Last Sunday night, I volunteered at the switchboard for the Salvation Army's Emergency Command Center. Dedicated workers sit at their stations in one very large room, partitioned in the middle by movable room dividers. On the far right side, 20-30 chairs are arranged, theater style, facing the farthest wall from where I entered.
I was directed over to the left side of the room, to one of several long, collapsible Formica tables arranged in a large, open semi-circle. Hand-written signs, scotch-taped to the outer perimeter of each designates "donations," "volunteers," and "supplies."
I was invited to sit down at the farthest station, next to a retired "Army vet" of 30 years, a woman—maybe in her early 70's—with striking white hair and a kind smile. Charitable in her dedication to the cause, her main focus is orchestrating programs and gifts for children. She cut out paper forms for felt Santa hats while she instructed me. It was the night shift, and a very slow one, given the time of the day. She munched on Fritos and sipped Sprite, selected from the table displaying an ample supply snacks, Oreos, chips (with and without Olestra), and every other imaginable kind of soft drink.
Given the briefest of briefings, I was told where to refer callers who sought to donate used—as opposed to old—clothing to the rescue workers — "We can't take used clothing to our firemen, for heavens sakes!" I glanced over towards the partition and saw that an orientation meeting was about to begin. The chairs were now filled with the incoming group of volunteers.
When it was clear that there was little need for my services on this late-night watch, I moved my chair closer to the partition to listen to the meeting that had begun a few minutes earlier. A short, stocky, middle-aged man stood before the group, conducting the meeting like a pro.
This man had obviously conducted an orientation for many since disaster day, briefing on procedures and responsibilities involved in manning the canteens at "ground zero." His audience had just arrived, men and women ranging from 30 to 50-years-old, and a few hearty males extending in years beyond that. This group came from Michigan, Ohio and Indiana. Western battalions were to follow in the next few days.
He looked exhausted and numbed by the horrors of recent days. His voice betrayed his efforts to sound detached and focused, quivering every time he let himself feel the harsh reality of his words.
"At this point, rescue workers are only finding whatever hasn't burned—fireman hats, coats, keys..." He paused for a moment, wincing, as if accessing indelible images in his mind. "These men are driven," he continued, "and many are hiding their injuries to avoid being pulled out. They won't stop searching, even though they know that there can't be any survivors by now. You may wonder why the canteens aren't closer to the center of 'ground zero.'
We're gradually moving the canteens further and further out to the periphery in an attempt to pull these men out. The victims were fathers and brothers and partners. Some have driven across country to do whatever they can. When they take a break, they cannot sleep. When they stop and go home, unbearable pain will distract them from their need to be strong for their families." His voice trembled, and then he cleared his throat and began again.
"When the firemen find a hat or a coat—even a badge—that belonged to one of their own, you'll see them immediately fall to their knees, remove their hats and motion for one of you in your red jacket to come over and say a prayer. It doesn't matter if you're a trained chaplain or not. The Holy Spirit will come through you to serve these people. It's there for everyone to bring through. You'll find the right words."
He went on to discuss the logistics involved in getting these people to and from the site, and the importance of securing their passes, attached to thin ropes worn around their necks. "There are only 150 of these passes, and we're not getting any more. If your bus driver asks to collect them at the end of the day, do not refuse. If you do, you're out. Do not attempt to keep them for souvenirs." He instructed about meal deliveries that would arrive three times a day.
When he concluded his talk, he thanked them all, then turned the meeting over to a Salvation Army uniformed woman who would coordinate additional details for the group. He glanced over my way, then walked over and pulled up a chair beside me. He reached over to grab a package of Oreos from the closest table. After popping a few in his mouth, all at once, he introduced himself as "George." He chewed the cookies for a minute or two, then he slumped down in the metal chair, looking as if he's mustered enough stamina for the talk with none leftover. He sat silently for a moment, staring at the floor. Then he looked up at me and smiled, in a sad sort of way.
"So many stories. I need to tell the stories, but I'm too tired. You should hear the stories of the rescue workers, the firemen. Someone will get very rich when they collect the stories. Just set up a camera and let them talk. A news person will probably do it. Spielberg should do it..." Once again, he became lost in his thoughts and (I imagined) distracted by indelible images. He looked back down to the floor. And once again, he seemed to shake them off, and returned his glance back my way.
"There will be cancer, you know—twenty years from now. We're going to see cancer in these people, with all that they're inhaling at the site. Pulverized steel, plastics, human dust, insulation—God knows what else."
We talked for awhile, about what he is doing for himself, for his spirit. I longed to suggest that he feed his body better nutrition than the available junk food, but it wasn't time for a lecture on his eating habits. Mostly, I just listened.
New Yorkers are becoming attentive and compassionate listeners. Employees at Mail Boxes, Etc. are extra patient when you make your request and debrief about your personnel experience of the disaster—what you saw, what you're feeling—in the same breath. Waiters and waitresses don't roll their eyes if you can't remember what you decided to order, if you are able to make up your mind. Phone company employees understand if you repeat the report of the trouble on your phone lines, more than once. We do the same for our insurance carriers and bankers, knowing that they lost colleagues in their main offices in the Trade Center.
My prayer is that this increased sensitivity—the love and the compassion—will last and sustain. And that our lives will be changed, forever. And this will be the gift to ourselves that can come from this tremendous challenge.