On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I was still sleeping at 8:46 a.m.

I had worked late at my newspaper the night before, the New York Jewish Week, the largest in the country, whose offices were located in Times Square, Manhattan – just around the corner from the New York Times. I had also gone out for an after-work beer.

I was living in my native borough of Brooklyn, where I had returned having previously worked at the Buffalo Evening News, the AP in Washington, and The Record and News Tribune, in North and Central New Jersey and The New York Daily News.

I was woken by the telephone, that black hunk of plastic and wires with buttons (remember those). My friend Charlie called to tell me to put on the tv – a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. Like everyone else, I dismissed it as small plane accident and went back to sleep. But he called back a few minutes after 9:03 a.m. about the second plane.

I forced myself up. Then my editor called. “Get into the office as soon as possible,” he barked. “New York is under attack.” 

I turned on the radio for updates while scrambling to get dressed. Hearing that the entire NY subway system had shut down (the first time in 24 years), I grabbed a coffee and got into my little gray Honda Civic and headed for work about 12 miles away. 

The only way into Manhattan was via the famous Brooklyn Bridge. Heading toward the bridge, the radio reported that the mayor of Washington, D.C had just ordered all cars off the road – except for police, fire and press. 

Approaching the one lane bridge ramp I saw a lone police officer guarding the ramp. He told me the bridge was now closed. I showed him my press pass, pointed to my press plates, and declared “the mayor has just announced press is permitted to drive into the city.”

I didn’t specify which mayor.  He waved me on.

By this time, both towers had fallen. I drove onto the bridge, which was only a short walk from ground zero. Smoke, ash and debris filled the air. It was like a scene from one of those nuclear apocalyptic science fiction movies.

I was the only one there.  I parked the car in the middle of the bridge – usually a bustling roadway. I got out and just took in the scene, filing mental pictures. (I had run out of the house without a camera. And this was before smart phones came with cameras.)

 The last journalist on the bridge.

When I got to the office, we had a quick meeting about coverage and divvying up responsibilities. As an experienced rewrite man, I was put in charge of gathering the reports from colleagues sent across Manhattan to report on news developments and neighborhood reactions and write the lead story.  I also was responsible for contacting elected officials and other authorities, very challenging since it was chaos and little was known.

I had covered disasters before. A plane crash on a sleepy Sunday night in a residential New Jersey neighborhood. 

The December 1993 Long Island Railroad massacre where six passengers were killed and 19 wounded by gunman Colin Ferguson.

The July 1997 suicide bombing by Palestinian terrorists in Jerusalem’s Mahane Yehuda, the main open-air fruit and vegetable market, during the height of the shopping day, where 16 people were killed and 178 injured.

But they were not like 9/11.

Admittedly, the hours flew by as colleagues regularly phoned in their reports to me and I shaped them into a front-page piece. We were exhausted but proud of what we produced, which garnered several national, state and local journalism awards.

When we were done, it was time to go home. But I couldn’t. Manhattan was now on lockdown. No one could leave the island. So, I had to start looking for some place to sleep.

A story for another time.

Eric J. Greenberg is a national award winning investigative newspaper reporter and was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in 2023 for his reporting for Rolling Stone magazine. His journalism professor and mentor is Lee Coppola, the first dean of the Jandoli School of Communication at St. Bonaventure University. 

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