Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death,
Amen.
There were tears in both our eyes as we sat huddled together. It’s impossible to communicate the feelings we both had in those precious moments we spent preparing to die. Scarlett would be the last person to see me alive. And I would be the last person to see Scarlett alive. A few hours ago, we were perfect strangers. Now the bond between us was strong and deep.
I said the prayer again.
Then I said the “Lord’s Prayer” to myself:
Our Father Who Art in Heaven
Hallowed Be Thy Name
Thy Kingdom Come
Thy Will Be Done
On Earth as it is in Heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil
For Thine is the kingdom
And the power, and the glory forever.
Amen.
After praying, I continued to steel myself, determined not to give in to the hijacker’s terror and intimidation. I wanted to comfort Scarlett more, but I didn’t dare. If I let myself become emotionally involved, I might break down. I leaned my head up against the window again and just sat there and waited.
Be strong. Don’t break down. Don’t show your fear or weakness. Be aware.
A few minutes later, the hijacker who was shooting everyone came toward us, waving my passport. I assumed I was next.
Instead, they took Scarlett.
It was about 5 or 6 A.M. when the two hijackers lifted Scarlett out of her seat and walked her a few paces to the front door. The straight-haired man with the gun hummed and sang as he pressed the revolver to her head.
He fired a single shot at point-blank range and Scarlett died instantly. As her body went limp, he pushed her out the door, and her body thumped down the metal staircase onto the tarmac.
I was next. There were tears in my eyes. I looked at my wedding ring and prayed that, by some miracle, I’d see Scott again.
For some reason I’ll never know, there was an unexpected pause in the shootings. I kept looking out the window for some sign of hope.
There wasn’t much to see. Captain Galal had pulled the plane onto a deserted stretch of Luqa Airport, to reduce the risk to other passengers and airport personnel.
In the haze, I could barely make out a few big military trucks with tarps on top in the distance. These dark trucks looked like military vehicles I’d seen in the movies. I hoped to see someone step out of one of these trucks and silently mouth the reassuring words, “Everything’s going to be okay.” Or I wanted to see a small troop of men with guns slithering on the ground, out of the hijackers’ sight.
But I didn’t see a soul. The trucks looked deserted.
I was totally alone now, with no one to comfort or distract me from my agony. I’m going to die, I thought, and neither Scott nor my students will ever know what happened to me. I’ll never get to say good-bye.
I looked across the aisle and saw the dead hijacker’s body lying over some seats. The hijacker’s helper came over and scrunched the hijacker’s legs into his body. I could tell that rigor mortis had already set in by the effort it took to bend the stiffened limbs and the loud cracking sound it made. The helper looked over to me and smiled, as if to say, “Can you believe his legs just did that?”
About nine hours had passed since we left Athens, and some people raised their hands and asked for permission to use the toilet. The hijacker in the back of the plane, the one with the glasses, signaled to people, one at a time, to get up and go. I had to go to the bathroom so badly, but I didn’t dare raise my hand. I still didn’t want to draw any attention to myself…. I didn’t want the hijackers to know anything more about me than they already did.
Minutes stretched into hours as I continued waiting to die. I knew there would be little or no warning when the time came. Each breath might be my last.
At one point, the hijackers allowed food to be distributed among the passengers. A heavyset woman with long dark hair, the chief flight attendant on the plane, walked up and down the aisle passing out deli sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic. Many of us hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours and were famished.
The flight attendant tossed a deli sandwich on the seat next to me, where Scarlett had been sitting.
“I can’t eat that,” I said.
I couldn’t pick it up because my hands were tied behind my back.
The flight attendant didn’t hear me and just kept walking.
Another flight attendant, much younger, saw the sandwich sitting on the seat. She came over to me and said, “Would you like to eat?”
“Yes,” I said.
She picked up the sandwich and fed it to me in little bites. The younger flight attendant had dark hair and was very pretty. She looked Egyptian.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked me.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Would you like some water?”
“That sounds good.”
She went and filled a cup with some water and held it up to my mouth so I could drink.
As I waited my turn to die, I reflected on the meaning and direction my life had taken. This was no idle exercise. It was time to be totally honest with myself.
Did I like the life I had been leading?
Continuing to review my life, I felt that the answer was yes. I was especially proud of all the work I’d done to free my spirit in the previous two years. After years of self-doubt and second-guessing myself, I had acted on my lifelong dream of living in a foreign country.
In February 1984, I’d finally gotten up the nerve to attend a job fair in New York City for teachers interested in working overseas.
I sure seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Many schools at the job fair were just starting special education programs and were looking to hire someone with my background in education and diagnostics. Everything was working out better than I could have ever hoped or planned.
A few weeks after flying back to Houston, the job offers started rolling in. Eventually, I accepted a position with the American School in Stavanger, Norway. In August 1984, my long-postponed dreams were coming true: I was going to live overseas and in a place where it snowed.
I remember talking with my dad out in the garage after my bags were all packed. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Dad asked.
I said, “Yeah, Dad, this is what I really want to do. I have to do this. I have to go out and see the world. It’s what I have been dreaming about. I don’t know what I’m after, but I have to do it.”
He saw the excitement and commitment in my eyes. “I know how you feel,” he said. “When I joined the navy after high school, I loved traveling around and seeing all those places. Sometimes, I wish I’d had a chance to travel more.”
My dad is a man of few words, but I knew he’d just given me his blessing.
Once I made the decision to follow my dream of going overseas, I experienced a major personal growth spurt. I started erasing some of the old tapes from childhood that had been blocking me from doing the things I really wanted to do. For the first time in my life, I was deciding what was right for me. I wasn’t letting others’ opinions and beliefs about who I was control me.
Living in Norway was the first time I’d ever really lived away from home for an extended period. I’d set up the school’s first special education program. I’d gone hiking in the fjords near Oslo, cross-country skiing near Stavanger, and spent Christmas break downhill skiing on the slopes of Innsbruck, Austria.
The world was opening up to me and I was drinking it all in.
I felt stronger and more mature after braving the hardships of daily life in Cairo. I’d also gone through a lot of changes in the past few
months: I’d started a new job, adjusted to a new country and culture, gotten married, and made new friends. Making it in a country so different from my own did wonders for my confidence and self-esteem. I was growing a lot and had lots to be thankful for: a new husband, a great job, students I really loved, and the chance to travel.
Then I suddenly recalled the two Greek men who had forced their way to the head of the line at the Athens airport. At the time, I was really burned up about it. But from my new vantage point, it all seemed so trivial. What was the big deal? I could have chosen to let it bounce off me instead of getting mad. How pointless it is to get mad about things we can’t control….
I thought about other ways that I’d let little things get in the way of really experiencing life. Before the hijacking, I’d been just as caught up in looking good and worrying about other people’s opinions of me as anyone else. I’d defined success as having a good job, a nice house, and a relationship with a man.
I realized that none of these were bad to want, but that there was so much more to life than trudging off to work every morning, wearing the right clothes, and driving the right car. I realized how pointless it was to let others’ opinions determine how I lived my life.
As death drew near, a strange, unfamiliar feeling rushed through me: I felt a strong, surging desire to live. I wanted to see my students, spend more time getting to know Scott, and keep learning and growing. I felt grateful that at least I’d followed my heart for two years. But there was so much more I wanted to do! I wanted to see my hair turn gray. I wanted to live to see my grandchildren some day….
If only I had more time.
For the first twelve hours of the hijacking, I stayed keenly alert, devoting all my mental and physical energy to planning a possible escape. During the night, I managed to work my hands free of the tie that bound them.
If I’m going to be shot, I kept thinking, I hope it’s at night. Maybe I can crawl away in the dark. Or somehow knock the gun out of his hands and make a run down the stairs. But they had guns and grenades. Maybe there were more bad guys around the corner that I didn’t see—with more guns and grenades. And I was so tired….
I wanted to live so much, but it wasn’t under my control. I did the only thing I could think of. I prayed the “Lord’s Prayer” again.
One hour, then two hours went by. I kept praying.
Looking out the window, through the faint glare of headlights from the trucks surrounding our plane, I saw rain coming down in sheets. It was storming outside. Every now and then, lightning lit the sky.
Dear, God, I want to live. I put my life in Your hands.
All of a sudden, a bolt of lightning lit up the sky like I’d never seen before. Tears were pouring down my face as the rain poured down.
I suddenly knew I was going to be safe. I didn’t know whether I was going to live or die; I just knew I was going to be safe. A wonderful, warm sensation flooded my body—and I felt safe. Nobody could hurt me. The hijackers could do whatever they wanted to my body, but I’m going to still feel safe.
I smiled and said, “Thanks, God.” As I said this, I no longer heard the noise of the plane’s engines or children crying.
Whatever happens, happens, I thought. If I live, I’ll be okay and if I die, I’ll be okay. That’s what the safe feeling meant to me.
I’d never practiced meditation, but I entered that same calm, centered state of being. I turned all my worry and anxiety over to God. I stopped thinking about ways to escape. I let go of any attempt to control my destiny. I felt that either I was going to continue living on earth or I was moving on to another life. In either case, I was going to be all right.
I thanked God for my life, and I thanked God for the people that I got to share it with. I said good-bye to everyone in spirit—my parents, my friends, Scott, and my students.
More time passed. Soon, it was mid-morning. No one had been shot for at least four hours.
Maybe, just maybe, I’d be spared. I had prayed so hard. Maybe I was going to live. Maybe the hijackers negotiated an agreement to release us. A long break in the shootings gave me hope.
I briefly glanced behind me and saw the old Egyptian man I’d befriended early in the flight. “You’re going to make it,” he whispered.
“It’s not over yet,” I said quietly. “If you make it back to Cairo, go to the American School and get a message to my husband, Scott Pflug. Tell him I love him.”
It was about 10 A.M. on Sunday morning, Malta time, when the executioner and his helpers came marching down the aisle, straight to my seat. The endless hours of waiting were over.
I still felt calm and centered. I was actually feeling sorry for the hijackers, that they had to do something like this to get their message across—one that I didn’t even understand. I knew I was caught in the middle of something much bigger than me or the other passengers on the plane. And I was helpless to do anything about it.
My hands were still free, but I kept the tie wrapped around them. Again, I thought briefly about shoving the hijacker aside or kicking him in the groin and making a run for it down the staircase. But that thought disappeared quickly.
But it didn’t matter anymore. I felt such an odd safeness, a sense that I didn’t need to resist or control what was happening.
They picked me up out of my seat and walked me a few feet to the front of the plane. They positioned me so I was facing the door. I knew what was next.
Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. That’s crazy. Who do I think I am?
One of the hijackers opened the door of the plane and I looked out onto the runway. The morning light stung my eyes. This was to be the last thing I’d ever see on earth.
The hijacker nudged me out onto the platform of the movable staircase pressed up against the plane. I felt the cold steel of a .38 caliber revolver dig into the back of my skull. I still felt safe.
In the control tower, Maltese officials heard our captain describe the chilling scene. “He is killing her now,” Captain Galal said. “Do something…. He is outside shooting her now…. I am the captain. You are wasting life; you are wasting life.”
The executioner squeezed the trigger. I felt an awful pressure in my ears, as my world exploded. I heard the hijackers speaking in Arabic. But it seemed to be coming from another world. I was leaving this one.
“He is killing her,” Captain Galal said. “He has killed her already, and in a few minutes he will kill another.”
CHAPTER 3
GOD, I NEED THIS RAIN TO STOP
A BANG, A FLASH, AND DOWN I WENT. It all happened so fast. Tumbling and floating, floating and tumbling. I was moving in a slow motion haze. It felt as if a massive surge of electricity was jolting through my skull. Splashes of light and color, a strange feeling of heaviness, a hazy numbness. It felt as though my eyes were pushed into the back of my head.
Then I was going down, down, down—into what?
I never heard the sound of my body crashing down the metal staircase like I had when the passengers before me were shot, but I knew I was falling.
Then it stopped.
Where am I? Is this heaven? Is heaven hard?
I was lying on a gray slab of concrete. I didn’t feel anything as I fell twenty-five feet down the metal stairs onto the tarmac. Yet I was still conscious when my head hit the ground.
I don’t know how much time went by, but I eventually opened my eyes—ever so slowly. I looked up and saw white, puffy clouds. I thought, How strange this is all happening on such a beautiful day.
Then I quickly shut my eyes again. I’m not dead, am I? How could this be? Am I hurt? How bad? I don’t know.
I was disappointed to find myself still on earth. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. I hadn’t slept for so long, keenly aware that each hour might be my last.
I’m so tired. I thought this was going to be over. I just want to sleep. How much longer do I have to hang on?
I was sprawled facedown on the a
irport tarmac in Malta with a bullet in my head, my blood slowly draining onto the cement. My head was facing left, my left arm was under my chest, and my right arm was free and extended over my head. I was lying with my head sideways, at the foot of the metal staircase, so I could see the wheel of the plane through one eye. I felt a dull ache in my head and heard an irritating, high-pitched sound coming from the plane.
The first thing I had to do was keep myself from swallowing my tongue, because I kept trying to do that. I had to pee real bad, too. On the plane, I had decided it was just too risky to ask the hijackers for permission to use the bathroom. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Yet I was afraid the hijackers might notice the wet spot on my pants and the concrete and realize that I was still alive. I had to risk it….
Stay calm, just stay calm. Think. That’s right, think. What do I do? Don’t move. Whatever you do, don’t move. Remember what happened to the Israeli woman. She moved, and she’s dead.
Bang! Bang! Bang! One of the hijackers had pumped her quivering body full of lead. The metallic ring still echoed in my ears.
Keep your head down on the cement. Don’t look up. Play dead and you’ll live. Keep calm. Keep perfectly still. Don’t move a muscle. Shallow breaths. Stay cool.
I was grateful that I was wearing an extra-large sized T-shirt. It meant that the hijackers couldn’t tell my chest was moving while I breathed in and out.
My body was shutting down, my mind starting to fade. I was slipping away. The bullet in my head must have gone in too deep. I wasn’t going to make it. I couldn’t focus or think straight. I was losing control. Thoughts were drifting by.
For the next few hours I kept passing in and out of consciousness and sleep. I was so tired. Every time I came to, I expected to wake up in a new world. My thoughts were Okay, God, you can take me. I’m ready to go.
The next thing I knew, a bright whiteness was all around me. It was my paternal grandmother, Grandma Nora Nink. I didn’t speak. She was a whiteness to me, but I knew it was her. Grandma didn’t use earth words to communicate, but I knew what she was saying. “Come, Jackie. It’s time.” She was calling me to join her. As she did, I felt my spirit leaving my body. I saw my body lying facedown on the tarmac. The roaring jet engines were suddenly silent.
Miles To Go Before I Sleep Page 5