Reprinted from September 2001, this is the story of one local person who experienced “Ground Zero” in person in the days immediately following the 9-11 attack.
by Kieron Kramer
I went to New York City Sunday night in order to support my family and our bakery business which is located on Chambers Street between West Broadway and Greenwich Street in Manhattan, four blocks away from ground zero. When the store was evacuated last Tuesday, money was left in the register and lock box, the door unlocked. We planned to visit the site on Monday to recover what we could.
The Way In
The first thing you see driving through very light traffic onto the island are the flashing emergency lights. Going through the toll booths ahead of me on the Henry Hudson Bridge are a dozen shiny new, long bed pick up trucks with the NYS Department of Transportation logo on their doors, their yellow roof lights spinning frantically. You can see the southern horizon at sunset after passing under the George Washington Bridge. There is a gray cloud spreading across the width of the sky. Coming off the elevated portion of the West Side Highway at 57th Street the traffic slows to a crawl. The right hand lane headed downtown is reserved for emergency vehicles which pass in convoys. There are flags everywhere and lights flashing red, blue and yellow at almost every corner and down almost every street.
The aircraft carrier Independence is a floating museum now at 42nd Street with relics from bygone wars on its flight deck. A fifty foot American flag hangs down from the flight deck over the bow. I’ve been sitting in traffic while night falls. There is a massive bottleneck at 34th Street where all downtown lanes are being shunted into the interior of the island. While sitting there I watch a young mother defiantly pushing her 3 year old uptown along the walkway. The little girl is asleep, her head turned, her thumb in her mouth. As I watch them, a convoy of 9 NYPD cars pass by at high speed, lights flashing, sirens wailing. They are headed downtown.
Near 34th Street a tired fire truck passes me very slowly. I can’t see the firefighters inside, but the truck has a dull look, a kind of matte finish, like it is leaking dust. It’s going back downtown.
Finally, it is my turn to leave the highway and turn onto 34th Street which is now little more than one lane wide because of all the emergency vehicles parked there. Thirty police cars from Newark, New Jersey, sit along the right curb. I stop for the emergency workers who are straggling across the street, some with their waterproof fire coats draped on their arms , some with their helmets off. The uniforms are from all over; some are just civilian construction workers. This is clearly a staging area for some of the crews.
There are few cars headed downtown on the interior avenues of west Manhattan tonight. As the avenue I am on turns back towards the tip of the island, I see the gap even in the lowering sky. I am shocked. I had buried the fact that this is my hometown. I thought I was prepared.
The Posters
I park on 11th Street. The parking regulations have been eased in Manhattan so it’s a snap. Walking up Seventh Avenue to my brother’s apartment on 18th Street, I pass St. Vincent’s Hospital. It is one of the city trauma centers, and the emergency room doctors there expected to be overwhelmed on Tuesday. Very few people were brought in.
St. Vincent’s is made up of several large buildings on a triangular intersection of three thoroughfares at 11th St. and 7th Ave. The walls on all sides of the intersection are covered with computer printouts and photos of missing people. I stop with others to look at them although I don’t know why. Almost all the faces on the walls and on the pillars around the hospital entrance look impossibly young.
Most of the walls have candles, flowers, notes, rolls of paper filled with drawings and signatures, charms, religious artifacts lying on the sidewalk below the pictures. I read some of the names and messages and then move on.
Many people are out on the street tonight. Every one I see, even though I don’t know them, looks into my eyes. I can only guess that they are looking for the same thing I am – some connection, some way to share the grief. I walk along, the faint noise of sirens constantly in the background. At 18th St. I notice a missing person poster on the side of a telephone booth abutting a bus shelter. Surely the person placing it must know that hardly anyone will see it there. This hope without measure is unbearable to see.
Going Towards Zero
Monday morning is bright and clear to the north. As I turn down 7th Ave., the cloud on the southern horizon looks white in the daylight – and thin like water vapor. Flags are flying on cars, trucks, out windows. Police cars and emergency vehicles are constantly on the move most with their lights flashing.
We walk about 25 blocks south to a checkpoint on Hudson and Canal Street. A cop from Hoboken, New Jersey turns us over to an NYPD officer. My brother explains our reason for passing. He has store delivery slips, personal id, business credit cards. We are told to go down further east. We explain that the store is on the west end of Chambers. The cop sends us one block west to Greenwich Street where we repeat the procedure with two young policewomen who have collar pins indicating that they are from the New York Police Academy. They check our id’s and let us through.
We walk down Greenwich and suddenly I realize that southern Manhattan is eerily silent. Absorbed in thought, anticipation or anxiety I haven’t noticed that there are virtually no cars on the streets, that the Holland Tunnel is a black, silent, massive hole that last week disgorged a million clattering vehicles. How could this silence have escaped me?
After walking three blocks further I see a hill composed of what looks like big cylinders and blocks. It closes the end of the street 6 blocks further on. The cylinder and blocks are chestnut brown. They look like they have been arranged by a huge, demented hand. It is the remains of building number 7 in the World Trade Center. The pile is 7 1/2 stories high.
We stop at a barricade at Leonard Street. A policeman tells us that only emergency crews can pass, and he tells us to go back east to Hudson Street. A trailer truck with food and one with 36 port-a-potties pass through. There is a thick white tarpaulin laid out on Leonard Street. Hoses, brushes and shop vacs are arranged on it. There are some puddles on it filled with sooty and dusty sludge. Three front loaders are parked a little further on. We are the only people on this street.
We enter the spacious triangular intersection of Chambers St., West Broadway, Hudson and Reade Streets. This square is teeming with activity. As expected, there is little more than one lane open in any direction. The National Guard is here directing traffic in full combat regalia except sidearms and rifles. They do have their gas masks though. A Humvee passes, its whip antennae arcing over, tied down to the front bumper. Ambulances, police cars, unmarked cars and utility vehicles from all around the tri-state area and from every conceivable agency move slowly through this intersection, some with lights flashing, under the direction of a small Guardsman whose green fatigues make him stand out in this panorama.
There is a line of people extending for blocks east along Chambers from the intersection. I cannot guess what they are waiting for, but some are sitting patiently and some are eating and drinking. Those of us to the west are told by a cop that the street has just been closed to foot traffic within the last hour for reasons unknown. Everyone takes this in stride. For a week now New Yorkers have had to be pretty flexible since everything is constantly changing.
An eight foot high chain link fence has been erected along the downtown side of Chambers. Clearly this is the demarcation of the ground zero zone. Our store is on the other side of the fence – in the zone. The officer politely refers us to the police sergeant next to the main entrance. He is the seventh policeman to hear our story. He listens very politely and very intently. He sizes us up carefully and decides he will escort my brother into the store to pick up the cash. He will have no more than five minutes inside. This is surprisingly reassuring. The police officer’s dedication to our personal safety and to protect property, especially under the circumstances, is remarkable. I wonder how many friends and colleagues he has lost.
Waiting by the gate, I look at the plume of smoke rising out of the twin towers rubble which I cannot see from here. The smoke is much denser here and, moving quickly straight up, looks quite hot. This is the source of those wispy clouds I have seen since last night. The air seems to shimmer with a light haze that makes objects seem slightly out of focus. I run my hand along a railing but can feel no dust. The air has an indefinite smell – like ash, like dust. I stare at the plume of smoke rising. Behind the fence is a pile of police duffel bags which look like they contain gas masks and helmets.
I am standing next to five quiet men and women. They are wearing bright green and yellow windbreakers that have Miami Beach Police printed on them. Some firefighters from Indiana pass me. A tanker truck, empty of its cargo of diesel fuel, comes out of the zone having fed the heavy machinery running 24 hours a day at ground zero. Many hard hats, slightly smudged and sooty, pass back and forth through the gate. Laminated passes are worn around the necks of those who pass through. I cannot see if they are color coded. There is tremendous energy in the square, but you can also see the fatigue and worry etched in these faces. I realize that I understand and at the same time do not understand what I am seeing. Lights continue to flash – spinning and spinning.
My brother comes out after five minutes. Nothing has been disturbed in the store; he has all the cash. We head back uptown toward where the sky looks clear. We easily pass back through the checkpoints one by one. People are out walking with their kids.
At Canal St. a Japanese couple, tourists, are staring south. You can only see the empty sky filling with smoke from where they are. As we walk along, thinking of what is behind us, I get angrier and angrier. In a few blocks I begin to see the posters of the missing and I get sadder and sadder.
That night the wind shifts and the stench of the deep insidious flame floats in through the windows of our home.
The Way Back
I leave Manhattan Tuesday morning. It dawns on me that this is the week anniversary of the catastrophe. One lane of the West Side Highway is passable northbound from quite far downtown. I get on at 23rd St. and notice that the usual 3 uptown lanes from 23rd to 29th Street have been turned into a large parking lot for the rescue workers cars. A homemade sign at the end of the lot says “Thank You-Heroes.” Four NYPD cars speed downtown in the emergency lane – lights flashing, American flags crackling in the wind.
Leaving the island there are no more flashing lights and no more sirens in the background. At 8:48 am most radio stations on the dial play the Ray Charles version of “America the Beautiful” at the same moment. One overpass on the Taconic has a huge American flag hanging from it as does a large maple tree in the median further up. Mist is rising from the surface of the Croton Reservoir as I pass over. I want badly to be back in the city with the people who have such pride in each other, in their city and in their country – the people who, like many others across this country now, have so many miles to go before they sleep.