Memories of 9/11
This year marks 25 years since the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks in the United States.
What was that day like for people living in New York? As the 25th anniversary of 9/11 approaches, I once again asked New Yorkers to look back on what they remember about that day.
Working for a Japanese Bank on Floors 48–50 of the North Tower: “The Floor Buckled Back and Forth”
George Mironis, a 9/11 survivor who evacuated the North Tower
I had been working at Dai-Ichi Kangyo Bank, which occupied floors 48 through 50 of the World Trade Center’s North Tower, since January 10, 1994. The South Tower housed Fuji Bank, which was part of the same corporate group, and I had friends and colleagues working there as well.
I had a habit of arriving at work early every morning. By 8:30 a.m., I would sit on a bench in the Plaza at the World Trade Center, with a newspaper and a cup of coffee I had bought at a kiosk, enjoying some quiet time before work.
Then I would head upstairs to my office and get ready for the day.
My responsibilities were to maintain the offices spread across three floors and care for the premises.
On September 11, 2001, the sky was beautifully clear. It was still warm for early fall, and it was a beautiful day.
Just as I was about to put my lunch in the refrigerator in the lunchroom on the 48th floor, I suddenly felt an impact, as if someone had pushed me from behind, followed by a whistling sound.
I looked at my watch. It was 8:46 a.m. Without thinking, I immediately threw my Tupperware behind me and crawled under my desk, which was on the southeast side of the office.
A few seconds later, when I stood up, I saw a huge amount of debris and paper falling from the upper floors outside the window. My coworkers were nowhere to be seen. My manager’s boss was about eight desks away, and we looked at each other.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe there was an explosion at the restaurant upstairs,” I replied, referring to Windows on the World, the restaurant on the 106th and 107th floors of the North Tower.
As I was talking with the bank officer , I felt the floor move back and forth at least five feet twice. This scared me because it felt as though there was nothing around me but the floor, yet the floor was still intact. I got under my desk again.
A minute or two later, I stood up and looked out the window. Even more debris was falling, one piece after another, like a heavy snowstorm.
The bank officer told me to evacuate.
“How about you, sir?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be OK,” he said.
I quickly ran to the lunchroom and checked the three other offices to make sure no one was left inside. I then grabbed my bag from my desk and quickly took a picture of the debris falling outside from the window. Then I headed for the fire exit near my desk and began making my way down the emergency stairs.
As I joined people coming down from the upper floors and we continued down the stairs together, I heard an announcement: “Please keep to your right . We are bringing injured people through.”
It was a horrifying sight. I saw a woman whose hair was burnt, crying and screaming, and a man with burns on both arms. I had absolutely no idea what had happened, and I was overwhelmed with anxiety.
After we had gone down another 10 to 15 floors, fully equipped firefighters began coming up the stairs, each carrying a spare hose over one shoulder. One of them, a young firefighter with a clean-cut face, placed his left hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll be okay.”
They continued upward, heading toward the scene to do their jobs. Even at that point, I still had no idea what was happening.
As we went farther down, police officers and firefighters were handing out bottled water and soft drinks. Thanks to them, we were able to cool our faces and necks for a while.
Then the lighting became dim. Water was coming from the sprinklers, and a thin haze of smoke filled the air.
When we reached a balcony, police officers and the Port Authority staff were directing us toward the exit. Looking down from the balcony toward the Plaza, I could see something large burning.
In the lobby, two bodies lay on the floor, covered with newspapers.
We headed toward the stairs leading to 5 WTC. These would later become known as the “Survivors’ Staircase.”
I found myself in front of Borders Bookstore at 5 WTC. Pieces of paper were scattered across the street, and people were screaming and crying.
I looked up at the twin towers. The upper floors were engulfed in flames, like something out of hell, and huge clouds of smoke were billowing into the sky. Even then, I still had no idea what was happening. When I asked people around me, some said, “Maybe they’re filming a movie or something.” Another person told me, “Two planes crashed into the buildings.”
In the middle of the street between the hotel and St. Paul’s Chapel, about two blocks away, a woman’s body, apparently struck by flying glass, lay covered with a newspaper. Items that appeared to belong to her—her hat, sunglasses, shoes, and handbag—were scattered around her.
The area was in complete chaos, with the sirens of fire trucks and police cars and the horns of buses and cars blaring, while people ran around in a daze.
As I started walking toward Park Row, I heard an enormous sound, like a monster growling. I turned around and saw that the South Tower, the second tower, was collapsing.
With an earth-shaking roar unlike anything I had ever heard, the building collapsed, floor after floor, like a stack of pancakes.
According to investigations afterward, the collapse took only about nine seconds, from the initiation of the collapse until the first exterior panels reached the ground. Who could believe that a 110-story building could collapse at such speed?
After the South Tower collapsed, a huge cloud of dust and smoke began to spread. It seemed to swirl around twice, and then suddenly came rushing toward where I was standing. I could feel a chill around my knees.
A photograph of the dust cloud, reportedly taken just before the collapse, was later named “The Face of the Devil” (Satan’s Face). If you stare at the photograph for a few seconds, the face begins to emerge.
I started running before I was swallowed up by the cloud of dust. I kept running, occasionally looking back over my shoulder.
Communications were completely down. Neither cell phones nor pay phones worked, and I tried repeatedly to call my family, but I could not get through at all. So I kept looking for a pay phone. As I walked north, various stores had placed televisions and radios outside on the sidewalks, sharing the latest information with people. Some stores were also handing out bottled water and soft drinks for free.
The subway was not running, but it seemed that water routes, such as ferries and boats, were still operating.
Along the way, I passed two hospitals. I don’t remember the name of the first one, but the second was St. Vincent Hospital, which was located at Seventh Avenue and 12th Street at the time. Both hospitals were crowded with people, with ambulances bringing in injured people one after another.
Along the way, I also saw many people in business suits. Men and women were covered in dust from head to toe, looking like zombies.
By then, my wife, Roula, and our daughter, Rania, and son, Peter, had safely made it home and were watching the news with relatives. Our granddaughter, Noelle-Ioana, whom my wife and I were raising, was at school at the time and learned about the attacks from the news. She was crying as she told those around her, “My grandfather works at the World Trade Center.”
As I continued walking north, I reached around 25th or 26th Street on Sixth Avenue. I saw a line of people waiting for a pay phone, so I joined the line. The phones had been opened for free calls. When it was finally my turn, I was able to speak with my family. Hearing each other’s voices was very emotional.
There was a 1½-hour wait to make a call, so there were still many people waiting behind me. I kept my call with my family as short as possible.
I then headed west. To give thanks to God and pray for saving my life, I went to St. Eleftherios’ Greek Orthodox Church near 24th Street and Ninth Avenue. But the church was closed. Still, I prayed outside the building, quietly saying to myself, “God was with me.”
I continued walking and, when I reached 12th Avenue around 32nd Street, I saw a very long line that stretched all the way to 42nd Street. I was told that it was a line for a ferry, so I joined it. Under the hot sun, I waited for about three and a half hours before finally boarding a ferry to Weehawken, New Jersey, on the other side of the Hudson River.
When I got off the ferry, I saw tents set up everywhere, with large numbers of medical personnel treating people affected by the attacks. I asked if I could borrow a phone to call my family and have them come pick me up, but I was told, “Sorry, but there were buses running that would drop people off as close to their homes as possible.” I was able to get on a bus, which dropped me off three blocks from my home.
When I was reunited with my family, we hugged, kissed, and burst into tears. At the same time, I was completely exhausted. I asked for a cold beer, but before I could even drink it, I apparently fell asleep on the sofa.
Late that evening, a Japanese manager from the bank called my home to check on my safety. My wife told them that I was safe, and he seemed relieved, she said. He left a message for me to report to work the next morning, September 12, 2001.
I couldn’t get up early the next morning as I normally did, but I still made my way to Grove Street in Jersey City, New Jersey. A disaster recovery site had been newly set up there. There were no chairs or desks, and it looked almost like a refugee camp. For a while, we worked on the floor.
The staff in my department, including those in property management, had an enormous amount of work to do to prepare for employees to return to work. To complete everything by the last week of September, we stayed at a nearby hotel away from our families and worked for a week to complete everything.
Once all the work was completed, our manager took the staff out to dinner. During the dinner, the manager asked me how much time I had left with the bank. I replied, “God’s will. One more year, and I would submit the papers for retirement.” The manager said something to the effect of, “George, I’m very happy for you.”
In mid-March 2003, the manager came to my desk and told me, “George, April 8 will be your last day at work.” In other words, I was laid off. This hit me very hard. I was very upset…
But I’m alive! And THIS IS LIFE.
＃＃＃
- This article was written and edited by the author for readability, based on George Mironis’ records and interview.
Header image: Ground Zero, New York City
Text and photos by Kasumi Abe
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