We recently moved into an apartment on 12th Street in Greenwich Village -- on a slightly higher floor than our last one, so we could clearly make out the tops of the World Trade Center towers. It was exciting to have bit of a view of a significant part of the Manhattan skyline.
We had decided before the disaster yesterday to take a bike ride up the West Side Highway bike path. It was a beautiful day; morning traffic was jammed, as usual, on the West Side Highway as we headed back around 8.50am to go to work. Somewhere around 30th Street at 9am, we began to hear sirens, and police cars came screaming down the bike path, almost running us off the roadway. This was unusual, to put it mildly.
Rounding the corner at Chelsea Piers (23rd Street) a few minutes later, we looked up and saw fire and smoke billowing out of one of the towers. "Oh my God," I said, repeatedly. It was the kind of thing that just doesn't register as reality. What else can you say -- we were completely stunned.
It was raging too much be just a fire. It looked like bombs had gone off on several floors near the top of the tower. Some workmen standing nearby told us a plane had flown into the building, that they had noticed it flying too low on approach and then seen it crash into the building. We watched the fire, incredulous, for a few minutes and then pedaled home as quickly as possible.
By the time we got to our apartment, about a mile from the Trade Center, the second plane had hit. Looking out the window, great clouds of smoke and fire were billowing out of the two towers. The second tower exploded several times with gigantic, horrifying fireballs. Newscasters said people were jumping out of tower windows.
About a half-hour later, the second tower to be hit collapsed. This was unimaginable -- even with the huge fireballs and the smoke, we never thought it would come down. And when the first tower collapsed a few minutes later, it was as if the world as we knew it came to an end. The familiar buildings, the landmarks, had just disappeared. The Manhattan skyline had been amputated.
Nick and I stood holding each other, weeping, looking from the television to our living room window, where the towers had recently stood. There was only a huge, rising cloud of smoke and debris, and non-stop sirens. There were reports of more hijacked planes in the air headed who-knows-where. The Pentagon was hit, the State Department, Camp David -- confusion reigned. President Bush said the terrorists should "make no mistake about it," and we would "pass the test." I hoped people I'd worked with at American Express and Bridge News at the World Trade Center, and most others in the towers, had made it out alive.
We went out onto the street. Hordes of people were walking north on 6th Avenue, some crying, some gathered in clumps talking about what they'd heard or seen. We walked to St Vincent's Hospital down the street to see if there was anything we could do to help. A doctor told us to wait in the cafeteria, but other officials said they had enough workers and to go home. On our way out, an anxious social worker told us she needed help taking people to their residences to free up beds for possible WTC victims. Nick and I took a frail woman, Brenda, who looked like she had AIDS, on a bone-rattling wheelchair ride up Seventh Avenue to her residence hotel at 36th Street between 8th and 9th. The poor woman.
On the way up Seventh Avenue, we saw a man carrying a big wooden cross down the street, proclaiming the end of the world. Stores had set up televisions or radios on sidewalks and people clustered around them. I ran the wheelchair back to the hospital, past police lines, past the line of doctors and other medical personnel waiting at the emergency entrances. A nurse tossed a white sheet onto the wheelchair. Office chairs covered with sheets were lined up outside the hospital because there weren't enough wheelchairs and stretchers to handle the anticipated need. A slow trickle of casualties were coming in at the time -- mostly firefighters. I saw a woman, shirtless, being hosed off as she was wheeled in. Hundreds of people stood in line all day at area hospitals to donate blood.
At an interfaith prayer vigil last night, the Rabbis and Reverends read prayers intended to comfort New Yorkers who came together at the Church of St Paul and St Andrew -- as they did at churches and synagogues and community centers around the city. At the end, as people rose to leave, my friend Craig started saying the mourner's Kaddish, the solemn Jewish prayer for the dead. Congregants stood and wept and recited it with him. It was all we could do for those who had perished, and it was entirely inadequate.
We went to sleep to news reports that left us emotionally exhausted. When will we know who did this? How did they manage to find and exploit our vulnerabilities so masterfully? How will the US bring the perpetrators and those who helped them to justice? Can there be such a thing as justice for such a horrific crime? Will New York ever recover?
This morning, I went out to get newspapers. I wanted to know all I could, as if all the information I could gather would somehow allow me to make sense of this horror. Most stores were shuttered. No traffic was allowed below 14th Street, and there were few cars on Manhattan roads but emergency vehicles in any case. The massive cloud over what had been the World Trade Center was blowing west, a big white-out over the buildings of lower Manhattan. Yesterday it had blown violently east. Today, we could smell some combination of burning rubber and plastic and chemicals, and it burned our throats. Mayor Giuliani said asbestos might be hanging in the air. There were reports that other buildings might soon collapse. It was surreal.
In the afternoon, Nick and my brother, Gabriel, who is a commercial pilot, and I walked down the West Side Highway bike path to the police blockade, about a half-mile from "ground zero." Many people were headed that way -- it was like a pilgrimage. As we neared the barricade, New Yorkers lined the West Side Highway holding American Flags and signs saying, among other things, "You're Our Heroes," "Thank You," and "Peace." Every time a truck carrying firefighters, police, medical personnel or even construction workers or dump trucks went by, people cheered. Dump trucks carted out huge piles of twisted rubble -- an almost-unrecognizable ambulance; steel girders; concrete debris. Bottles of water were handed out to workers, and food. Every so often, a bedraggled, exhausted doctor stumbled up the bike path and through the barricade, or a pick-up truck carrying dust-covered firefighters came slowly up the West Side Highway. We applauded and cheered them, unable to sufficiently express our gratitude for their efforts.
Tonight, flyers posted around the neighborhood announced a spontaneous candlelight vigil. Gabriel and I carried a candle down to St Vincent's and stood with several dozen others bearing flames. It was a small effort to show our sympathy with the victims, and our solidarity with so many dedicated workers -- from physicians to electricians to construction workers to army reservists -- who had come from near and far to help. Estimates are 300 firefighters and about 80 police lost their lives, rushing into the towers to help workers get out just before the buildings collapsed on them.
Gabriel told German television how lax he feels security is at American airports. We talked with a newspaper photographer who'd driven up from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, because American airports are still closed. Rescue workers and people all over Manhattan are wearing masks and goggles.
People had taped photos and xeroxed descriptions of missing loved ones to walls and vehicles around the hospital. A distraught woman walked by with a photograph taped to her t-shirt. "I'm so sorry," I said to her. Gabriel hugged me because I was crying. The agony of those who can't find their people is as unimaginable as the disappearance of the Twin Towers. We can only think of what we would feel if we lost people we loved in this disaster, and how little we can do to ease their suffering.
A pizza parlor across from the St Vincent's delivered free pies to the police who were guarding the hospital entrances. Neighbors brought them food and drink.
We walked to the New School near our apartment building, where people can find lists of victims who are being treated at St Vincent's and counselors wait to talk to those in need. Photos and descriptions are taped to the police barricades, and police are searching everyone's bags before they go in. On our way, we passed a young man with a backpack and a suitcase, crying uncontrollably, walking down Sixth Avenue. "Are you OK?" I asked. He looked at me, grief-stricken, and kept walking. "I wish there was something I could do to help," I called after him, wanting somehow to comfort him, but he looked as if he could not be comforted. He glanced back briefly without breaking stride.
This is how it feels to be in New York City now. It is a city of mourning and a city of hope. For the most part, people are being nicer to each other and more helpful than you would ever expect of New Yorkers. This will not last. The scars, the losses, will.
