Caught Between Faith & Fear: My 9-11 NYC Journal (Part 5)

From My Journal: 11:30 a.m.

The studio called and informed us we’d be here for a while. Days perhaps. No one knew for sure. With that piece of news, Dennis and I decided to see if we could find something to eat. We’d hardly eaten the day before and, even though food was the furthest thing from our minds, we decided to head down 57th Street in search of a restaurant. We asked a hotel employee in the lobby if it was safe to leave. She advised against it, but said if we did, to stay close.

We discovered The Brooklyn Diner a short distance from our hotel. We shared a table with a man who worked in the city but lived in New Jersey. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get home, he told us. Just a little after 9:20, all bridges and tunnels leading in and out of the city had been closed. No one was coming in . . . no one was going out. Dennis asked him how many people might have been in the two buildings formerly known as the World Trade Center. “Ten to twenty thousand,” he said. “Hopefully, though, most of them were able to escape before it had been too late.”

I glanced out the window. People were gathering now. Standing in small clusters. Crying. Fearfully wondering if their loved ones might be among those who would not have escaped. When our meal was served, I ate about four bites of what was truly delicious food, and could eat nothing more. I told Dennis I didn’t think I could go back to the hotel and just sit. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to hear any more of the news yet either. Could we go for a walk? We were close to 5th Avenue and 5th Avenue had a lot to see. Could we just walk? He agreed with my idea. We left the restaurant, turned right on 57th toward 5th. I was very much aware of the traffic, or lack thereof. New York City is known for it, especially the sea of yellow taxis speeding along the avenues, waiting for their next fare. There was little of that. So few was the human traffic, too.

At 5th we turned right, heading south, and stopped in our tracks. My hand went over my mouth. It was there, right before my eyes. Huge clouds of billowy smoke rose over South Manhattan, no more than a mile or so away. I had one of those disposable cameras and I took it out of my purse. There, standing in the middle of 5th Avenue of New York City, I took a picture.

As we resumed walking, our pace–like the pace of those few walking around us–slowed considerably.

Due to today’s tragedy, this establishment will not be open until further notice.

These computer-designed posters intruded nearly every storefront window and door along the famous avenue. Traffic cops stood in twos and threes on every corner. Periodically another fire engine would whiz by, but for the most part the deafening sound of the announcing of their arrival had ceased. Police stood guard around Rockefeller Center; no one was allowed admittance. The same went for Trump Towers. There was one place, however, that had opened its doors.

“Let’s go in,” I urged my husband, though I didn’t have to urge too hard. He was right behind me as we sprinted up the steps of St. Thomas Church, an old, gothic structure considered lovely on any day, but even ore so today. It welcomed us. It pulled us in, invited us to come and recite the liturgy with countless others we’d never seen before and would likely never see again. We prayed the ancient prayer of our Lord together, quietly, yet perhaps louder than some of us had prayed it in a long time.

Our Father, who art in heaven . . . thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . . and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us . . . lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .

Leaving the church, we moved farther south. I’m not sure why, we were just compelled toward the disaster, but we stopped at the New York City Public Library. It was closed, of course, but we joined those who sat on the wide steps between the stone lions leading to it. For a while, I listened to the sounds around me. Apparently, nature hadn’t been notified of the tragedy. Birds continued to sing. Leaves from sheltering trees rustled gently. But then a firetruck drove by, covered in gray ash. Someone had written “9-11-01 FDNY” with their finger across one of the windows. I wondered who. I wondered if he was still alive. A new sound caused quite a stir among those of us trying to find reprieve on the steps. Planes overhead. Everyone moved quickly, looking upward. Looking around for a place to hide should it all be happening again. My husband grabbed my arm and pointed up. “Fighter planes,” he said. “The military is here.”

“Get me out of here, Dennis,” I whispered.

It was time to return to the hotel.

Looking Back (2021): My meal at the diner was a foot-long hot dog. Chili topped. I don’t know why I remember that, either, but apparently I was having a thing for hot dogs during this trip. We learned much later, of course, that nearly 3,000 died on 9-11 with more than 6,000 injured. More than 90 countries lost citizens in the attacks.

When we were inside St. Thomas’s, I couldn’t stop looking at the altar. This is what man can do, I recall thinking. Two miles south . . . that was what man could do as well. One was art and beautiful and for God. The other was horrible and tragic and for what?

After we left the church, we found a little store open and we went in for something to drink. A coke or something. Dennis happened to spot a WTC silver charm on the shelf and asked if I wanted it for the charm bracelet I’ve been adding to since I was 16. I told him I did. He purchased it for me as the man behind the counter said, “This is our last one.”

Even though we carried our cell phones and they were on, there was still no service. Periodically, Dennis and I attempted to make a call, but each time, there was no signal.

To this day I remember the sight of the fighter planes coming in. Sleek against the blue sky that hung on and the encroaching gray cloud. I also remember how my heart hammered. I was trapped between faith and fear.