9/11 2001

People escaping the hellish inferno of the building--by jumping to their deaths

In honor of the day, I am posting here an e-mail I wrote that evening, after the day that changed something in all of us:

 

(This blog appeared in "Glory: "A Nation’s Spirit Defeats the Attack on America," November 2001)

9/11/01

Dear Everyone Who’s Written to Check On Me Today.
Thanks for your concern.
            We are in complete shock. That is, even those of us who had expected something horrible to happen, something that would be so devastating that it would reach a place beyond our imagination (*)
            At nine in the morning I left my beach house in the Hamptons toward my home in Port Washington--East Egg on your literary map--which is 20 miles outside NYC. My writing group was to meet  that night. I was listening to Books-On-Tape, when, forty-five minutes into my drive, I needed to change a cassette. That’s when I heard the news. Two planes, one after the other crashed into The World Trade Center. “Here we go again,” I thought. “Those small planes. I hate them. They are prone to accidents, flown by amateurs.” But two? The gears engaged in my brain. Sabotage. An act of terror.
            The feeling of deja vu--the events I've witnessed in Israel from close and far—settled on me with some strange remoteness. The wait was over. It had finally happened. I called my husband, Ron, whom I had left behind at the beach house, and told him to turn on the TV. There was an odd utterance of sounds coming out of him as he watched with disbelief.
            “Talk,” I implored.
            Finally he became more coherent and proceeded to describe what he was seeing.
            The a scream. “Oh, my God!”
            “What?” I asked. “What’s happening?”
            “Oh, my God! The Building is falling down.”
            “What do you mean ‘falling down?’ It’s just a small plane—”
            “It’s a jetliner!”
            I raised the sound on the radio. They reported about a fire ball thirty stories high.
            “This is the moment that would change my life, our life, the world’s life,” I thought. Yet I was too calm. Five of our kids work in Manhattan—two daughters and three sons-in-law. I should panic. Something was terribly wrong with me.
            On the cell phone, his voice shaking, Ron insisted I return to the beach house. “They’ll block all the roads in and out of the city,” he said. “You may not be able to return for a long time.”
            “This is the beginning of a war,” I said. I had been driving for an hour. The notion that the Long Island Expressway would be closed due to a terrorist attack was absurd. Yet, that was how things worked in Israel. Nothing was absurd anymore. Not if the World Trade Center tower fell down. Fell down? I still thought that only the top floors had collapsed, from the spot where the plane had hit and upward.
            I pulled onto the next exit, drove the bridge over the highway to the south service road, then stopped on the shoulder. My heart started to beat fast.  There was no one around, all was eerily quiet, the radio turned down again so I could gather myself. I examined the calm with which I handled the news and knew that, as in time of a crisis, the impact would hit me later with force that would leave me reeling for a long time.
            I engaged the gear and began driving back, calling the kids. They had to evacuate all the tall buildings. My youngest daughter was in the street when she answered her cell phone. Her office is located in a basement, and people in her company stayed put. But since her wall borders the 86th Street subway station, which is one of the largest subway intersections, I ordered her to leave. She wanted to go in to inform her staff.
            “Call on your cell phone,” I told her. “Just go home. We haven’t seen the last of the surprises.”
            She started walking. As did my other daughter. Soon after, most phone lines to the city were partly disconnected or overtaxed. Our son-in-law, who lives in Long Island, walked across the bridge to Brooklyn, where he hitchhiked home.
            Ron’s niece, a mother of three children, the youngest only six months old, works in the building across the street from the WTC. She managed to flee when her office was hit hard by debris. In the confusion and black cloud, she found herself on the Staten Island ferry, shoeless and bagless. Ron’s two cousins who work on the 80th floor of the World Trade Center happened to be out of the office. One was away on a business trip, the other took their father to the eye doctor today! The mother called us earlier: Her husband's progressive blindness had saved this son's life...
 
(*)        Now re my remarks about those who expected this disaster: Last year I attended a lecture by Richard Clark, US Counter-Terrorism Coordinator at the National Security Council.  He said that Osama Bin Laden, a Muslim billionaire hiding in Afghanistan, had trained hundreds of militants to attack the West. His operation was very professional. His plan was--still is--to take over the West, the infidels. (He's behind the U.S.S. Cole attack and others.)  Bin Laden had already planted many highly trained people in the US. Some of them were known to the security authorities, some not. The problem was with the INS. Our immigration laws are extremely lax. Coupled with a legal system that grants instant rights to people suspected of trying to penetrate the US for hostile purposes, these men had been allowed to enter and were then told to come back for a hearing "in 8 months." In the meantime they were let loose on the streets of the USA.
            Often, if the FBI or CIA can't show the INS enough evidence about the INTENT of these suspects--only claim that they know from secret sources that these people had been members of terrorist groups in Egypt or Syria or Algeria. Judges then demand TESTIMONIES from these sources (How is the CIA supposed to fly in the sources?) Needless to say, most of these terrorists simply enter the country because of our liberal legal protection. They come in illegally and are instantly being handed the Bill of Rights.
            Once they are here and are legally cleared from any wrong-doing, the law prohibits the FBI to just follow them or tap their phones... . The FBI must show the judge PROOF of these men's conspiracies.
            To our question why didn't the public know about it, Clark said that the media considered these reports to be unnecessary alarmist and simply buried them.
            So here we are. The day that would mark the start of World War III.
            Talia

P.S. Two days later I got a call from a friend: Hundreds of cars at Long Island train stations had been left there, their owners—commuters to New York City--never returned to claim them.

The Day The World Took Notice

By Talia Carner

Having been a supporter of counter-terrorism intelligence in the United States, I attended in January 2001 a closed-group briefing by Richard Clarke, at the time US Counter-Terrorism Coordinator at the National Security Council and a chief counter-terrorism adviser to four USA presidents. He told the attendees about a man called Osama Bin Laden, a Muslim billionaire hiding in Afghanistan who had trained thousands of militants to attack the West. Bin Laden was the man behind the USS Cole attack and others, Clarke reported. The man’s overarching plan was to take over the West, the world of infidels.

Furthermore, Clarke pointed out, Bin Laden had already planted six-hundred highly trained militants in the US. Some of them were known to the security authorities, many were not.

The media would not report about any of it, Clarke explained, not because they did not believe the credible threat supported by mountains of evidence, but because editors did not wish to sound “alarmists.” Their perception was that their respective audiences did not wish to hear about looming catastrophes.

As a fiction writer, I decided to use the idea in my new novel, which I started in August 2001. At a dinner in New York with my agent and her husband, I outlined the story’s premise. I had barely finished delivering the first paragraph when I saw their eyes glaze over. “You seem to see a Muslim behind every tree,” my agent wrote to me later, ignoring my explanation about Extreme Muslims—not all Muslims—who pose a major risk to America.

Three weeks later, on September 11, at around 9 AM, I started my car at my beach house in Bridgehampton, Long Island, two-hours east of New York City. I had a writing group meeting later than evening at my home in Port Washington, twenty miles outside the city, a place known on literary maps as East Egg. I inserted a “book-on-tape” cassette into the slot and set on the road. Forty-five minutes later, the cassette ended. As it was ejected from the console, the radio took over.

I heard that two planes had just hit the Twin Towers.

I thought of Sesnas and small commuter planes which I always distrusted. But two? The hair rose on my arms. The gears in my brains shifted. The synopsis clicked. This was a terror attack.

I pulled to the shoulder of the highway and called my husband back in Bridgehampton. “Turn on the TV. Now.”

When he did, he started screaming. He was incoherent.

“Tell me what do you see?” I shouted. “What is it?”

“Come back!” was all he managed to utter. “Turn around right now!”

“I can’t. I have my writing group tonight. What are you seeing?”

His screaming got under control only enough to tell me that the first building was crumbling. “The city will be closed. Long Island Expressway will be closed. You won’t be able to come back later,” he insisted.

The feeling of déjà vu--the events I've witnessed in Israel from close and far—settled on me with some strange remoteness. The wait was over. It had finally happened. I turned my car around at the first possible ramp and stopped again, heart pounding. We had children in New York City. “This is the moment that would change my life, our life, the world’s life,” I thought as I looked at the quiet blue skiy, the pulsating green of the grass and trees. I was too calm. I should panic. Something was terribly wrong with me.

I could not reach any of the children.

I called my husband again.

“Oh, my God!” he suddenly called out. “Oh, my God! The Building is falling down.”

“What do you mean ‘falling down?’ It’s just a small plane—”

“It’s a jetliner!” On the radio they told of a fire ball thirty stories high.

“This is the beginning of a war,” I said as I restarted the car. That was how things worked in Israel. Nothing was absurd anymore. Not if the World Trade Center tower fell down. Fell down? I still thought that only the top floors had collapsed, from the spot where the plane had hit, and upward.

How far could this attack go? Richard Clarke’s warnings banged in my head. My imagination in the novel I was working on hadn’t gone far enough. I hadn’t conjured anything like this….

One more plane had crashed in Pennsylvania, I now heard on the radio. I pulled to the side of the road yet again, and reached my youngest daughter. Her office was in the basement of an uptown building, and she shared a wall with one of the largest, busiest subway stations.

“Get out of the office and don’t come back,” I instructed her. There was no question of getting her out of the city as I did not want her taking the train. “Stay in your apartment.”

An hour later, I huddled on the couch with my husband, both of us in complete shock. We had supported investigators of the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center, an event that had left “only” six dead, too few to ring the alarm bells in the public’s consciousness. I now watched, horrified, as bodies hurled themselves off the buildings’ windows.

We got the news that our son-in-law walked across the bridge to Brooklyn, from where he hitchhiked home. My husband’s niece, a mother of three—the youngest only four months old—worked in the building across the street from the WTC. She managed to flee when her office was hit hard by debris. In the confusion and black cloud, she found herself on the Staten Island ferry, shoeless and bagless, and was taken into the home of a collegue. Ron’s two cousins who work on the 80th floor of the World Trade Center happened to be out of the office: one was away on a business trip, the other took their father to the eye doctor that morning! The old man’s progressive blindness had saved this son's life....


A few days later, at my local train station, I looked at the parking lot filled with unclaimed cars of people who went to work on September 11 and never came back.

In the coming months, I helped a friend who has been involved in fund-raising for social and psychological services for families of the deceased.

Ten years later, while I and the rest of the world have resumed our lives, there are over three thousand children in Long Island who suffer the irreversible, irrecoverable loss of a parent.

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Author Talia Carner’s latest novel, JERUSALEM MAIDEN, was just released by HarperCollins. Please see http://www.taliacarner.com/ .