The · rage · of · 1000 · suns, · the · light · of · a · million · stars

?You know Honey-Bunny, the way people ask where were you when? One day our grandchildren will ask us where we were.?

?Nah, I wouldn?t worry about it. Betsy saw it all from her classroom. She can tell them herself.?

Betsy is my twelve-year-old step-daughter. Her school was on West, at Chambers, three blocks north of the towers.

The younger girl was home sick at her mother?s home in New Jersey on September 11. The other three members of our family were all within blocks. This is my story.

I was home in bed, enjoying the luxury of sleeping in, and the comfort of cats snuggled up on the bed.

I could not have felt more secure, or more comfortable.

And then came a sound, like thunder, only louder. Jumping out of bed, I looked out the window, confused because it was a gloriously sunny day. And then, from the courtyard below, someone said ?Look at the world trade center.? So I looked.

Cinders, fire, raining down from the sky, into my tree-lined courtyard. Debris falling on the flowers. And a fiery hole in the side of one of the towers.

Confused, I turned on radio. Pulled on gym clothes, thinking I was late for my Tuesday morning work-up anyway. Put on a pot of coffee. 1010 News told me that a ?small plane? had crashed into the side of the World Trade Center. OK, stupid aviation accidents happen. When the coffee was ready, I took my mug downstairs to the courtyard, to find out what was going on.

And the second plane hit.

I suppose my sense of terror was shared with the nation watching on television. And those folks probably knew more than I did. I did know that two plans, big ones, hitting the World Trade Center, could not be an accident. I did know that we were under attack, and that it was happening in my front yard.

Unless you happened to grow up in London during WWII, a generation or so before my own, or unless your parents were diplomats or armed service people in a war-torn country, you probably wouldn?t have had a better sense of what to do than I did, no better idea of which way might lead to safety. I ran up the stairs to my apartment, glad for a change that it is only on the second floor, and grabbed my purse and a sweater. And I called my partner, who said he would ride his bicycle downtown to get me. And then I put my coffee cup down, made sure the potty seats were open for the cats, and left, locking the apartment door behind me.

I did not stop for long enough to turn off the radio or shut down the computer.

As I got back down to the lobby of my building, our courtyard was suddenly filled with a procession of people. Black uniforms, white caps, name tags. It seemed that the entire staff of the Marriot, located directly between the two towers, was being evacuated into the courtyard. Chamber maids and bus boys, waiters and waitresses, reception and reservation people were all running through on their way to the esplanade, all screaming. I had the sense of watching a movie I didn?t much care for, a feeling that was to repeat throughout the day; I wanted my $9.50 back, then and there. Still do.

And I waited and watched, first in the courtyard of my building. I watched for Greg to ride up on his bicycle, thinking, irrationally, that he would know what to do and it would be OK once we were together. I watched my neighbors, mostly looking more scared than I felt, leaving the building with overnight bags, dogs, and small children. I watch debris fall down from the sky and smoke rise up. I watched as people on fire plummeted to their deaths from the high floors of the World Trade Center. And I watched by neighbors try desperately to get a signal on their cell phones as they looked up at the towers, wondering if their loved ones inside would get out.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, Angel, my doorman, came to tell us that we weren?t safe, to go to the esplanade. I wondered what he would do, wondered if I couldn?t just go back to my sunny and pleasant apartment. But went to the esplanade to wait more. It was a stunningly gorgeous day, warm, with bright sunshine and puffy clouds. The sunlight reflected off the Hudson River and the trees, still green, gave a beautiful, dappled shade. From the esplanade, the apartments blocked the view of the burning towers, and I couldn?t see what was happening, could imagine that New York?s finest and New York?s bravest would soon have things under control, that I?d be able to go home in a few hours, maybe even make my 2 o?clock interview. I could see that the gym was empty, but thought that I could do my stretches outside and go for a run along the river.

And then, people started running, south from the plaza, along the esplanade. And someone said the sky was falling. Actually, they said that the towers were falling, but that didn?t make sense, didn?t seem right. And the police came and said that the sky was falling, that we had to go south.

All of the images that you seen show the two towers falling in a silent and stately manner. But it wasn?t like that. We heard a sound, like a jet plane coming in to land directly on top of us. It wasn?t clear if another plane was descending, or bombs were being dropped, or if the apartment buildings we were standing next to would fall. It wasn?t clear if north or south, inside or outside, would afford the best change of survival. I suppose I was scared; my gut had turned to ice. In retrospect, I wasn?t really frightened until later. In retrospect, I simply couldn?t feel it until later.

So I went south with the crowd, never running, but walking briskly. South past my apartment building is an open area with some nice public art. And when I got there, I looked up, and saw the towers falling, the sky falling, and then it went white.

From the inside, that debris cloud was dark as night, except white. And it just kept raining down, without stop, for what I know was minutes but felt like hours. I wrapped my sweater around my nose and mouth, grateful that I had it with me, thinking that I was breathing concrete and marble and asbestos and dead people. I wondered if it would make me sick, then wondered if it would hurt my running performance.

I kept going, south past the Holocaust memorial, thinking that the cremated remains falling down on it were fitting and frightening. Past the south end of the esplanade, while the debris kept raining. And then past into Battery Park itself. The debris had stopped actively falling, or maybe it just didn?t fall that far south; I still don?t know. I saw a man in his pajama bottoms, flannel robe and slippers, shuffling along, and I worried that he didn?t have his wallet, wondered if someone would help him get clean clothes. And I noticed that everyone was covered in a layer of white dust, some more thickly than others. I knew that my own layer was pretty thick, was grateful to be wearing glasses instead of contact; even so, my eyes burned, continued to do so for the next twelve hours.

I thought of Pompeii, tables set for meals. I was glad that my coffee maker shuts off by itself after two hours.

I saw the Marriot employees, the ones who had fled through my courtyard. Their nametags all told where they were from: countries in Africa and Asia, members of the European community, people from Utah and Montana and Maryland, all no doubt eager for the prestigious New York placement, all having traveled far to be a part of history.

Finally, I arrived at Castle Clinton, the fort that protected the New York harbor since its earliest days, and I leaned up against the wall; it had stood for centuries, and could probably protect me while I figured out what to do. That?s when I saw my neighbor.

For five years, we had stopped to speak with one another. I knew the names of his dogs. He knew the names of my step-daughters. But I didn?t know his name. Jared. We were in agreement that abject terror in the company of a familiar face was better than having the experience alone. And that?s when I saw the Staten Island ferry, saw that it was still running.

Jared and I and his two dogs went inside the ferry terminal and waited, and when the next boat came, we got on. ?What are we going to do in Staten Island?? Jared asked me, as if I had a plan. ?Breathe,? I told him. ?And stand in the sunshine without buildings falling on us.?

Jared did better, contacting the husband of his wife?s co-worker, who lived on Staten Island and happened to be home. He agreed to come and get us, told us to wait in a bar near the ferry terminal.

If you ever go to Staten Island, you should visit Ruddy and Dean?s, on Richmond Terrace. Not because it?s the hippest bar in the five boroughs, but because it might be the nicest. Frequented by cops and local government workers, they were crowded with people from the nearby municipal buildings and others who were returning home or had fled to Staten Island. They were quick to put out trays of free food, and as far as I could tell, were pouring free drinks. And they let people use their phone; the owner?s mother stayed with me until I got Greg to let me know I was OK. She also took me to the bathroom and tried to dust me off.

Finally, our local host picked us up. He fed us and let us shower, took me shopping for clean clothes, kept Jared overnight, and drove me to Park Slope, Brooklyn, as soon as the bridge had opened. Greg and I were reunited by about 11 that night, and spent the next ten days in Brooklyn, staying with a variety of friends, until I went to stay with friends in New Hampshire, where I am as of this writing.

My city has been hurt. My family temporarily scattered. We still can?t go home. But here?s what you have to understand: we are fortunate, blessed. We have been helped by friends, and in some cases, by strangers.

The cats have been rescued.

Three of the four member of my family were within blocks of the falling towers. But we are all OK: healthy, whole, and healing.

Here?s the thing you have to remember: my family and I are survivors, not victims.

And so is my beautiful city, filled with people who are and always have been generous, proud and brave.

copyright 2001 Eleanor J. Lang