Twenty-five years ago, in the immediate aftermath of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack on New York’s World Trade Center, Francine Halvorsen put what she experienced into words for herself and in an email to a friend.

Here’s what she wrote four days later at 4 a.m. while staying at the home of friends on Church Street who were out of town: 

Alone.

I awaken in anxiety, heart beating, wash, turn on TV and it’s that old movie, Inside Daisy Clover.

I pace and look out the windows – the flatbeds that I thought were to haul out cars and debris are hauling body bags.

I don’t look long enough to count.

Outside on the street, I look at everyone eye-to-eye. Everyone is beautiful – every voice a psalm – every touch a blessing.

I understand why I stay. The unspeakable has happened, the death and destruction has affected everyone, but I stay to see what has transcended.

I fear now the banal – the everyday.

The people in the street, workers all joined together to do what we can – I’ve got to be among them. The benefit of being here is healing. Grief is allowed only in increments.

I understand now why I need to be at Ground Zero: where the worst was done, the best is being done.

Dear Susan,

Sent on Thursday, September 20, 2001:

Since I wrote the following, I have been able to get into my place for 10 minutes. I was first escorted by the National Guard and then by the police who stayed with me while I got a few things together, including my laptop, shoes, underwear and other useful things.

I am hoping to get to Seattle, leaving the 25th and returning the 1st, to see my younger son and family. My older son came up to help and be close for a few days.

I want to actually meet everyone I only talk with by phone. I need everyone to be real. I am not even comfortable sitting next to a stranger without at least knowing their name.

FEMA has already contacted me. I do not know the extent of the damage, but I will keep you posted. Family, close friends and strangers have all become more dear. We have been sharing our time and attention and whatever food or clothing we have available.

Thank you for writing. I tried calling you, but couldn’t stay connected. (My cell phone usually goes to voicemail, even if you can’t get through.)

I would like us to get together. I want to actually meet everyone I only talk with by phone. I need everyone to be real. I am not even comfortable sitting next to a stranger without at least knowing their name.

One of the reasons I stayed downtown was to be of what small help I can be. You know that averting-of-the-eyes thing we all do to create our personal space? Well now, downtown, everyone looks at each other walking, talking, everywhere. We touch too.

“Unbearable, unforgettable”

Here’s what I would have told you if we had spoken last week:

My house is about 700 feet from the South Tower. After the second plane hit, I went outside to assess the situation.

Flames and bodies falling from the sky – an unbearable, unforgettable horror – and went upstairs to get some stuff together.

Suddenly, my building began to shake, and I lay face down on the floor with a pillow over my head like you learn in second grade. When my building stopped moving, I looked up and it was black.

Suddenly, my building began to shake, and I lay face down on the floor with a pillow over my head like you learn in second grade.

Covered in soot, eyes burning, I looked out the window, and it was more blackness. I thought perhaps the block was on fire. When I felt no heat at windows or door I just left. I didn’t want to be the idiot who let the roof fell on her to salvage a few things.

The street was opaque – unbreatheable, unseeable. Coughing, eyes burning, walking in soot and debris more than ankle deep, I made my way east.

Ran into a guy also soot-covered, headed east and north. Some of us buddied up and avoided being herded into various places.

Then, someone said we had to go over the Brooklyn Bridge, which seemed nuts to me. So I back-tracked to Pace University and stayed in the auditorium there with hundreds of people in various states of coping and not coping.

We helped wash each other’s faces and tried to get help for people really falling apart.

We helped wash each other’s faces and tried to get help for people really falling apart.

One way or another, I left after a while and insinuated myself through some railings to cross City Hall Park and get to a friend’s house in Tribeca.

At Beekman Hospital, they were giving out face masks. Then at Chambers Street, water. I opened my mouth as to drink, but couldn’t swallow.

Fires, Ash, Dead Cars

Anyway, here I am. Everyone has been great offering comfort and places to stay. My kids have been amazing and offered to come get me.

I know I did the right thing just leaving Rector Street, but now of course I want my stuff. Not so much “things,” but my history – photographs, drawings, writing.

We are not permitted down there. I actually went as far south as I could yesterday hoping to assess the situation but was (reasonably) stopped. Good thing too – an hour later, the base of the south tower collapsed and there are various and sundry fire pockets and other high-risk factors.

My heart goes out to the dead (hard to grasp the enormity) and everyone whose lives are forever changed. It’s pretty hard to focus on oneself. I don’t seem to have any skill they want for a volunteer, so here I am in no man’s land. We are all helping out the best we can.

I am now on Church Street which is being used for the destroyed vehicles they are carting out. They all look like they were spewed from a volcano.

My son came up from Baltimore and brought me “stuff,” but mainly was good company and encouraged me to join him and family.

I have tickets to fly to Seattle Friday morning for a few days to be with my younger son and his family. Clearly, it will be that long until I have even a chance of water and electricity on Rector Street . . . if my place is still habitable.

[Noting later that this was wildly optimistic, she reported that it wasn’t until March 2002 that she was able to get into her Rector Street place, briefly, and salvage some things.]

I am now on Church Street which, though physically unscathed, is being used for the destroyed vehicles they are carting out. They all look like they were spewed from a volcano.

This is probably more information than you wanted, but clearly I am too wired to be concise. The event seems so enormous – no language seems adequate. I really do feel grateful in the most simple way to be alive and to love and be loved.

Priest’s Message

Today, I walked with Episcopal Bishop Frank Griswald and his wife, Phoebe Griswald, from lower Broadway near Trinity Church to Mother Anne Seton’s Shrine, a Catholic Church often referred to as the Sailors’ Church.

There, he was to preside over the first Episcopal service after 9/11.

The pews were packed. Shockingly, the celebrants were in full religious vestments – mitres, cowls and all. Most of us, meanwhile, were uncertain about the source of our next shower.

I don’t remember the service, just much pontificating and the beautiful hymns we hummed along to. There was an odd stillness when the service ended. Then, a moment I do remember.

The Catholic priest who had introduced our ministers stepped up to the altar in his collar and shirtsleeves and hugged the Bishop and said he would speak a bit.

From the deepest part of our minds and hearts must come our best prayers and our best thoughts.

He talked about his sister’s death.

“I don’t give one damn about one sentence from one of your ‘friggin’ books,” she had said to him at the end.

At that point, one of the ministers covered his mouth with his palm in false modesty. I was taken aback by his disapproval.

This parish priest was trying to tell us something. The books won’t help us. From the deepest part of our minds and hearts must come our best prayers and our best thoughts. In terms of ministry, I realize, I want people braver than the book.

I was left speechless later that day overhearing the guy behind the counter at the deli, on the phone as he worked the register.

“I want to make a margin call,” he was saying. “Oh, it’s going up!”

Flying Away

It’s September 25.

I set two alarms, nervous that I won’t wake up at 3:30 a.m. I am, of course, up at 3 and by 3:30, all set. United is flying on time.

A light rain is falling, and I am walking my wheelie past National Guard and police in plastic slickers, up to Canal Street. It is blocked by gates and police vans (no one can go below Canal Street without proof of residence).

Delivery people walk south from trucks parked north of Canal. They are carrying bread and cartons of food to supply the nearby food stores and restaurants. Friends meet us there to talk and give us “stuff.”

I meet my car at the Soho Grand and we drive quietly to JFK. The airport is quiet too – it’s closed until 5 a.m. We form a line, the first of many.

Great calmness. I’m glad it’s early. At the gate we learn there will be many security checks of the plane and baggage.

Boarding is delayed at an adjacent gate because there is a random bird on board and they are trying to remove it gently.

Finally, seated on the plane, the service officer says they are checking baggage yet again. The passengers are uncharacteristically quiet, and soon we are in flight.