I Will Never Forget

My 9/11 Story.

The weather was stunning that day. I walked from the Christopher Street PATH station down Hudson Street to the offices of Penguin, where I was the Publicity Manager for Dutton and Gotham Books. I noticed the crisp air and the crystal blue skies, but something felt off. I thought it was the usual anxiety we publicists deal with: Did I get the author’s schedule right? Did I return that call? What meetings are scheduled today? My mind drifted until I walked into the Saatchi & Saatchi building and took the elevator to the 3^rd floor.

As I made my way to my office, our editorial director called me to come to his office. It seemed as though a Cessna plane crashed into one of the Twin Towers. We had a clear view of them from the windows on our floor. I looked, hoped for the best, and tried to settle in for the day. I did anything but. News spread quickly that it was, in fact, a commercial airplane that struck the first tower. We were confused: How could this happen? Did the pilot fall asleep? And then: My gosh, people need to get out of there.

We were watching from a corner office when we saw it. A plane was flying way too low. No, it can’t be. How? Why? We screamed as it crashed into the second tower. CNN hadn’t even shown it yet, but our instinct was that the planes crashed on purpose. We didn’t know who was responsible but knew it was terrible. I called my father, who said, “This is World War Three, kiddo. I want you to get out of there. NOW.” The phone went dead.

I desperately tried reaching my husband by email. Finally, he responded that he had taken the last PATH train to 23^rd Street and saw the buildings burning. We weren’t sure of the plan, but we knew we needed one. Phyllis Grann, CEO of Penguin at the time, took off her heels, stood on top of a file cabinet, and told everyone to stay put. She exclaimed that they’d arrange a car service for every employee to get home. The bridges and tunnels closed. The building went on lockdown. There was no car service. We continued to watch the towers burn. You never forget the image of people jumping out of windows to have control over their fate—as awful as it was, in some ways, I understood why they did it.

The first tower fell, and everyone screamed. Some people began to cry. My boss ran out of our office to get to her husband at their apartment on Nassau Street, right at Ground Zero. After the second tower fell, I collected the young women in my department, told them to get their personal belongings, and instructed them to follow me. Lockdown be damned, I was getting out of there, and I was going to ensure these girls got home safely.

We walked from Hudson Street up 7^th Avenue to 23^rd Street, where I found my husband. We made the girls promise to travel in a group and email us when they got home. The National Guard told us to walk to the pier (I don’t recall which one), where a boat would take us to Hoboken.  We waited eight hours silently, except for the occasional person offering water or a phone.

Finally, we were on a boat. We sat on the upper deck and watched the smoke engulf Lower Manhattan. Nothing made sense. Miraculously, we made it on the last train to Montclair, NJ, where we lived. I don’t remember arriving home or what happened in the following hours. All I can recall is that for the next week, I sat on my couch in catatonic shock, thinking there must be survivors. All those people with signs that said their loved ones were missing—those people had to be found, right?

When I was little, I could see the Towers from certain viewpoints when we visited my grandmother. I remember thinking there was no way people worked on every floor of those gigantic buildings. I think I held on to that belief until I couldn’t anymore. The survivors never emerged. The hospitals never got overcrowded. The fliers of the missing people never found their humans. It was devastating.

One week after 9/11, we were called back to work. I could smell death in the air. The burning seemed like it would never stop. We had to deal with angry authors who were mad (mad!) that their tours were canceled. I am pretty sure I told off one of them. It was the first time I felt like my job was meaningless. What could be more important than the immense loss we were feeling? It turns out not much.

As the stories of those we lost emerged, I realized that I had lost something, too. At age 29, I no longer trusted the world. I had taken my safety for granted. I felt uneasy on the PATH and subway and claustrophobic in tunnels. They say the only way out is through, so I kept doing what I had always done in New York City. Call it an act of defiance. Call it healing from trauma.

Three years ago, I spent a weekend in New York City with my then-13-year-old daughter. I bought tickets to the top of the Freedom Tower. As we boarded the elevator, I held my breath. I thought about how I was on sacred ground—the grave of so many lost too soon. The view was breathtaking. I took it all in, looked at my daughter, and said, “I love New York.”