered nurse, that they both had to take extended time off from work. “I kind of go in and out of time,” is how Pozner explains the surreal nature of it all. Though he is thankful that his two daughters survived the mas-sacre, one of the things that haunts him is the idea that “we could have lost all three children; their classrooms were near each other, all in the same corridor.” 

 

 

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