In death's borderland
By PAUL CONANT
By PAUL CONANT
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Time: 12:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. Sept. 12, 2001.
Place: In the Manhattan buffer zone uptown from the twin towers catastrophe.
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When I first arrived in the buffer zone between 14th and Houston streets, surrealistic scenes greeted me.
Police cars in motion covered with ash and dust; a convoy of giant earth movers filled with skyscraper rubble; emergency rescue vehicles on unspecified missions.
No one was afoot except for me and a few drunks, addicts and homeless persons.
At the key intersection of Houston and 6th Av. (also known as the Avenue of the Americas) I shared a bench with a homeless woman, watching as emergency vehicles came and went, convoys of dump trucks were deployed and city buses ferried police, firefighters, volunteers and construction workers in and out of the death zone.
I wandered up and down East Houston, noting the trucks laden with scaffolding parked and ready to roll. I stood on a footbridge over FDR Drive watching streams of emergency vehicles, some marked, some not, some with lights flashing and sirens blaring, some not, streaming in and out of Houston Street or heading around the FDR curve to approach the disaster from the toe of this forever-changed island.
In my wanderings, I frequently came across homeless men sleeping fitfully on sidewalks and loading docks, in jarring contrast to the more than 10,000 dead buried a few blocks away. Yet, I noticed around 4 a.m. that most residences in the buffer zone had all lights out, so I presumed that many New Yorkers must have simply gone to bed.
All I could think when watching the emergency activities was that New York should be glad of such efficiency and cool-headedness in response to this outrage.
Once dawn came, I saw groups of professionals hustling off toward West Street (aka the West Side Highway), apparently on their way to work.
Overheard snatches of conversation:
"We all know somebody who is dead," said a woman striding along with two men.
"We had a very, very close friend who was on the 92d floor," says a bearded man into a cellphone.
Cellphones of course were ubiquitous. People at Houston and 6th were using them to report details of what they were seeing. One man sitting on the by-now packed bench was reading his notes in French, most probably to an editor at the other end of his cellphone.
Channel 3 News from Hartford encamped at the intersection at about 5 a.m. and all day long conducted TV interviews with New Yorkers who had been at or near the catastrophe site.
Police cars in motion covered with ash and dust; a convoy of giant earth movers filled with skyscraper rubble; emergency rescue vehicles on unspecified missions.
No one was afoot except for me and a few drunks, addicts and homeless persons.
At the key intersection of Houston and 6th Av. (also known as the Avenue of the Americas) I shared a bench with a homeless woman, watching as emergency vehicles came and went, convoys of dump trucks were deployed and city buses ferried police, firefighters, volunteers and construction workers in and out of the death zone.
I wandered up and down East Houston, noting the trucks laden with scaffolding parked and ready to roll. I stood on a footbridge over FDR Drive watching streams of emergency vehicles, some marked, some not, some with lights flashing and sirens blaring, some not, streaming in and out of Houston Street or heading around the FDR curve to approach the disaster from the toe of this forever-changed island.
In my wanderings, I frequently came across homeless men sleeping fitfully on sidewalks and loading docks, in jarring contrast to the more than 10,000 dead buried a few blocks away. Yet, I noticed around 4 a.m. that most residences in the buffer zone had all lights out, so I presumed that many New Yorkers must have simply gone to bed.
All I could think when watching the emergency activities was that New York should be glad of such efficiency and cool-headedness in response to this outrage.
Once dawn came, I saw groups of professionals hustling off toward West Street (aka the West Side Highway), apparently on their way to work.
Overheard snatches of conversation:
"We all know somebody who is dead," said a woman striding along with two men.
"We had a very, very close friend who was on the 92d floor," says a bearded man into a cellphone.
Cellphones of course were ubiquitous. People at Houston and 6th were using them to report details of what they were seeing. One man sitting on the by-now packed bench was reading his notes in French, most probably to an editor at the other end of his cellphone.
Channel 3 News from Hartford encamped at the intersection at about 5 a.m. and all day long conducted TV interviews with New Yorkers who had been at or near the catastrophe site.
By 10 a.m., the pace was picking up, as more and more New Yorkers ventured out, looking for newspapers (none delivered in the buffer zone), visiting neighbors and just plain looking around.
But it was eery. A perfect summery day. The residents of the buffer zone were perhaps defiantly nonchalant. Those in the streets showed no trace of fear, spoke animatedly to one another and played with their children, doing their best to enjoy a very bad day. And they somehow were succeeding.
If the point was to terrorize the New Yorkers, I can tell you they were not at all terrorized. New Yorkers were well behaved. A few onlookers were a bit of a pain at the key intersections, but when one considers the number of people in New York, things went very well. And the harried police handled the onlookers good naturedly.
Among the contrasts:
Throngs of curious Manhattanites near the death zone acting as if it was a nice day off (and that feeling of confidence was quite clearly contagious); yet every once in a while silent rescue workers, individually and in small groups, would trudge past the police checkpoint and walk uptown. You knew who they were even if they were not in uniform. Their footgear was covered in ash. They trudged, stonefaced, staring straight ahead, overcome with exhaustion, both physical and emotional.
As a Vietnam veteran, I could identify with them somewhat. Once past the checkpoint, many in the crowds failed to notice them, but of course that didn't really matter.
Over on West Street, crowds made a point of cheering and applauding the rescue workers as they drove to and from the death zone. Many news trucks lined West Street. It gave one of the clearest views in Manhattan of the 'hole' in the skyline.
I couldn't help but wonder: is it wise to put so many people in one place? Do we really need skyscrapers anyway in this new economic era of computer teleconferencing?
I recall seeing a family walking their children up the bikepath, their little girl racing along gaily, clutching her dolly -- completely oblivious to the tower of smoke billowing up behind her.
But it was eery. A perfect summery day. The residents of the buffer zone were perhaps defiantly nonchalant. Those in the streets showed no trace of fear, spoke animatedly to one another and played with their children, doing their best to enjoy a very bad day. And they somehow were succeeding.
If the point was to terrorize the New Yorkers, I can tell you they were not at all terrorized. New Yorkers were well behaved. A few onlookers were a bit of a pain at the key intersections, but when one considers the number of people in New York, things went very well. And the harried police handled the onlookers good naturedly.
Among the contrasts:
Throngs of curious Manhattanites near the death zone acting as if it was a nice day off (and that feeling of confidence was quite clearly contagious); yet every once in a while silent rescue workers, individually and in small groups, would trudge past the police checkpoint and walk uptown. You knew who they were even if they were not in uniform. Their footgear was covered in ash. They trudged, stonefaced, staring straight ahead, overcome with exhaustion, both physical and emotional.
As a Vietnam veteran, I could identify with them somewhat. Once past the checkpoint, many in the crowds failed to notice them, but of course that didn't really matter.
Over on West Street, crowds made a point of cheering and applauding the rescue workers as they drove to and from the death zone. Many news trucks lined West Street. It gave one of the clearest views in Manhattan of the 'hole' in the skyline.
I couldn't help but wonder: is it wise to put so many people in one place? Do we really need skyscrapers anyway in this new economic era of computer teleconferencing?
I recall seeing a family walking their children up the bikepath, their little girl racing along gaily, clutching her dolly -- completely oblivious to the tower of smoke billowing up behind her.
Similar scenes played out in Washington Square Park where parents supervised toddlers laughing an giggling under the turtle sprinkler.
Looking downtown, three crosses atop churches abutting the park stood out in stark relief against the heavy pall of smoke.
I heard a helicopter whipping high overhead and was watching it for a while before I realized: I had heard it because there was no traffic making the usual Manhattan cacophony around the park.
There just wasn't enough noise in the air.
Looking downtown, three crosses atop churches abutting the park stood out in stark relief against the heavy pall of smoke.
I heard a helicopter whipping high overhead and was watching it for a while before I realized: I had heard it because there was no traffic making the usual Manhattan cacophony around the park.
There just wasn't enough noise in the air.
