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September 21, 2001
A memorable day in Manhattan
By Wendy Belzberg
It's been little more than 24 hours since I sat drinking coffee in an outdoor cafe while the first plane crashed into the World Trade Tower. The day is crisp and clear and the leaves have just begun to turn colors. Fire engine and police sirens pierced the calm of the Upper West Side.
Word spread like gossip. I imagined a Cessna that had lost its way, or a student pilot that had taken a wrong turn. Less than a day later and already I cannot recall the shock of learning that it was a jumbo jet being piloted by terrorists, not a student pilot flying a Cessna.
Together my sister and I collected our children from schools scattered up and down the east and west sides of Manhattan. We wanted to believe that if we could get to our children we could protect them and keep them safe. It took us two hours to drive less than a mile-and-a-half. Central Park was closed to all traffic and cars were barely moving. I've never heard so many sirens or seen so many people on the streets.
It was before noon but outside it looked like rush hour - a Manhattan rush hour where everything was moving in slow motion. There were no taxis; subways and buses had stopped running. I watched as some pedestrians slipped into bars and I wished I could join them for a cold beer. Others kept walking - as far as Brooklyn or Queens. We could see the downtown sky scarred by plumes of black smoke.
My nieces and nephews live in Jerusalem.
They know about bombs and terrorists and death. My children live in New York City. When I cancelled our summer trip to Israel, I was vague about the reason. Now I was sitting in a car thinking about what I would tell them, how I would explain what was happening, and why I was picking them up early from school.
The six-year-old had never heard the word terrorist; my eight-year-old explained that terrorists were bad guys. And so my two sons made their own sense of what I'd told them: the bad guys had attacked good guys.
My sister and I go home together. Our husbands are both out of town. I learn later that my husband would have been on the hijacked plane out of Newark if he hadn't decided to take the slightly later flight out of JFK. My sister and I sit motionless in front of the television and watch the Twin Towers collapse over and over and over. Where is the president?
Our children scream and play and fight. I want to scream at them that there are people buried alive. My sister-in-law calls to say she has heard from my husband and that he is trying to reach me. A friend's husband calls to ask if I have seen his wife and children. A school parent calls to say there will be no school the next day. No word yet on whether any school parents are missing. People are hoarding food and there are two-hour lines at the supermarket.
The phone doesn't stop ringing. Is everyone safe? Do you know anybody who works at the World Trade towers? What is your blood type?
We feed the children and try to put them to bed all in one room. My oldest son insists on sleeping in my bed. My baby sleeps on the floor next to me. My sister and I stay awake so we can hear the president's address to the nation. I don't remember falling asleep. The more time elapses, the more experience becomes surreal.
There have been no pictures of bodies being removed from the site, no body-count, no casualty estimates, no numbers on how many people are still missing, and no names released. I have not traveled downtown. I have seen nothing with my own eyes. A friend of a friend saw people plunge from one of the towers, holding hands, to their deaths. Yet another second-hand account. The television news reports may be wrong. The parents of my nephew's classmate may have lost track of time and forgotten to call. They are probably home by now.
My children are restless and I too am eager to return to our own apartment. We want to pretend that life is back to normal. I am in the kitchen preparing dinner while two of my children play nearby. One builds a tower of blocks and the other drives a plane through the tower. They giggle as they reenact the scene over and over. In the middle of their game the older one pauses for a moment, becomes serious, and asks, 'Are there still bodies buried? How many?' He doesn't wait for my answer. The game continues and the laughter resumes.
As I say goodnight to my son he clutches my hand. 'Mom, what did Bubby used to do for you when you were scared?' he asks.
I hold my son as he falls asleep. I wonder how I will be able to block out the sound of the sirens. My sister calls to say that Sandy's son is missing. Neal is dead. The parents of my nephew's classmate are never coming home. I go to the kitchen several times to make sure the stove is turned off.
Something is burning and I keep going back to the kitchen to check. I open the window to let in the night but am overcome by the scorched smell of fire and soot.
My sister-in-law calls before she goes to sleep. She is 37 and tells me she is afraid and is going to sleep with the lights on. Yesterday, from her bedroom window, she had a clear and unobstructed view of the World Trade towers collapsing into history.
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