Alexander and Maureen Santora lived for years in the same Astoria housing complex as Lorraine Gill, without realizing that their sons worked together in the same Manhattan firehouse.
That was until Sept. 11, when the two missing firefighters from Engine 54 — and their parents — became inextricably linked for eternity.
Paul Gill and Christopher Santora are two of 15 firefighters lost by Engine 54, nicknamed "The Pride of Manhattan," at 48 St. and 8 Ave.
"When I met Christopher’s parents, it was clear that they are going through the same pain that I am," said Gill. "They miss their son as much as I miss mine."
Though the depth of their grief is the same, these two loving families are expressing it in very different ways.
Six weeks after the disapperance of their brave sons, Lorraine Gill has formally laid Paul to rest, while the Santoras cling to the hope that Christopher is still alive beneath lower Manhattan’s mournful rubble.
"I believe with all my heart that someone must still be alive," said Maureen Santora. "It may as well be Christopher."
The Santoras first met their neighbor after seeing a sign Gill posted on the co-op’s bulletin board, pleading for information about Paul’s whereabouts.
"They rang my buzzer and said they wanted to come up and give me a hug," said Gill.
In the emotional meeting that followed in Gill’s living room, and in other impromptu get togethers since at Engine 54, the two families discovered that they share more in common than grief.
Maureen Santora and Lorraine Gill have both spent their careers nurturing Queens children; Santora as a recently retired teacher at PS 2, Gill as a school nurse at PS 85.
The two families also discovered that their sons had been friends at Engine 54. Despite the 10-year difference in their ages — Paul, 34, and Christopher, 24 — the firemen sometimes worked out together before or after a grueling shift, at a health club in Long Island City. Both were sportsmen and loved music. Paul played the drums and the bass guitar, Christopher the clarinet.
And both tough firefighters grew up in a household with sisters. Paul with a slightly older sister, Michelle; and Christopher with a whole flock of female siblings: Jennifer, 27, Patricia, 25, Kathleen, 19, and baby sister Megan, 16.
"Meeting Mrs. Gill was a great solace to us," Maureen Santora said in an emotional meeting in the family’s Astoria apartment. "It was comforting to know that our sons had so much in common."
Last Saturday, in the hours before Paul’s memorial service at Evangel Church, both families invited a reporter into their homes to discuss their painful decisions to mourn or to wait.
"This will be the seventh memorial service we have attended," said Maureen Santora, her eyes welling up. "This might be what we have to do for Christopher one day, but I’m just not ready yet."
Christopher’s handsome face is everywhere in the Santora’s apartment; in framed photos and family albums, and even as a screen saver on the living room computer. On the front door, the family has placed a perfectly-tied yellow ribbon beside another photo of their son and brother, with a caption that reads "Waiting for your return Christopher."
Though they already alternate between using "was" and "is" when referring to Christopher, his parents have no plans to mourn.
"Sometimes I can’t help believe that Christopher is no longer alive," said Maureen Santora. "But until I have some proof I’m not giving up hope."
Al Santora retired last year after 40 years of service with the New York City Fire Dept., including stints at firehouses in Harlem and Brooklyn. His last job was Chief of Safety for the more than 11,000 City firefighters.
On the morning of Sept. 11, he watched from his living room window as the Twin Towers burned. After helping set up a staging area at Shea Stadium, he went down to lower Manhattan, "to help however I could. And to try and find my son."
At 3:30 in the morning, after hours of climbing up and down mountains of jagged, molten steel, he found Engine 54’s truck, buried in a sickly, gray soot.
But Christopher was nowhere to be found.
"My son’s biggest complaint was that he hadn’t yet fought a big one," said Santora. "We didn’t realize that one day he would fight the biggest one."
Meanwhile, two buildings away, Lorraine Gill is waiting for her family to arrive for Paul’s memorial service. She seems weary and sad, but not anguished.
"The day Paul graduated from the Fire Dept. Academy I told myself that I might lose my son one day," she said, pointing to a card she received from Paul on her last birthday, signed, "Thanks for being my mom, lots of love, Paul."
"I know my son is in heaven. He wouldn’t want to see me unhappy by grieving his memory."
The Santoras, she said, must be permitted to find their own peace.
"I wish there was something I could say to help them. But I don’t think there is."