The Stuyvesant building has been transformed into a sanctuary for the rescue personnel working at Ground Zero, according to military police. And it shows. Almost every floor of the building has been affected in some way, from the lobby to the 10th floor.
It wasn’t easy getting into the building in the first place. We were denied access by three groups of police officers in rapid succession. I was ready to leave, but Ben wouldn’t give up. We next tried West Street, where a friendly group of officers stopped us and asked our business. After a whole lot of kibbitzing, and showing them every piece of identification in our wallets, they allowed us to pass. I’ll never forget what one of the officers told me before we left them.
“Smile!” he said, laughing at my serious face. “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
It was comforting to know that despite the tension that rides the dust clouds all over Lower Manhattan, some people have retained humor enough to cheer up those who might be unhappy. I silently wished him every good thing I could think of as we walked away.
After talking our way through at least five other checkpoints, surer each time that we would never get through, we find ourselves in the first-floor lobby of the school. Sensory overload rushes over me as I survey the building where I’ve gone to school for more than three years. Right away, I notice the loud, insistent barking of a dog, the strange mustiness of the air, and the crates stacked in piles—far taller than I am—leaning against the lockers past the security desk.
I notice, as we run up the stairs to the second floor, that the steps are half-covered with dust. The custodial staff’ll have a fit, I think, as we race toward the even-floor escalators.
The fourth floor is littered with boxes, but the strangest thing is the yards and yards of electric wires, draped like cobwebs from outlets to lights, taped to walls, floors and columns. Generator power, I conclude silently. We also notice that the elevator banks are festooned with signs reading “Hot Food 2nd Floor,” “Bedding 3rd Floor” and “Showers 5th Floor.”
The sixth floor is dead silent. I’ve never seen or heard it that way before. Finally, panting, we run into a teacher outside her classroom. She’s shocked to see us, and asks how we managed to get in. We don’t really know.
We collapse into chairs inside the room and start commenting on the things we’ve seen. She says the first thing she’d noticed was a pile of shovels in the lobby’s foyer. Neither Ben nor I had seen them. We had also missed the camoflauge-clad National Guardsmen sleeping outside on “the Wall” and cops eating fare from a McDonald’s food tent on the corner of Chambers and Greenwich.
She points out the little details that show that her room’s been used: a flashlight sits on her desk, papers have been ripped in half in her drawers, a set of numbers is written on the chalkboard: 31, 3, 29, 49, 8, 30, 52 with the 52 circled. Powerball numbers? Stationed fire fighters? It’s a mystery.
We offer to help her carry her bags of books and ride the elevator to the fifth floor. The doors to the locker room are propped open and crates are piled against the walls, as on other floors. A big guy, a fire fighter perhaps, gets into the elevator with us. I realize that he’s wearing a blue Stuyvesant Peglegs T-shirt and shorts. Maybe they raided the Student Store, the teacher suggests after he leaves.
Back on the first floor, the teacher asks us to wait while she makes a trip to the library. We sit side by side on the steps, taking in the scene. The dog’s barking grates on my nerves until I remember what it’s being used for. If I were crawling over piles of buckled steel and shattered concrete looking for bodies all day, I’d demand some attention too.
Tables are set up all over the lobby with packaged snacks and medical supplies like bandages and saline solution. Over near the pool entrance are more stacks of cardboard boxes, marked things like “New Socks” and “Underwear.” Some of the boxes are open and are filled with food, tissues and protective face masks, all of which, I realize, came from donors.
On the second floor behind the escalators, we see a hot bar set up. Firemen walk around with trays of French toast and bacon, and cots are set up everywhere. Inside the SU are more cots and boots, and there is even a cot set up inside The Spectator office. It is covered with a red sheet and a pink towel; a box of Epsom salts sits next to it. But for that, the office looks the same.
Leaving, we had just enough time to notice a sign hanging on ropes in front of the senior bar: “Chiropractor, Will Lift Your Spirits.”
They’ll need it. The rubble outside is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
- Laura KrugThe train doors open at Franklin Street, and we step out onto the platform. The first thing that hits us is the air. It’s sharp and piercing, and full of sour pain. We walk out to a deserted street, a Saturday morning ghost town. In the distance, there’s fog, or is it smoke?
Walking to the first checkpoint, we encounter jittery policy officers guarding the street. I’m not sure who’s more nervous, us or them. They deny entrance, telling us to go to the next block, where the story’s the same: keep walking.
We reach the BMCC park, where a man stands near the checkpoint, furiously videotaping. For the first time, I see Stuyvesant, and for some reason, a glimmer of hope strikes me. Here the officers radio their commander and we’re told to walk back to the sergeant, a man in a white shirt.
He’s a tall, stern fellow, full of harsh assurance. There’s no way the two of us are getting in. Looking for “the command post” where we can get mayor’s passes, the two of us ramble around the BMCC area, being turned away by more cops. Laura despairs, she’s sick of walking around, she wants to go to work. I insistently question her about her job, all the time leading us toward West Street. We finally reach some sheriffs from Suffolk County, and I talk to the first genuinely friendly person in Lower Manhattan. He smiles and points to a group of cops milling on the corner. Taking out our school I.D. cards, we walk up to them, and the negotiation begins.
I introduce myself in a firm, steady voice—in stark contrast to the timid, scared tone I’d used earlier. I show them the cards, and they note, in somber jest, that it could be a fake. I take out my wallet, handing over my program, Jewish Theological Seminary I.D., Stuy Ultimate membership card, video rental pass, and my student MetroCard. I pass them over swiftly and with phony confidence. Suddenly, the key turns in the lock, and the officers start laughing. They give us our cards back, saying it’s all right, we can go in. Stay to the left as long as possible, there’s heavy machinery on the right. I look back at the chuckling officers, noticing one in particular. As we walk away, I’m hoping he lives for another hundred years.
We’re in.
After walking on the left side of the highway alongside emergency vehicles, buses and barricades, we have to climb over flowerbeds to cross the street. My heart is pounding. There are soldiers at a command post on our left, heavily armed cops on our right, and everywhere, construction workers. And at the corner of Chambers and West, yet another officer, after yet another explanation, smiles and lets us through. We thankfully tell him to have a nice day.
Into the school we walk, triumphantly holding our I.D. cards high, through the forbidden front entrance. As we enter, a there’s a crowd of cops, rescue workers, and National Guardsmen milling around. They don’t look at us, and we don’t look at them.
It’s a different world down here. You breathe different air, the people move differently, and everywhere there is a quiet sense of urgency. Round here, there’s no time for politics, despair, or flag-waving. As we walk away from the school, I see the site—the twisted skeleton of a dead animal, a giant whale. We hike through the empty streets, carrying philosophy textbooks.
- Ben Magarik
« return.