The song from the movie Titanic keeps running through my head while images from the trade center disaster flash in slow motion, like a slide show. I can't get the song out of my head, and with every moment comes a new image: a still shot or two, intermingled with short, imagined, video clips.
I wonder: did anyone in One World Trade see the plane coming? Did someone scream as the plane was several feet away from smashing into the window? That was my nightmare on the first night, Sept. 11, once I finally fell asleep. I'm sitting at my computer and I hear someone scream. I look up and heading straight for me is the nose of a plane. There's no daylight, only plane. I stand. But only for a split second. Then, with a great rush of wind, it's over.
I am an editor for the New York Times and for the first time in my career, the first time in my life, I am in the middle of the news, and feeling it, as well as reporting it. I've been so sad. We are all sad, indeed, and I know my grief is only a fraction of that of so many thousands of others who are grieving the loss of a loved one. But we are all victims. Yes, those most devastated are the ones who died and their families. But the witnesses are victims, too -- victims trapped in their own thoughts.
The images mostly come from photographs I've had to sift through, interviews with witnesses and officials, stories, videos, and conversations with people I know who were there that day -- the longest day of our lives.
Some of the images running through my head are imagined. The Fire Department's emergency command post was set up directly under the twin towers. I imagine the commanders to be a little bit panicked, rushing around, spreading out blueprints and saying things like, "No! The fastest way is here. Look!" It probably never occurred to them that the building would come down. No one took into account the fact that steel melts at 1,500 degrees Fahrenheit. No one took into account that tons of jet fuel were burning, 80 stories up, at 2,000 degrees.
Someone suggested that if they had known that the steel was melting, they wouldn't have sent the firefighters in. But Lt. Andrew Graf, of Engine 4, disagreed and was quoted in the LA Times as saying, "If you know there's life in there, you go inside. That's what they're paying us for." But surely, if they had known the steel was melting, they wouldn't have set up command there. When the buildings collapsed, the command center was crushed and the fire department chief died, along with the department's chaplain and many others, including 14 men from Lt. Graf's engine.
And then there's the passenger list of Flight 175, the second plane to hit, that haunts me. One name in particular: David Brandhorst. All the list says is his name, age and hometown. "David Brandhorst, 3, Los Angeles, Calif. " David must have been going home with his dad, who was also on the plane. I wonder: was he excited about flying in an airplane? Did he have his very own suitcase for his toys? Did he bring his sleepy friends, his blanket, his own pillow? What in the world did his dad say to him when he realized they were going to die? I pray that he said he loves him, because that's what I would have said.
I wonder what was going through the minds of the people evacuating down the stairs. For some, the process took nearly an hour. For others, an eternity. There's one picture of people's backs as they are coming down the stairs. And I heard survivors say people were calmly reciting the 23rd Psalm as they were ever-so-slowly making their way down.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . . "
One picture of a young firefighter
going up the stairs while everyone else was coming down was
published all over the world. His eyes are wide open, his skin
shining. Though his boyish face looks calm, you can feel his
excitement, see the adrenaline flowing through veins in his
neck. How brave! When I saw that photo, I was terribly depressed,
though, feeling nearly certain the young man must have died
trying to save people. The photo haunted me, as so many do.
Associated Press
But there's good news! The firefighter
in the picture is alive! His name is Mike Kehoe, firefighter
for Engine 28 in the East Village, and he said the people going
down the stairs were shouting to the firefighters: "Good
luck!" He says he made it out barely 30 seconds before
the tower he was in collapsed.
He goes back to the site every night for a 10-hour night shift, digging and hauling and desperately searching for the six men from Engine 28, and more than 300 other firefighters, who are still buried under the debris.
The images that make me tremble the most, though, are the ones of people falling, and clinging, and dying.
When I saw the pictures, I wondered with angst: WHY are they falling? Did they get blown out of the window by the force of the plane hitting? Did they jump? The ones holding hands most definitely jumped. WHY did they jump? Did they figure they were going to die from the fire anyway? Was it an automatic reaction to the intense heat, like when you pull your hand away from a hot stove? At what point do you die when you are falling a hundred floors to your death? I tremble with fear at the thought of falling a hundred floors to my death.
In sifting through hundreds of photos as part of my job, I saw far too many of those "people falling" pictures: A man falling head first. A man and a woman holding hands. Three people holding hands. And one man hanging on the outside of the building, apparently hanging on for his life. I hope and pray that he was rescued by one of those brave firefighters. At least there was a chance, right? Tell me there was a chance.
A toddler who lived across the street from the trade center is afraid to go home. Her mother explains that the little girl saw a human figure, in flames, falling. She says she's afraid of the fire, and the trail of smoke.
A friend of mine also describes images of people falling, and what looked like flaming parts, falling. Lots of them. He says he was in the Marriott Hotel when the second plane hit, and he guesses these were people from the plane. He says watching them fall was bad enough, but watching them land was worse. He says he spent the next two days drinking heavily just so he could think about nothing.
And then there's these awful images flashing: my friend who lives across the street saw a woman walking with a foot-long glass shard in her head. She said she saw her take about three steps before she fell to the ground, face first. And another friend described the sight he can't seem to make go away: a woman impaled on a street sign. Oh, how he wishes that woman was home with her family right now. Oh, how he wishes those planes had never been hijacked. Civilized people everywhere wish that.
When the buildings collapsed, surely the people inside didn't all die right away. Afterall, five people were rescued a week ago. There has been so much debris to dig through and it's taking so painstakingly long, that rescuers just haven't gotten to the place where they all are. And so I tremble, imagining those trapped thinking: They'll be coming soon. They better come soon. Why haven't they come yet? They're not coming, are they? They're not coming.
The search and rescue goes on, 11 days after the attack on the world by terrorists. Buried in the rubble could be more than six thousand people. Six thousand. Going to the site of the ruins is quite different from seeing it in pictures. The vastness of the devastation is overwhelming. The reality of all those people, people just like you and me, feeling safe in their offices and on their walk to work, being sucked away by such an evil act -- it knocked the breath out of my lungs, and I fell to my knees. I wanted to pray, but I struggled for what to say. "Oh, God. Oh, my God."
You hear new statistics every day: a new number of bodies recovered, and a new number identified. But the horrible statistic they don't publish is the one about the sheer number of body parts found. It's simply gruesome and I grieve for the rescuers who are doing this work. I don't imagine they'll ever be able to locate many of the missing. And since fires are still burning 11 days later, I'm certain many bodies have simply incinerated. How awful it must be for the families to not have that closure.
I have been frightened to go into the city for work. I'm paranoid about what the next target could be, a major newspaper being a logical choice, if there is such a thing. And a very real fear has already been realized. I was behind a bus going into the Lincoln Tunnel when the bus was suddenly stormed by men with big guns and shouting, "Get down!" I screamed, and ducked, and shook, and drove on to work, still shaking an hour later.
We have all been under great stress since the attack. My 6-year-old son has been asking a lot of questions: "Mommy, if God loves everybody, does he love the bad guys, too?" How do you answer that question? "Yes, the Bible says God loves everyone. I think God is pretty mad at those people right now, though. Don't you?"
Even my 1-year-old son has been extra clingy this week and hasn't been taking his usual naps. And since I work nights, I've been exhausted. When the baby finally took a long morning nap, I fell asleep sitting upright on the couch and woke up three hours later, still sitting upright.
I know that my sadness will not last because I believe in God and I have asked him to show me how to not be sad anymore. I trust in him to get me through this, to get us all through this. I pray for peace: peace in my soul, peace for the families of the victims, peace for everyone. I will not let the terrorists ruin yet another family by making me walk in fear.
When I drive in to work each night, I still search the New York City skyline. I look for them, hoping all this was just a horrible dream. But they're not there.
j.w.s.
September 22, 2001
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