At the New York Presbyterian Hospital’s Burn Center on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, the triage nurse examined me immediately upon seeing my white shirt black with soot and the burned side of my face. I explained to the doctor that the fire had been so fierce that no one could escape the shower of embers or the dense smoke—not even me, though I was a hundred yards away. I had to get back to work to make sure everyone was safe. The doctors and nursing staff attended to the burns, gave me some oxygen for taking in too much smoke, and then released me.
I called Ginny, working across the street at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. She had been on duty since the previous day. I knew she was tired, and I could drive her home on my way back to Breezy Point.
“How about in an hour?” she said.
“Would it make a difference if I told you I was just discharged from the burn center?” I asked.
Ginny came running across the street. Over my career, I have scared her too many times. She gave me a big hug. (Thanks to the burn unit and Ginny’s wound care, I have no scar.)
When I got back to Breezy Point, I learned that, after multiple searches, no bodies had been found and no one was reported missing—which was nothing short of miraculous. But the conflagration had totally destroyed 128 homes and severely damaged 22 others, making it the biggest residential fire in the FDNY’s history. Our family’s bungalow sustained substantial water damage to the first floor, and the heating and air-conditioning systems were destroyed, but we had been able to stop the fire less than two hundred feet away.
After the political leaders and the press left, I stood in the middle of the burned-out rubble. It felt like being on the Pile. Smoky mounds of debris stretched in all directions, but no one had died. Seeing my white helmet, residents started coming up to me. They had lost their homes. To my surprise, they thanked me for saving their community—my community—and all they wanted was a hug. Even when our whole world is on fire, we have each other.
EPILOGUE
On every anniversary of 9/11, I attend a memorial ceremony at the World Trade Center in my dress blue uniform. The names of all those killed on 9/11 and during the 1993 bombing are read aloud. For years, the anniversary commemorations were held at a dusty construction site until a memorial park was built with two reflective pools representing the footprints of the North and South Towers. Etched in stone around each pool are the names of those who died. The firefighters’ names are grouped by their units, like Engine 33, a powerful symbol of how they responded to the attacks.
At each of the six significant moments, marking the crashing of four planes and the collapse of both World Trade Center towers, we pause as a fire bell rings five times, and that sequence repeats four times, 5-5-5-5. More than a thousand family members observe a minute of silence; those of us in uniform tender a slow, respectful salute, while close friends stand at our side covering their hearts. With each set of bells that echo across the memorial plaza, I replay in my mind what I was doing during those moments. I take the memories of my brother and my firefighters from deep within my heart to my conscious thoughts.
On 9/11, first responders demonstrated bravery from the very beginning. When seeing the towers burning, they asked in disbelief, “Wait . . . what?” Then, knowing the danger, they decided to enter, asking, “How can I help?” Their mission was to save those who were in their greatest moment of need. All of us, from firefighters to chiefs, shared the risk. These memories are as real on each anniversary as it was at the time. Those 102 minutes are my personal time with my heroes, who saved 20,000 people that day.
Many times, after the ceremony, I stop by my old Duane Street firehouse, often seeing Jules and some of the old guys.
When it became too taxing for my parents to go to the ceremony at the site, I would meet them and my sister at Engine 33, Ladder 9, my brother Kevin’s old firehouse. The rigs are parked outside, and tables are set up on the apparatus floors. The 9/11 family members have a wonderful lunch with the firefighters, with lots of food and hugs to go around. Our ten families will always be part of this firehouse’s family. It is like an extended family of cousins. You may not see them all the time, but when you do, it feels good. There is a metal plaque on the wall with the names of each firefighter lost. Their pictures also hang on a wall in the kitchen, so generations to come will never forget their faces.
In the evening, two beams of light representing the Twin Towers shine high into the night sky. It gives us a moment to pause and remember that day and how the world came together in sorrow and hope.
* * *
• • •
On a clear, crisp morning in 2014, the kind that December seems to give as a last gift before a cold winter, I walked into the lobby of the newly completed One World Trade Center. So pristine, so unlike the last time I had been in that spot—a different building on another bright morning when shattered glass covered the lobby and smoke billowed across the sky.
I thought of the old WTC with my firefighters, trying to rescue people from more than ninety countries. The resulting media attention gave all victims of terrorism a voice. We, the victims of terrorism, both international and domestic, join in supporting each other and speaking out about these terrible acts against humanity. In going through our trauma and waking up to sorrow, we are more aware of the kindness deep inside each other.
The new structure, which reaches 1,776 feet tall, is a symbol of hope for international cooperation to manage global challenges. It may also represent the simple kindness we can give to each other during these times.
My Port Authority hosts and I rode a high-speed elevator up to the observation deck. On a wall of the elevator, a large screen displayed the history of the WTC, its construction, the events of that day, and the years of rebuilding. While the observation deck was impressive, my hosts took me to a small, secured stair that led up to the roof. We went outside and climbed a narrow metal ladder, one step at a time, to get to a circular metal platform in the shadow of the 408-foot antenna spire. We were high above everything in New York City.
I breathed deeply as I took in the panorama before me. In every direction, another chapter of my life. Turning to the east, I saw the far side of the Brooklyn Bridge, a few blocks from FDNY headquarters, where, as a staff chief, I worked to change things. Farther into Brooklyn, I had spent my first six years in Crown Heights as a firefighter in Engine 234 and Ladder 123. Even from that distance, I could make out the spires of its many churches. Beyond that, I saw my old Queens neighborhoods, where my brother Kevin and I were raised and grew up to be firefighters.
Standing on top of the new skyscraper, built on the ashes of that day, I realized I had changed a lot since September 11, 2001. I value every day as extra and appreciate the people I care about, especially my wife, Ginny, children Christine and Gregory, and extending across almost a century, my mom, sister Mary Ellen, and grandchildren Emma and Maddie. I understand that any of this love can be suddenly snatched away.
I view the world differently. I no longer think of myself as just a New Yorker, but as being connected to all the people worldwide who run into difficult and dangerous situations. My world has expanded in ways I never imagined. It’s bigger than the FDNY. I have traveled extensively across the U.S., Europe, and Asia and talked with others from every corner of the world about courage, leadership, and resilience in extraordinary times.
Extreme events from 9/11 to pandemics and natural disasters throw us into a global state of trauma. Worldwide, we collectively experience anxiety about the future and turn to crisis leaders to lessen this fear and uncertainty. For decades, I have studied crisis leadership and continue to teach about it in programs at the Harvard Kennedy School and Columbia University. I tell people how I made critical decisions when every moment counts and learned to lead with each disaster. But these stories are only as good as what I did with these experiences. I realized that without action there is no hope and without hope there
is no leadership.
The heart of crisis leadership is the ability to sustain hope by unifying efforts to solve complex problems in the face of great tragedy. This often meant putting myself on the line to get diverse groups to work together. But by partnering with each other, we changed things so that we can depend on each other in a crisis.
It takes courage to find resilience, to come back to lead with greater determination and purpose. My journey started on 9/11, and it is what propelled me to make a difference over the years. But my most incredible privilege was sitting with other leaders and victims of terrorism and disasters from around the world. We shared stories, shed a few tears, and together turned traumatic memories into hope for the future.
As I looked down from on top of One World Trade Center to the streets below me, I took in Tribeca, Battery Park City, and lower Manhattan neighborhoods reborn from the ashes of 9/11. On Duane Street, I saw Engine 7, Ladder 1, and Battalion 1, my firehouse, where I was the closest chief to the Twin Towers. A little farther north was Kevin’s company, Engine 33, in NoHo. That morning, units raced from firehouses all over the city to meet me in the North Tower’s lobby to save as many lives as possible in 102 minutes.
Mike Hurley of the Port Authority, who had worked with me in the North Tower lobby so many years earlier, asked, “Chief, can you write something on the steel of the WTC?”
“Of course. It would be an honor,” I said. He handed me a marker.
I took a moment to think. What could I leave for generations to come? I felt small standing on top of this famous skyscraper representing a defining moment in history and hope for the future. I focused on two questions many people asked me after 9/11.
The first question is, “How do you define a hero?”
I initially sensed an answer that morning in the burning towers. For me, “a hero is one who does ordinary things in extraordinary times.” I saw that on 9/11, when firefighters running up told people coming down the stairs, “Don’t stop. You can make it out of here. Keep going.” Survivors have since told me, “It meant so much having firefighters tell us to keep going, and we did, and we made it out.” In extraordinary times in history, people do ordinary things when it counts the most.
The second question was much harder. It was the hardest question I was ever asked in my career and perhaps in my life, a question that every chief or commander dreads to hear from family members and friends of responders lost in disasters. In the aftermath of 9/11, I heard it from so many people, including my own family: “Why did my loved one have to run into the burning towers?”
My thoughts went back to July 9, 2005. The day my family dedicated a statue of Saint Florian, patron saint of firefighters, at St. John Cemetery in Queens, where my brother is buried in a family plot. Since many 9/11 firefighters are buried there, my parents wanted the statue to represent all firefighters and first responders who died running into the towers.
During the small ceremony, some friends and the local fire companies stood with my family and me as I read the dedication inscription. My teenage son Greg played “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes. In my short talk, I tried to answer this question that people had asked me for years, often with tears in their eyes.
It was not enough to say that it was our job. My parents and families of first responders deserved more. Their question lingered with me for a long time until I realized the answer was always there right in front of us.
On a beautiful sunny day that reminded me of that terrible Tuesday morning, I said, “We ran into the burning towers on 9/11, so others may live. And today, we first responders continue to run into danger for others.”
My family and my firefighters looked at me as if to say, Of course. The answer was always there, but it just took time to work through the pain so we could see it.
From unthinkable tragedy and deep reflection, I came to realize that the courage of ordinary heroes is in each one of us. We have the power to make a difference by doing ordinary things in life’s most challenging times. Each of us, sooner or later, will be presented with a moment to be an ordinary hero.
Now I knew what I had to write on the steel at the top of One World Trade Center. I took out my marker and wrote:
Always remember the heroes,
who did ordinary things,
at extraordinary times,
so others may live.
And I signed it, Chief Joseph Pfeifer.
I am all smiles for a family picture with my sister, Mary Ellen, and brother, Kevin, when we were kids in the 1960s. We were very close, jumping into our parents’ bed early in the morning and playing at the beach together.
In 1999, Kevin was promoted to lieutenant, making my parents and me so proud of him. The two of us shared a love for the job, responding to fires, medical calls, and emergencies. We both now would work in lower Manhattan.
My wedding day with Ginny was one of the happiest days of my life. Our love for each other would grow in ways we could not imagine as we faced life’s challenges and shared so many good times.
With Ginny being a nurse and me a firefighter, our schedules sometimes meant one person got home when the other headed off to work. But as crazy as it was, one of us was always at home with the kids.
Fast-forward thirty years, our daughter, Christine, is a registered nurse caring for bone-marrow transplant patients, and our son, Greg, is a director of cybersecurity.
By luck, on September 8, my brother Kevin’s picture was taken at his firehouse in front of Engine 33. Just three days later, Kevin and his firefighters responded to the North Tower on my first transmission that a plane crashed into the World Trade Center.
08:46 a.m.
I was standing in the street for an odor of gas emergency. Suddenly I heard jet engines. Then I watched the first plane aim and crash into the World Trade Center. Immediately I knew this was a terrorist attack and thousands of people were in their greatest moment of need. I transmitted multiple alarms. As the first chief to arrive, I took command to manage the escalating crisis in the North Tower.
Filmmaker Jules Naudet captured the only pictures of the first plane crashing into the WTC and our operations inside the lobby of the North Tower.
With a 110-story skyscraper fire, I communicated our operational plans to the firefighters, EMS personnel, and others streaming into the lobby.
09:03 a.m.
Our problems have just doubled when a second plane crashed into the South Tower. Now we had two 110-story buildings on fire with thousands of people trapped.
We chiefs urgently discussed how to split our forces to manage both WTC Towers. Chief Peter Hayden and I would stay in the North Tower, while Chiefs Donald Burns and Orio Palmer would go to the South Tower.
In the lobby of the North Tower, Assistant Chief Joe Callan, Deputy Chief Hayden, and I commanded one of the world’s most complex events. As firefighters and fire officers came in, they knew they were going to the largest and most dangerous fire of their lives. They came up to me and asked, “How can I help?”
One of those fire officers who reported to me was my brother, Kevin. We looked at each other, wondering if we would be okay. Then I told him to go up. He quietly turned and led his firefighters upstairs to evacuate occupants and rescue those trapped.
Kevin, the fire lieutenant, on the left, is with his Engine 33 firefighters, who are to his right.
Father Mychal Judge, FDNY’s beloved chaplain, was praying for all of us in the lobby of the North Tower. Moments later, I would find his body in the darkness of the first collapse.
9:59 a.m.
I heard a loud rumbling sound. In complete darkness, I made a critical decision to pull firefighters out of the North Tower:
“Command to all units in Tower One, evacuate the building.”
What I d
id not know at that moment was that the South Tower collapsed and time was running out.
10:28 a.m.
The North Tower collapsed twenty-nine minutes after the South Tower. At the WTC, 2,753 were killed, including 343 FDNY firefighters. In total, the 9/11 attacks killed 2,977 people. Fires burned for four months beneath the building skeletons of Ground Zero. We continued recovery efforts until we reached the bottom of the Pile on May 30, 2002.
One of the most difficult things I did at Ground Zero was on Super Bowl Sunday, 2002, when I recovered my brother Kevin’s body, in his bunker gear, near the B stairs of the North Tower. All work on the Pile stopped, and first responders saluted as Engine 33 and I carried my brother to his final journey home.
Photo by ©GaryMarlonSuson
Three days after the attacks, President Bush and I had an emotional moment when he spoke with me at Ground Zero. On my right was Captain Dennis Tardio, from Engine 7, and on my left was Father Brian Jordan. A year later, the president and I had a hamburger in the White House’s kitchen.
Six month after 9/11, the Smithsonian asked if I would donate my fire gear and my brother’s officer tool. Secretary Hillary Clinton, then my New York senator, was with me at the opening of the 9/11 exhibition. My helmet is now in the 9/11 Memorial Museum.
I was proud to walk alongside my aide Ray Pfeifer, who was struggling with 9/11 cancer, as we joined thousands of FDNY firefighters marching up Fifth Avenue at New York’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
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