Hard to believe its been 13 years. I heard the first bulletin on the radio in my office in the West Village (I was heading out on a business trip that day, and planned to catch the bus to Newark Airport from the hotel at One World Trade). My office was just around the corner from St. Vincents Hospital, the trauma center for downtown. Doctors and nurses got ready outside for the casualties that never came, because they didnt live long enough. The firefighters from the firehouse a few blocks away headed downtown; not all came back. Later, someone posted a photo in the window of the Partners & Crime bookstore, of some of those lost posing with kids on a visit to the firehouse, crouched down to child-height, grinning. It was almost impossible to look at, but so much was in the days, weeks and even months after: because of St. Vincents, the area was wallpapered with missing posters, as people clung to shreds of hope that the one they loved was lying somewhere, hurt and unidentified, and hadnt jumped in flames, or turned into dust in the air. Stepping out of my building, I was in the deepest part of an ocean of grief. The posters pleaded, urged, assaulted: Please find this man. I love him. Please help. My children cry for their father every night. And the photos -- people take photos at happy times, so here was a pretty blonde bride, a grandpa with a toddler on his shoulders, a twenty-something smiling on a hotel balcony overlooking a calm sea. Since Greg had left his job at Two World Trade only a year before -- after some 14 years there, at two different companies -- we were worried about a lot of people we knew, and we heard from a lot of people who were concerned about him, some of whom didnt know hed changed jobs, some of whom did but saw signs that frightened him: when we reached the hotel room near the United Nations that Gregs company got for him and were able to get through check our messages at home, there was an almost hysterical one from a neighbor because our car was still at the train station -- too often, a suburban gravestone that day. A woman I know whose husband worked on Wall Street called the next day; hed been on the last ferry to leave downtown that morning. We talked about the posters, and calmly agreed that the people were kidding themselves, there was no hope. We also agreed that if it were our husbands who were missing, wed be at the site, tearing at rubble with our fingernails. Another friend whose husband was in Two World Trade -- Greg had the office next to his, before he moved on -- said she held it together until her husband got home around 1 p.m. It was the smell of the smoke and oil on his clothing that broke her down. We got a call weeks later from a friend who had retired to the Southwest; wed lost touch, and he didnt know Greg wasnt still at World Trade. I was afraid to call, he confessed. I was afraid Id be talking to your widow. I hesitate to say you cant understand a situation unless youre in it; I hope human beings have more empathy and imagination that that. But there is a point, perhaps, a depth, beyond which you cant go. For those who live in a Manhattan suburb, it was different than for people farther afield; my dentist did forensic work for months; my ex-sister-in-law (with the NYPD) ended up handling body parts recovery; it was with us longer and more intimately. For those of us who were in New York City that day, its different than for those who werent, even if they just a train ride away. For those who worked in the buildings, or literally, across the street, or very near, it was very different than it was for me or Greg. As part of my job, I talked to a lot of people after the 11th who were in World Trade or very close. One companys offices were on a upper floor right across from One World Trade; some employees never returned to work, because they couldnt deal with the memories of seeing people jump, some on fire. We know people who were in World Trade but who have never talked about their experience beyond saying theyd seen things nobody should ever have to see. You know, I hate this day.
Posted on: Thu, 11 Sep 2014 10:17:43 +0000
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