Yom Kippur at Ground Zero: 9/11 25 Years Later

“Your testimonies are truthful. Your home is forever holy.” – Tehillim 93, 5

25 years later, I realize my most visceral memory of 9/11 did not occur on 9/11.

I realized I had to spend Yom-Kippur 2001 at Ground Zero when I met the cabbie. He was an endangered species, the prototype of New York City cabbies of yore- old, feisty, frosted by a Brooklyn Jewish accent redolent of tribal devotees of Ebbets Field.

I had spent the evening, days after 9/11, at the Armory, a massive block-long pre-war edifice, Lexington and 25th Street, the center for casualties information, unsuccessfully offering psychiatric support to next-of-kin irreversibly convinced their loved ones were on the cusp of being found.

He hailed me, rather than the reverse, as soon as I exited the door:

“Hey Doc, need a ride?” (I was wearing my white coat, whose sleeve I was using to wipe my tears.)

I wordlessly shook my head. I needed to walk home to hide my tears, and find my faith.

“C’mon Doc, no charge. It’s on me… Wherever you need to go. Doesn’t matter how far.”

My reply was muffled by my crying: “Thank you. That’s very kind, but I’d rather walk.”

“Doc, please! Tee Me Atoiva! [Do me a favor!]” (I was wearing my Kipa.)

I got it. He needed precisely what I needed, but failed to achieve, to pretend we were contributing something, so we wouldn’t feel so frighteningly helpless.

Everyone felt that way. At the Armory, there were more people offering solace than receiving it, restaurateurs offering gourmet meals, masseuses massages, hairstylists haircuts. Outside, pushcart vendors were pushing free hotdogs. It was simultaneously pathetic and inspiring.

The worst day in our nation’s history brought out the very best within us.

I approached the cab. He opened the front door. He needed a companion, not a passenger.

Without asking me where I was going, he started driving. Neither of us had a destination.

He talked; I listened. He needed someone to talk to; I needed someone who wanted to talk to me.

When he finally dropped me off, he shared he wasn’t ready to go home, but would instead drive to Ground Zero to recite the Shema.

I realized I could do no less. I had spent much time at the Armory, none at Ground Zero. The holiest day of 2001 followed the unholiest day of my lifetime by only 16 days. I understood where I had to observe it.

Our 17-year-old twin daughters insist on joining me though it means walking over 8 miles, fasting, on a sweltering day. We dress as if we’re going to Shul, carrying nothing but our prayer-books.

Walking downtown, we encounter a large, young Black man with muscular dystrophy, struggling with his wheelchair. Pushing him to his destination, I mention ours, and our purpose. With great difficulty, he enunciates his name, begging to be included in our prayers.

Two hours later, Ground Zero announces itself. The crowd and air thicken, the latter so acrid, many cover their faces. We don’t.

I don’t share with my girls what I recognize from the hospital, the unmistakable scent of burnt human flesh.

I also smell death. They smell it too. As we hold hands, our palms sweat profusely. It isn’t from the heat.

The police aggressively keep us moving, as if we’re rubberneckers at a crash, or paparazzi at a celebrity funeral. Posted signs prominently warn that photography is illegal, plywood erected to obfuscate the view.

Nonetheless, people jump, cameras stretched blindly over their heads, to shamelessly grab furtive snapshots.

Though we have no credentials, police wordlessly understand our purpose is veneration, not exploitation. I am addressed as rabbi. We are escorted behind barriers to backless benches being used as a rest area.

Hours go by in a blur. We’re too immersed speaking to God to talk to each other.

Never before, and never again, have the words of Nesana Tokef come so alive as when being recited at the holiest place on earth, imbued with a meaning I never previously comprehended:

“The great Shofar will scream, but a faint heartfelt sound will still be heard. Frantic angels, seized by trembling and terror will announce that this is the Day of Judgment.”

Why had I never before noticed the word “Terror“?

“God counts, calculates and considers each soul.”

Newspaper strewn on the ground detail revised daily death-tolls.

“Who will die in fire?”

Listening to the periodic clamor of rubble falling, I imagine the apocalyptic sound of the World Trade Center collapsing in flames a few hundred yards away, a few hundred hours earlier.

I try unsuccessfully not to think of those throwing themselves out of windows to avoid being incinerated.

“Who will die before their time?”

I appreciate what my survivor parents felt like, discovering only they remained from their entire families.

I had been to the World Trade Center countless times for business meetings. If I had one 16 days ago, today, my daughters would be reciting Yizkor.

If I was in Shul today, I would view the immaculate white high holiday Parochet, surrounded by pals exchanging small talk. Here, there is no small talk. There is no talk at all.

Hear everything is still covered in the suffocating soot soiling anyone daring to enter. Everything, animate or inanimate, appears as if it has been spray-painted a chalky charcoal gray.

It appears like a Hollywood designer’s dystopian vision of the day after nuclear Armageddon.

Every time we chance upon an outdoor bench walking home, we sit down. Our return trip takes an hour longer. Part of it is we are physically exhausted. Most of it is we are emotionally drained.

My new high holiday clothes are encrusted with such a thick layer of dust, smelling of the morgue,I discard them as soon as I return home.

Nonetheless, I have never felt as clean, pure and holy.

Days later, I still can’t stop talking about our experience. Most listeners are moved. One isn’t. He points out, on the holiest day of the year, we Davened without a Minyan.

I think back to our Musaf Amida, the lengthiest prayer of the entire year, recited standing at attention.

Finishing before my daughters, I stepped back to admire their fervent devotion. I am startled to notice that all of the firemen, construction workers, and policemen are also standing silently, out of respect for us. Some are so bone-weary, they have to lean against lampposts, but God bless them, each and every one stood the entire time we prayed.

They were of all races and ethnicities, from all parts of the country. Some stood with their eyes closed; others just stared off into the distance.

I don’t know if any of them were Jewish; I do know, at that moment, we were all of the same faith. Though we were all of different religions, we shared the same soul.

Whether it constituted a proscribed Minyan, or not, I was honored to be part of it.

It will always remain the holiest Yom Kippur of my life.