I Survived the Attacks of September 11th, 2001

by Lauren Tarshis

  A woman staggered up to Dad. Her gray hair was soaked with sweat. Her face was bright red with streaks of black under her eyes. She was breathing very hard, her hand on her chest.

  “Can you help me?” she gasped. “My heart. I came down the stairs…. My friends … I don’t know where they are…. There was so much smoke….”

  Lucas knew Dad didn’t want to stop — he wanted to find his crew.

  “Okay,” Dad said in a low and gentle voice. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get you what you need.”

  He turned to Lucas, pointing to an ambulance a few yards away. “Tell one of the paramedics we need help here.”

  Lucas ran over and told one of the paramedics, then hurried back to sit with Dad and the woman. Dad kept talking to her while they waited. He introduced himself and asked for her name, and about her family. The woman was gripping Dad’s arm so tightly that her fingernails were digging into his skin. Dad didn’t budge. He kept talking to her, trying to calm this person he’d never met and would probably never see again.

  Finally the paramedics came. A minute later they had the woman on a stretcher and into the ambulance.

  Dad and Lucas continued their search for Ladder 177.

  But suddenly there was a deep roaring noise. The ground trembled.

  Dad stopped short. He looked around.

  His eyes flew up.

  He grabbed Lucas by the arm and shouted.

  “Run!”

  Lucas had no idea what was happening. But suddenly there was the loudest noise he’d ever heard. Louder than a hundred freight trains. Louder than all those sirens.

  “What is it?” Lucas cried, his voice cracking with terror.

  Dad pulled Lucas along, shouting, “Run! Run!” to the people all around.

  Dad kept looking over his shoulder, pulling Lucas harder, urging him to move faster.

  They came to a convenience store and Dad pushed the door open.

  He threw Lucas inside and then called to people just behind them.

  “In here!” he called. “Hurry! Hurry!”

  Just a few people followed. Then Dad slammed the door shut.

  “Everyone get down! Cover your heads!”

  Lucas dove to the ground and then —

  Whoosh!

  There was the sound of shattering glass and a powerful blast of hot wind.

  Minutes passed. Lucas squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. His mouth and nose filled with gritty dust. It was hard to breathe.

  If he hadn’t known better, he would have been sure that he was in the middle of a tornado — a boiling hot tornado.

  And suddenly the noise and wind stopped.

  There was silence.

  Lucas opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything.

  All around was pure darkness.

  For a long moment he was pretty sure the world had ended.

  And that he was the only person left on Earth.

  It was Dad’s voice that broke the silence.

  “Lucas!” Dad shouted.

  “Dad,” Lucas rasped, spitting dust from his mouth.

  “Is anyone hurt?” Dad called.

  People coughed and hacked and sniffed. But nobody seemed to be badly hurt.

  Dust was everywhere. It coated Lucas, every inch of him. It was in his nose, between his teeth, stuck to his tongue and to the back of his throat. It wasn’t like regular dust. Some of the grains were jagged — bits of ground glass. When Lucas tried to brush himself off, the dust cut into his skin.

  “I have a light,” Dad said in a calm and quiet voice. “I’m going to turn it on. Follow the light and come to me. We’re going to stay together. We’re all going to be all right.”

  There was a click, and then the glow of a small yellow circle. It looked like the moon on a foggy night. The air was filled with white floating dust — to Lucas it seemed like they were trapped inside a snow globe.

  There were four other people in the store with him and Dad, two women and two men. The younger of the men came from behind the counter of the store. He worked there.

  Dad asked everyone their names.

  “I want everyone to put a piece of clothing in front of your mouth,” he told them. “It’s not good to breathe this dust.”

  Lee, the store worker, got big bottles of water for everyone, and rolls of paper towels. Everyone rinsed their mouths. Dad soaked a paper towel and carefully washed Lucas’s eyes and face, then he helped the others. Catherine, the younger of the two women, was crying. The other people comforted her.

  “What was that?” Catherine sobbed. “Was there another plane? Someone said there was another plane.”

  “No,” Dad said. “That was not a plane. I think the top part of the building must have come down.”

  The door was stuck. Dad kicked out the jagged glass that clung to the door frame.

  He stepped out first, then turned to help everyone through, out of the store.

  Dad had told them he wanted to move quickly.

  The four strangers started walking, holding hands.

  But Dad stopped just outside the store, his hand clamped to Lucas’s shoulder, staring at the scene of destruction all around them. It seemed to be much worse south of them, where even through the fog of dust, Lucas could see that twisted steel beams and big chunks of concrete filled the streets.

  Cars were on fire. Fire trucks and ambulances were smashed. A few weak sirens squawked. It sounded like the trucks were crying for help.

  All around them, people climbed out of windows and doorways. Everyone was coated with the white dust.

  Lucas thought of a book he’d read on World War II last year. There were pictures of cities that had been bombed and burned to the ground.

  That’s what this scene reminded him of — war.

  Dad was looking intently south, like he was searching for something.

  “It’s gone,” he said in a soft voice that only Lucas could hear.

  “What’s gone?” Lucas said.

  “One of the towers,” Dad said. “The entire building collapsed.”

  Nothing around them looked like the wreckage of a collapsed 110-story building. Where were the big hunks of glass and steel, the smashed office furniture and computers, the miles of wires and pipes?

  “Where is it?” Lucas said.

  There was nothing but dust.

  “It’s all around us,” Dad said.

  The dust, Lucas realized. That was the tower. It was practically all that was left.

  Lucas tried not to think about how many people might still be in the buildings — the men and women working there, the hundreds of firefighters and police and paramedics who were on the scene.

  Georgie and Mark.

  Uncle Benny.

  Lucas tried not to think about the people who might have been in that building when it came down.

  Dad would have been — if he hadn’t come looking for Lucas in the firehouse.

  Dad took Lucas’s hand and held it tight.

  “We need to move fast,” he said.

  The other tower, Lucas realized. If the first one could fall, the second one could, too.

  And so they began their march north, Dad and Lucas together.

  The dust cleared as they reached Chambers Street.

  All of a sudden the world was bright again.

  But it didn’t matter, Lucas realized.

  It didn’t matter how far they walked, or how much time went by.

  Nothing would ever be the same again.

  The air was crisp and chilly. Lucas stood at the edge of the field.

  The sounds of football filled the air — the cheers of the crowd, the trill of the ref’s whistle, the laughs of little kids playing tag in front of the snack bar.

  Mom and Dad were up in the bleachers. They waved at him.

  He waved back.

  A player ran off the field for a drink of water.

  “Hey, Lucas!” he said.

  It was James, one of Mark’s twins —
Lucas had finally learned to tell them apart.

  “Hey, buddy,” Lucas said. “Great game.”

  The little boy smiled up through his face mask.

  Lucas held out his hand to high-five and the kid gave it a good whack.

  James ran back out on the field.

  Lucas turned, hoping James didn’t see the tears in his eyes.

  He just needed a few seconds to pull himself together.

  He was getting better at it. And besides, he’d known this would be a tough day.

  This was the first game since Mark’s funeral.

  The stands were filled with Ladder 177 guys and their families, all cheering for Mark’s boys.

  Lucas was helping out the new coach.

  Some guys kept calling to Lucas from the stands.

  Half the Jaguars had come, too. Lucas wasn’t on the team anymore.

  But he hadn’t lost football. Or the guys.

  He took a deep breath.

  Yes, this would be a tough day — but a good one.

  Dad had told Lucas it would get easier, as time passed.

  He didn’t mean easy. It meant that there would be minutes — like these — when he wasn’t buried by sadness, when he wasn’t stuck in the terror of that day in September. When he didn’t think about the planes, or the thousands of people who’d died in the towers, or the faces of the men who’d planned the attacks.

  The worst memories were from after he and Dad had escaped the dust, when they finally made it to the firehouse. Each hour had brought a new horror: the second tower collapsing, news that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon, outside Washington, D.C., and that another plane had been heading for the Capitol or the White House, but had crashed in Pennsylvania.

  There was the moment when they found out about Mark.

  Then Georgie.

  Then Chief.

  The other men had made it back, one by one. Covered in dust and ash. Some dripping with blood.

  By that afternoon, there was only one man missing:

  Uncle Benny.

  The guys had seen him running into Tower 1, determined to get to the burning floors, to get as many people out as he could.

  Lucas could see the doom in the eyes of the other men as they talked about Uncle Benny. But he’d sat on the floor of the firehouse, his eyes glued to the door.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  Praying.

  Dad had been right there with him.

  That was one good thing that had come out of that day — Lucas and Dad.

  They’d marched out of the dust holding hands and just kept on marching, together.

  Last week Dad even brought the Seagrave model up from the basement.

  The real rig was wrecked.

  So Dad figured they should finish this one, and bring it to the firehouse. They worked on it some nights when neither of them could sleep. Sometimes Mom would sit with them. All they had to do now was paint it.

  The score was tied in the fourth quarter. The other team called a time-out.

  The kids all ran to the sidelines, surrounding their coach.

  He stood there with his cane, his left arm in a sling, his shamrock tattoo peeping out from the top of the cast.

  Uncle Benny.

  “We have some champions here!” he boomed, turning to wink at Lucas.

  Yes, Uncle Benny had made it out. He’d come down the stairs of the North Tower a minute before it collapsed, carrying a wounded man on his back. He got himself and the man under an engine truck and saved both of their lives.

  He was in bad shape when he crawled out — shattered ankle, busted arm, collapsed lung. He was rushed to the hospital.

  Word didn’t reach the firehouse until early in the evening.

  That is one memory that Lucas kept in his heart — the moment he heard that Uncle Benny was safe.

  Lucas walked over as the kids ran back onto the field.

  Uncle Benny had dropped his cane. So he leaned on Lucas as they stood and watched the kids play.

  Their quarterback took the ball and then hurled it.

  It was a terrible pass.

  Impossible to catch.

  But James took off after it.

  The crowd stood and cheered.

  Uncle Benny and Lucas laughed as they watched James go, go, go.

  Mark’s little boy ran with all of his might, his legs pumping, his arms reaching up, his face turned fearlessly toward the bright blue sky.

  WHY I WROTE ABOUT SEPTEMBER 11

  It was not part of my original plan to write about September 11, 2001, in the I Survived series. But over the past two years, I have received more than a thousand e-mails from kids asking me to write about this topic. At school visits, there are always kids who raise their hands and ask, “Will you be writing about 9/11?”

  At first, my answer was always no. I was shocked that you would be so curious about that terrible day, which I had been trying to forget since it happened. I have friends who lost family members on 9/11 and others who narrowly escaped the towers before they collapsed. The memories of that day remain sharp and terrifying.

  Though I work in New York City, in an office about a mile from the World Trade Center, I was not in New York City when the planes struck. I was on a plane above the Atlantic Ocean, heading back to New York from a family reunion and celebration in Europe. I had said good-bye to my husband in London; he was staying for a wedding of a business friend. I couldn’t wait to see my kids and my parents, who would be waiting for me at a Little League game in our town, about thirty-five miles from New York City.

  An hour and a half into the flight, I suddenly had the feeling that the plane was making a slow turn. Nobody else seemed to notice. I sat nervously, hoping I was imagining it. But then a stewardess made an announcement. “There has been a catastrophic event affecting all of North American airspace,” she said. “We are returning to London. We will provide more information shortly.”

  Catastrophic event? The plane was silent as people tried to grasp what this could possibly mean. Earthquake? Bomb? One man actually thought a meteor could have hit somewhere in America. And then, moments later, the stewardess made another announcement.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “I will now tell you what has occurred….”

  And for reasons I will never understand, she told our planeload of terrified people exactly what was happening: that planes had been hijacked by terrorists and flown into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. There could be other planes involved, she said. The disaster was still unfolding.

  An hour and a half later, we landed in London. Police escorted us into the chaotic airport. Somehow, I tracked down my husband. It wasn’t until late that night that we were able to get a call through to our kids and my mom and dad. It was four days before flights started flying into the United States and we could get home.

  What a sad and frightening time it was.

  Thousands of firefighters and other rescue workers swarmed the sixteen-acre disaster zone, searching for survivors. The area, which became known as Ground Zero, was extremely dangerous. Underground fires smoldered, and the smoke was a toxic mix of melted plastic, steel, lead, and many poisonous chemicals. Few of the rescue workers had on proper protective clothing or masks.

  And as it quickly became clear, there were not very many survivors to find. Only fourteen people were pulled out of the rubble alive, all within the first twenty-four hours of the collapse. About 50,000 people had been working in the buildings that day. Two thousand and sixteen died. Also among the dead: 343 firefighters and 60 police officers who were in or near the buildings when they collapsed.

  In the months after the attacks, it was hard to imagine that life would ever go back to normal. It never will for many people, like my friend who lost her brother; like the hundreds of firefighters who have serious health problems caused by the toxic smoke and dust they breathed at Ground Zero; like the thousands who managed to escape that day, but who saw the horrors up close
.

  Today, while the horrors of that day still linger, the city itself is more vibrant than ever. People have done their best to move forward.

  So why did I write this book?

  Because after talking to many kids, teachers, and librarians, I began to understand why so many of you asked me to. September 11 shaped the world you were born into. It’s only natural that you would be curious about it. I hope my story gives you a sense of that day — the fear and the courage, the sense of horror and shock.

  I will admit that in my plans for this story, Uncle Benny did not survive the collapse of Tower 1. I even told my editor, Amanda, “Uncle Benny doesn’t make it.” She was sad to hear this, but we both agreed that this ending would be realistic. I had it in my mind that Uncle Benny had charged up the stairs of Tower 1, with fifty pounds of gear on his back, determined to get to the fire. Lucas waited for him to return to the firehouse, but he never did.

  But as I wrote the last page of the last chapter of the book, with Lucas on the football field, suddenly there was Uncle Benny, standing with his crutches and his shamrock tattoo peeping out of his cast. I swear to you that he just appeared. I could picture him so clearly, still banged up, but his eyes sparkling, looking at me as if to say, “Come on, there was so much sadness that day. Could you please give Lucas’s story a happy ending?”

  And so I did.

  TIME LINE FOR THE MORNING OF SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

  8:46 A.M.: A commercial jet, American Airlines Flight 11, crashes into the North Tower (Tower 1) of the World Trade Center.

  9:03 A.M.: Another jet, United Airlines Flight 175, crashes into the South Tower (Tower 2) of the World Trade Center.

  9:37 A.M.: American Airlines Flight 77 crashes into the Pentagon, the headquarters of the United States military, in Arlington County, Virginia.

  9:42 A.M.: United States airspace is shut down. No planes are allowed to take off and all aircraft in flight are ordered to land at the nearest airport.

  9:59 A.M.: The South Tower of the World Trade Center begins to collapse. People from around the country and the world watch it on TV.