|
I rounded a corner and looked out the window and saw the dark,
jagged hole – a crater – in the side of the right hand tower.
It looked, we all said, like a special effect from a big-budget
science fiction movie. That was our first way of grasping it.
We were still in disbelief. We hadn’t moved to unbelief yet.
We just stared. More people came up and stopped in shock. We
all just stared.
In the shadow of the crater we could see the fire. It seemed
so small to us. It wasn’t until we thought about it, that we
realized that flames were stories high. And the hole itself
was the size of our building.
I will admit here that I went to get my camera, not from any
morbid attraction, not for profit nor for anyone but myself.
I knew – even here, at the beginning, which seems like almost
nothing compared to everything that came after – that this was
going to be one of the true historical moments of my life, that
the personal and the historical were converging. (“Where were
you when you first heard . . . ?) And here I was, not hearing,
but seeing.
Other people had heard the first plane, had wondered why it
was flying so low. Many heard the crash and thought it was a
bomb going off or a gas pipe explosion.
I took my camera and went up to the roof and took pictures.
So I would remember it right. So I would know I was there.
I was not thinking in terms of people. That was too horrifying.
I hadn’t yet made that leap. I couldn’t. I thought in terms
of the building. We said, “It’s amazing. It’s still standing.
I can’t believe this.”
And then . . . The middle of the second tower shot out in flames.
We gasped. We covered our mouths. We shuddered. Some of us cried
out.
I did not see the second plane. I wasn’t looking at that particular
place at that particular moment. The impact was on the other
side from us, so there was a minute, maybe less, when I thought
that somehow the fire had leapt from one building to the other.
It made no sense. But of course I didn’t want it to make sense.
Then someone said he had seen another plane. That’s when we
crossed over to disbelief. I will always remember standing there.
I will remember other people on the roof. I will remember a
friend who made eye contact, and then she began to cry. She
was the first that I saw crying. She had a cell phone in her
hand.
I went inside (all windows, full view) and saw two other friends.
We talked some more about the buildings, about disbelief. And
then, as the radio began to say there was a second plane, we
talked about evil.
About pure, unmitigated evil.
We couldn’t make comparisons. They all seemed too weak. Knowing
we couldn’t erase what had happened, we at least wanted the
consolation of an accident, a randomness, something that wasn’t
of any design. The truth was inconceivable because it had been
conceived.
Horror on top of horror. Realizing each row of each tower was
a floor. Each slit was a window. Realizing that there was nothing
anyone could do.
Sirens. We could hear sirens. I went downstairs and put down
my camera; I was through with it. As I got to my desk, someone
said something about the Pentagon.
I moved to an office with a TV instead (brought into work for
the U.S. Open). In poor reception black-and-white, we tried
to piece together what was happening.
I called my parents and then came back. We wondered what to
do, where to go. The bridges and tunnels were now closed. If
you didn’t live in Manhattan, there was no way to get home.
Then the word from the television. Collapsing... We ran upstairs,
back to the roof. As we did, other people ran down, sobbing,
distraught. I pushed through the door, I saw friends in shock,
and then I looked past them and saw the lone tower and the cloud
of smoke and dust. Then I turned and saw the TV set that they
had put there, and I saw the tower fall.
I cannot think of a single word to describe what we felt. Perhaps
in some other language there is a word for a world that is terribly
wrong. That stunned feeling of disbelief and abandonment and
shock and horror and distress.
I stood in the center. I looked around. We were all crying
now. The less distraught were hugging the more distraught. We
just couldn’t.... We just didn’t.... I don’t want to write with
too heavy a hand here. I know it’s too early to tell. But I
will say this: When that first tower fell, it took something
away from us. It is something we won’t get back again, at least
for a while. Maybe that’s the moment that our disbelief turned
slightly to belief.
And we knew, in that belief, that the safety we had known was
diminished, that evil had won and fear would tread the world.
I saw people cry whom I never thought I would see cry. I saw
a skyline that I never, ever imagined I would see. I saw smoke.
I saw the TV repeat it and repeat it and repeat it. I shuddered.
I was so glad I was not alone. At this point, someone decided
to evacuate our building. We got our stuff, walked down the
central staircase, went outside to chaos. Nobody knew what to
do. Was it safer to walk the streets or stay in the building?
People who lived close opened their homes to people who didn’t
live close. Our publisher came around and told us we could go
back in. Still, nobody knew what to do.
I decided to stay. Then I decided to go. Then, when my friend
Kate said she was staying, I decided to stay. Kate’s family
was staying near the Towers, so the priority was to make sure
they were okay. (They were; God bless voicemail for letting
us know.) When we walked back from outside, the TV in the lobby
showed the second Tower falling. Again – disbelief. And horrible
belief.
2:35 p.m.
The office is nearly empty now. People are walking across
bridges, walking more than 100 blocks to get home. There is
only one way to get to New Jersey – a ferry – so I will probably
stay in the city for the night.
We are just starting to process what happened. We are just
starting to comprehend this thing that defies comprehension.
I wonder what it’s like for those of you who only saw this on
a TV screen. How surreal it must seem, like a bad movie, completely
unreal yet completely real. As the stories come trickling in
second- and third-hand, I realize that even my vantage point
had some distance. One friend saw the second airplane hit as
she stood in front of the Municipal Building. Another friend
was in the lobby of the tower when the first plane hit.
I cannot comprehend – not now – what our lives are going to
be like. We are not made to comprehend having so many things
gone so suddenly. Just as it was hard to know how to begin this,
it’s hard to know how to end it. Because there is no end in
sight. Just questions and bewilderment and a deep sadness that
I don’t really want to touch. I keep going back to that first
moment, seeing the black hole on the tower, seeing the site
of the first crash. That image, that one image, is what I am
thinking about right now.
That tower is our history, our lives, all the minutiae and
security and hope. And that black hole is what we’re feeling.
It is what has happened. It will affect us in ways we can’t
even begin to get our minds around right now. I know all of
you are experiencing this in your own way, with your own stories
and thoughts and emotions. I really wrote this more for myself,
so I will always have my first reaction, before I learn anything
more.
I guess I’ll end with a sentence I always write, but which
seems to mean more as I write it this minute: I hope you all
are well.
|
