The Foreign Service Journal, September 2004

and middle-aged, said, “This is Pearl Harbor. Where were they? We were asleep. Didn’t anyone figure this out?!” The other, a Chinese woman, clasped her hands and appeared to be in prayer. I kept thinking of my colleagues at One and Two World Trade Center. I was sure that they had all perished. My own building, Six World Trade Center (the Customs House), I assumed was covered with debris or damaged. Third World patterns emerged as I pressed south against the human tide. Men in suits sat at tables at open- air bistros. Refugees flowed north on one side of the cafe’s sidewalk barrier. The summer sun reflected off the sparkling water, served from a pitcher, in the absurdly disparate scene on the other side. Strangers exchanged information as eagerly as if they were talking about a huge, oncoming storm. Storekeeps stood at their doorsteps. Here and there people clus- tered around radios. Magazine and tobacco shops turned on the news stations and blared them out to the street, though much of what we heard was unsubstantiated speculation. “Why Us?” When I reached midtown the buses were not so crowded. I managed to hop onto one going south. I kept hearing variations on the same refrain: “Why us? Why do this to us?” A Pakistani quietly said, “We come here to work. We come here for a better life, to educate our chil- dren.” At the end of the line, north of New York University, the scene changed drastically. Soot appeared as I scam- pered across Houston Street. For the first time I heard military jets over Manhattan. The billowing cloud was enormous. Uptown I could see the smoke against the Chrysler Building as I walked. Then the cloud became a huge backdrop to a flag flying high atop a downtown building. Wending my way through once-familiar streets grew more difficult as the cloud got thicker. I used the flag to chart my course. When I arrived at Ground Zero the police were setting up barriers. Their priority was getting everyone out. I asked about the federal work- ers at Six World Trade, one of those empty questions one asks when there isn’t anything else to say. One police officer said that they were taking volunteers. There was nothing else to do but dig my people out. So I went to the collection point. There I found a bevy of construction workers who had spontaneously come to volunteer. They were mixed in with locals who had brought shovels, ropes and picks. All I had brought was a bag of cough drops. “Where are you from?” one husky guy asked. “I walked here from 82nd Street,” I said. “I used to work at Six World Trade, the Federal Building. I don’t know if anyone is left in there. I came to help.” “Well,” the man held his hand out to shake mine, “you walked all the way here from 82nd Street? You can join us.” The camaraderie was overwhelming. I began to weep. Like any government activity, volunteering is about ‘hurry up and wait.’ So I did. The reason, this time, was evident. Number Seven was burning. We were north of Number Seven, the northernmost building of the World Trade Center, which was hard by Number Six. We could not be deployed until the fires of Number Seven were either put out or the building col- lapsed. Whole squads of men were wiped out when the towers fell. Secondary explosions punctuated the rescue efforts. It was no use sending more men in until the sit- uation stabilized. Those still alive under the rubble would have to wait. The staging area filled up as we waited. Dogs were brought in. A truck with klieg lights backed in. After a long day, it was going to be a long night. Displaced persons wandered in. They added to the confusion. One poor fellow only had a pair of shorts and a bandanna. He lived a few doors down, but was kept away from his apartment by the police cordon. One fellow showed up in a neatly pressed business suit. He asked what he could do. I said this was where the con- struction volunteers were. He said, “I’m just a pencil pusher.” Then he took his tie off. I suggested he go home and change, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t care F O C U S 64 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / S E P T E M B E R 2 0 0 4 David Casavis, a frequent book reviewer for the Journal , formerly worked for the Department of Commerce in New York City. He now works for the Department of Homeland Security. For the first time in my life I saw American refugees, streaming north in overwhelming numbers.