“Someone flagged me down—stood right in front of my cab. He flashed an ID. He was a doctor and he wanted me to take him to NYU Med center. I did. There was a line of cabs at the hospital. The police wouldn’t let us leave. So we all went in and gave blood. Later, the only vehicles allowed out were ambulances. I said, ‘I’m a good driver. Let me help.’ They put me on an ambulance with another driver. We started taking supplies down to NYU Medical Center downtown.
“Later that day, I got my cab and drove around. There were people all over, just walking dazed and crying. I couldn’t do anything for them except give them a ride so I did. Many of them were going from hospital to hospital trying to find a family member who had worked in the WTC. I took one group—a father, mother and two sisters—to five different hospitals. At the last place, I left them because there was someone who fit the description of their loved one. I never found out if it was him. . . .”
I tried to take notes the whole time the man was talking but I couldn’t write fast enough. So I just listened. I know I got the whole story. It wasn’t one I could forget.
Another cabbie told me how he spent his time trying to take people home. “They were walking, walking anywhere—across bridges, in the middle of the streets. People were leaning on each other. I stopped and took an elderly man and the person he was leaning on to the Upper East Side. They looked like walking dead. . . . We picked up some others along the way. One lady said she had to stop to tell her son that she was okay. Her phone wouldn’t work so we stopped at his office around Fiftieth Street. He was outside, just staring south. When he saw his mother, he started crying. The lady decided to stay with him. So I looked for some more people to take.”
I had heard that in the hours and days that followed, New York came to a standstill. There was no public transportation available for days. But every one of the cab drivers I spoke with was busy in those hours—taking people home, carrying medical supplies, and transporting emergency personnel. Whatever any of these able-bodied people could do with or without their cabs, they did. They found ways to help. Of course I didn’t have to ask if they ever let the meter run during any of those trips. They would have been insulted if I had.
The cabdrivers of New York City are a microcosm of society. They are black, white, Indian, Muslim, Hispanic—every race, creed and color imaginable. They go about their day like most people, earning a living, getting the job done. For the most part, they are ordinary people. And ordinary people find ways to do extraordinary things when called upon. A lot of people did a lot to help others that day. They used what skills they possessed to save lives, give hope, help others. Those skills included being able to perform emergency surgery and being able to drive a cab. Each was needed and important in the aftermath of the horror of September 11.
It’s absolutely true what they say about New York cabdrivers—they are legendary.
Marsha Arons
Anxiously Awaiting
There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as if everything is.
Albert Einstein
As usual, I was dozing on the bus on my way to work on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, when I heard someone say, “My God, look at the World Trade Center!”
We were still in New Jersey. I looked in the direction of the Twin Towers and saw smoke pouring out of all the windows of the upper quarter of the North Tower. Someone else on the bus was listening to a Walkman and said a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I asked if they said which tower it was, and he said he thought they said it was Tower Two. Tower Two was not visible from the angle we were looking, so I knew he must be mistaken.
I said, “My husband works in the World Trade Center. I know that is Tower One. Of all the days to forget my cell phone.”
I was in a state of shock. I don’t know how long I sat staring, but I turned to the woman next to me and asked if she had a cell phone I could borrow. She smiled and said she had just asked if I would like to use hers, but I did not hear her. She was kind enough to dial my husband’s number and hand me the phone. All I heard was a recording that all circuits were busy. I handed her back the phone and started to pray: “Dear God, please keep him safe.”
I did not realize it, but she had continued to try to reach my husband by hitting the redial button. She finally got through and handed me back the phone saying she had my husband’s voicemail. I don’t remember what I said, but I left a message and handed her back the phone.
By this time we were in the Lincoln Tunnel, and all I could think of was getting to my office and checking my voicemail and e-mail for a message from my husband. As soon as we got out of the tunnel, I got off the bus with well wishes from everyone on the bus saying they would pray for us.
Running to the bus stop to catch the cross-town bus, I saw people’s mouths moving, but I could hear no sound. All I could think of was getting to my desk and hearing a message from my husband.
As I arrived at the Chrysler Building, I walked through the lobby and could hear the guards saying, “We are evacuating.” I kept walking as fast as I could, afraid I would be stopped from going up to my office. I reached an empty elevator and got in, praying the door would close. One of my coworkers, Verne, got on and said, “Did you hear about what’s going on at the World Trade Center?” I broke down and said through tears, “My husband works there.” I did not hear his words but felt his support as he put an arm around me for comfort.
We arrived on the sixteenth floor, and I heard my boss from his office saying, “Rosemarie, have you heard from your husband?”
I said I had not and ran to check my messages. Jeff asked if my husband had a cell phone or a beeper. I told him Eddie did not have the cell phone with him.
There were no voicemail messages from Eddie.
The first person to call was my sister, Carmel. She was in tears as she asked if I had heard from him. I told her I had not. We were both on the verge of hysteria. She said she was fine. (She worked one block from the World Trade Center.) She also told me my niece, Sharon, was fine. (She worked in the South Tower.)
My other sister, Mary Lou, called also inquiring about Eddie. I again said there was no word from him. She hung up asking me to call as soon as I heard.
I turned on my computer and scrolled through my e-mail messages hoping to see my husband’s name. No e-mail messages either.
I spotted an e-mail message from my youngest daughter, Jillian. She and my second daughter, Jessica, attend the University of Scranton in Pennsylvania. It said, “Please e-mail back as soon as you get this and let me know what is going on with the World Trade Center. I tried calling you and Daddy, but I can’t get through. I need to know if Daddy is okay. Please get back to me as soon as you can.” I called her and told her I did not know anything yet.
Everyone in the office was very supportive and concerned. My boss asked the secretary next to me if she would answer my phone if I was away from my desk. She agreed and offered me a cup of coffee. My supervisor came to my desk and asked if she could do anything to help.
The fire alarm went off, and they announced on the PA system that they were evacuating the building. My mind was in turmoil. I did not want to leave. I did not know where to go or what to do. My boss started telling me what to do, and I responded like a robot. I felt like I was watching what was happening from outside my body. Jeff instructed me to change my voicemail message to say that I was not in the office due to the incident at the World Trade Center and to tell my husband, if it was him calling, that I would be at my mother’s, to give my mother’s phone number, and as an alternative, to contact my boss on his cell phone and give his number.
At that point my other daughter called, and I told her I had not heard from Daddy and that I was going to my mother’s because we had to evacuate the building. I told her I would call her when I got to my mother’s. We all just kept praying.
The phone rang again. I picked it up. I heard a voic
e on the other end say, “Hi, Ro. It’s me.”
Eddie was sitting in a conference room, facing a window near his office on the seventy-fourth floor of the North Tower when he heard the plane crash into the building above him and felt the building move about a foot. He saw flaming debris falling and smelled the jet fuel. He went to the nearest emergency exit and started down the stairs. He met one of his coworkers, and they stayed together. He said everyone was very orderly and acted in a calm manner. They stayed to the right of the stairs, allowing the injured people to go down past them. When they were approximately halfway down, they met firemen coming up. The firemen assured everyone that it was safe down below and to remain calm and to continue going down to safety. He was still in the stairwell on the way down when someone with a radio said a second plane had hit Tower Two. That’s when he realized it was an attack and not an accident.
When my husband reached the Plaza Level, he was not able to exit because of the flaming debris falling outside. He proceeded down the steps to the Concourse Level and walked through several inches of water, which was coming from the sprinkler system, and was finally able to exit the building. He walked to the subway station and got on a train going uptown. He was probably on the last train to ever leave from there. He did not stop to make a phone call until he was in Grand Central Station.
When I heard his voice, I went completely weak. “Eddie, where are you?”
He said, “In Grand Central Station.” I could not believe my ears. He was right across the street.
I said, “Thank God!” He said he was coming to my office.
As I hung up the phone, it rang again. It was my second daughter, Jessica, again. She told me not to go to my mother’s because she had heard the first tower collapsed, and my mother lives about ten or fifteen blocks from the World Trade Center and is in direct line with them. I did not give her a chance to finish. I said, “Daddy is okay, and he is on his way to my office.” I also told her I did not know what we were doing, but I had to evacuate the building and would call her later. I told her to tell my other daughter. I quickly called both my sisters to let them know Eddie was okay, and I was going to meet him downstairs.
When I got downstairs, I saw him standing in front of the building. I just hugged and kissed him and could not believe how fortunate we were. I was so grateful he acted as he did. Even though it seemed like an eternity, this all took place within a little more than an hour.
We decided to go to my cousin’s apartment about four blocks away. Since the bridges and tunnels had closed, we would not be able to get a bus home. When we arrived there, we again called my sister and my daughters to let them know where we were. My husband told my youngest daughter to e-mail our oldest daughter, Judie, who is in medical school in the Caribbean. We later learned she had heard of the attack and was frantically trying to contact us.
My story has a happy ending. We pray all the time now for those who were not as fortunate, for those who did not make it and for their families. They are now in heaven—the only place greater than the United States of America.
Rosemarie Kwolek
A Day in D.C.
We all have big changes in our lives that are more or less a second chance.
Harrison Ford
“Don’t go, Mom,” my ten-year-old daughter pleads while she watches me pack my bag for Washington, D.C. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” I have to go, I try to explain, I have an important meeting on Tuesday, September 11.
At the airport, I walk into the jetway to board the American Airlines plane and glance back. My nearly teenage son waits to leave the gate. I give him a reassuring look—the kind that says everything will be all right—and take a deep breath. I, too, am having second thoughts.
As my flight approaches Reagan National Airport, I am in awe by the sight of our majestic national monuments piercing the darkness of the warm night in a bath of glorious light. This is my first trip to our nation’s capital—my first business trip for an editorial position that I have had merely five months.
Early Tuesday morning, September 11, I find myself in the House office buildings participating in my employer’s lobbying effort. As we ride the elevator, a legislative aide says that a plane has hit the World Trade Center and there is a “big hole in the side of the building.” Although I question for details, he only knows this. I make a mental note to watch the evening news.
By 9:20 that morning, a coworker and I are walking toward the Senate office buildings for my scheduled meeting with the senator. We hear a noise that makes us look at each other and ask, “What was that?” We glance around. No one seems concerned, so we walk on toward Capitol Hill.
Near the Capitol, we stop to take photographs and watch a senator give a press conference. Our diversion is interrupted by the frantic screams of a woman, desperately calling out a name. My first thought was that she had lost a child. Trouble seems to be stirring—something is wrong.
We step closer to the Capitol and listen to a man in a military uniform give a press interview. We are shocked to hear him say that the Pentagon is on fire as he gestures in the direction of a dark tongue of smoke in the near distance.
Then a woman runs by crying uncontrollably—with a cell phone to her ear and a hand over her mouth. In the chaos, I look in every direction—trying to figure out what is happening. Reporters and cameramen are sprinting out of the Capitol, and they keep running. Then we hear shouts again—this time from security guards and police officers.
“Run!” the guards command with exaggerated arm motions pointing away from the Capitol. “Run!”
People scramble, scanning the sky for an unseen danger. A stranger tells us that it was a plane that hit the Pentagon, that a low-flying aircraft was in the area and they think that the Capitol might be a potential target.
We run. We are not positive from what, but clearly know that we are in the wrong place. My heart thumps in my chest, and I wish this wasn’t happening.
The world around me is surreal. My thoughts swirl from the illogical—wondering if this means my appointment with the senator was off—to horrific visions of foreign airplanes dive-bombing our nation’s monuments. In the numbing confusion, my mind fills in its own answers—answers straight out of wartime movies. I struggle to fight back visions of the entire city being leveled.
Many blocks away, the crowds slow to a walk and people look around. I notice two uniformed guards, who seem like the right people to ask just what on earth is going on. They tell us the Twin Towers in New York City were “hit,” the Pentagon was “hit,” and they had heard that the White House Old Executive Office Building was “hit” as well. I gasp. We were just at that part of the White House! (Later that day, I would learn the information about the White House was, of course, incorrect.)
Then the guards tell us the horrific news, that those planes that crashed in New York City and D.C. were hijacked American commercial airliners, filled with passengers. Unbelievable. I pause for a moment, slowly realizing that the smoke I saw coming from the Pentagon was wreckage where many innocent people just died. I say a silent prayer.
This was beyond belief. I wonder if the entire nation is under full attack. I begin to think that I just may not make it out of this city alive and grab my cell phone to call my husband. The call doesn’t go through. I then try to call other coworkers in D.C. No use—none of the cell phones seem to be working. I ask myself: All this for a job?
I continuously hit the redial button on my cell phone and clearly understand why people in dangerous situations call home. The feeling is overwhelming to communicate one last message—to let your loved ones know you’re fine . . . or not fine. I want to tell someone what is happening and how much I hate being where I am now. I want to tell my kids that I am sorry for not heeding their warning not to go. Then I wonder if those airliner passengers tried to call home too.
We begin to walk, following the crowds, but to where we don’t know. Police officers are directing traffic. We walk by a sena
tor who had gathered together what appeared to be his office staff. We stop for a moment to see if we can glean any more information, then walk on.
At a traffic light, my coworker recognizes a congressman who has rolled down his vehicle window and is talking with people—telling them the latest information as he knew it. My coworker urges me to take his photograph and I suddenly remember—I am a journalist. For a brief second, I wonder if I should head back into the action for “a story.” Images of my family fill my mind, and I immediately know that I am not a hard-core reporter.
The streets are crowded with honking cars, and sirens blare everywhere. I begin to cross, and my coworker yanks on my arm as a car speeds recklessly around the corner. The irony—would I survive this morning, only to be hit by a car?
Yet the people in the streets were surprisingly calm and orderly—following the police officers’ directions. My coworker and I head back to our hotel and regroup with the others.
The first thing nearly everyone does is phone home—to get word out that we are all right. I felt desperate to have my children know that their mother is alive, and I need assurance that they, too, are okay.
Crowds gather around any available television to watch the horrific events unfold before our eyes and to comfort one another.
I go to the lounge and find it full of people, their eyes glued to the television. I am asked if I’d like a glass of wine. No, I reply, I need something a little stronger today—the news report had just flashed a list of commercial aircraft unaccounted for. We feel like “sitting ducks.” We wonder what this might be the beginning of—or what might come next. Our hotel is in the same building as the Federal Emergency Management Agency and other federal office buildings surround us. I want out of there.
Chicken Soup for the Soul of America Page 6