Karin Zeitvogel: Disbelief

On the afternoon of Friday, June 20, AFP lost one of the biggest hearts in the agency: Peter Mackler suffered a massive heart attack and died in hospital, his wife by his side.
The week wasn't supposed to end this way. Summer wasn't supposed to begin this way.

When Christophe Vogt called us all together the first time, it was about 4 pm. Peter had suffered a 'malaise' and been taken to hospital, Christophe said when we had all gathered round outside Peter's office. I only picked up snippets of the rest of what he told us afterwards, my mind struggling to understand how the colleague, the boss, the friend who the day before had tried to ease my fears over my own medical problems and with whom I had swapped a joke hours earlier could have been plunged so suddenly into suffering.

When, just a few hours later, Christophe called us all back to the place where we gather every morning at 8:30 for our editorial meeting -- the editorial meeting that we all silently loathe, but which we couldn't do without -- I knew the news was not going to be good. Because you wouldn't call a second meeting so soon after the first, just to say, "He's OK, chaps."
Peter had died in hospital. That was all I heard. People huddled in small groups, gazed blankly at spots on the drab carpet and tried to understand. I walked over to my desk and lifted the phone and called a close friend -- someone I had met thanks to Peter, who had suggested I cover a particular event. I babbled something about my boss having died suddenly and not to expect me to be my normal self for awhile. A night, the weekend, an entire week, who could tell.
The conversation seemed senseless, but I had to make that phone call. And it was only long after I had hung up that I realized why. Peter's sudden death made me realize how fragile life was, how important it was to live each day to the full and happily, and how we should never put off telling those we love that we love them.
I phoned back and told my friend I loved him.
When I got home, I had to break the news to my son, Luca. Luca loved Peter. Each time I brought Luca into the office, whether by plan, when I couldn't find a babysitter, or accident, when the babysitter cancelled at the last minute, Peter would welcome him, call him into his office, jokingly ask him what story he was working on as Luca played computer games.
Tears spilled down Luca's cheeks when he heard the news. Peter could never be replaced, he said with the wisdom of his 10 years. Was there any way he could be brought back, Luca asked. What would AFP do with Peter's desk? How could we walk past his office and look in at the emptiness.

Kids ask these questions, and we adults have trouble replying.
Another night, he (my son) was in bed, and I went up to turn off the lights. He said, "I'm just finishing my prayers." So I let him get on with it. After a brief silence, he said," I'm praying for Peter." So again, I let him get on with it. And eventually, I asked, "What are you praying for Peter?" and he said, "That he's an angel."

I think I had done a story that very day about how Americans believe fervently in the power of prayer. And Peter nicknamed me Bernadette when I was covering the pope's visit and living, eating (well, ok, I had more than rice communion wafers) and breathing Catholicism and papal pomp. I'm sure he is an angel, even if he's cracking some great jokes with George Carlin.

Peter had a big heart, a sharp wit, and a zest for life. He was dedicated to his family, to his profession, to the art and ethics of journalism, and he shared his love and energy with everyone he met.

When he came under fire from union groups in France for a company he had founded to help train journalists, you could see the hurt on his face. Tongues wagged, people bitched, Peter grabbed the bull by the horns and put out a statement explaining exactly where he stood and what was going on. He wasn't dipping into any coffers to fatten his wallet. There was no conflict of interest with AFP.

I know there are people out there who can't get a handle on altruism, but there are others, like Peter, who can and do and who work selflessly for a cause they believe in. When this was all blowing up, I dropped Peter a brief message to say I stood behind him, and if there was anything I could do -- start a petition to silence his attackers, maybe? -- I would.
He came over to my desk, tucked away in a corner, and thanked me.

When I returned to Washington from coverning the papal visit, spouting psalms and humming hymns, he said I would have to go through retoxification.
He was full of little anecdotes about life that he would build and build and build on, to finally reach a punchline that would have everyone who was listening fall about in laughter.
Yes, we would bitch in the bureau about the morning meetings or when Peter would assign us a story we didn't really want to do, but you could bitch to Peter's face, and he would bitch back at you, and in the end -- you would do the story. And do it the way he had asked you to.
And when you did it, he would be the first to heap praise on you.
I am thankful for having worked with Peter and even more thankful that the last conversation we had ended in laughter. Peter has taken his wit, his warmth and his huge heart up to a corner in heaven reserved for those who did much to advance humanity during their time on earth. His time was too short; he had so much left to give.
I'll miss you, Peter. Luca misses you. I know the entire bureau misses you. Even friends of mine who have never met you, miss you. We are all privileged to have been touched by you during your time on earth.
When I'm struggling to find that killer lead, I'll look up from my corner at AFP to your corner in heaven for inspiration, and I know you'll deliver. We'll keep the stories alive for you, Peter, but more importantly, we'll keep your story and legacy alive.

-- Karin Zeitvogel