ONE YEAR AGO, AND RELATED THOUGHTS: My son was born in the early morning of September 9, 2001.
Because the birth occurred so early and was wholly uncomplicated, mother and child were allowed to leave the hospital in the afternoon on September 10. We were all experiencing the daze that comes with the birth of a child – a feeling of “Is this really happening?”
The next morning was our daughter’s first full day of pre-school. Preparations for it ran later than I wanted. As I left the house, I was grousing over the fact that I was making a later train than anticipated.
As I was walking to the train, someone called out to me that a plane had hit the World Trade Center.
Like an idiot (see above re: daze) I continued walking to the train. (It did not register on me that Manhattan would be locked down, as there was no such reaction in 1993.)
As the train passed Yankee Stadium, I craned to see the familiar view of the World Trade Center. It was no longer familiar. I will never forget the smoking sight.
The train pulled into Grand Central and I tried to get into the MetLife building for work. The building was already closed down. I encountered a partner from my firm leaving the building who told me about the attack on the Pentagon.
Having finally realized what was happening, I tried to get on a train back home. A minute before the train was to depart, they announced the immediate evacuation of Grand Central. I will never forget the panic in the voice of the person making the announcement. A number of people were panicking as we tried to get out. Fortunately, we were very close to an exit and were able to get to the street in short order.
My mobile phone was not working. I walked to a restaurant which I regularly frequent, which allowed me to use their phone. After trying for a while, I was able to reach my family.
The restaurant had no television. I listened to the radio’s account of the towers’ collapse and of the crash of United Flight 93.
I finally walked to my brother’s apartment on the Upper West Side, where I spent many hours staring slack-jawed at the television.

The evening of my son’s birth had marked the beginning of the period preceding Rosh ha-Shana in which Jews say certain prayers of repentance every day (“Selikhot”). The rabbi had delivered a sermon before those prayers began, bemoaning the horrible year of terrorism in Israel which had just occurred and expressing hope that the upcoming year would be more peaceful.
We soon found out that certain evil men had other ideas.
At my son’s circumcision the next week (the “brit mila” or, colloquially, “bris”), the atmosphere was surreal. As the bris was taking place, the realization was sinking in that a prominent member of our synagogue had been murdered by the terrorists in the World Trade Center.

Rosh ha-Shana is usually viewed as an impetus for change – to review what you’ve been doing and resolve to do better. I looked at this Rosh ha-Shana as an impetus not to change; to resolve never to allow the meanings of September 11 to be diluted by time, or to be effaced by the rationalizations of so-called “sophisticates” who cannot confront the reality of evil.
Those lessons can endure, if we are vigilant enough.
My son provides daily motivation for being so.
P.S. My daughter often stretches bedtime for far longer than it should go, and I am often tempted to resist her entreaties for another story. But then I think to myself: "What if tomorrow is the day they nuke Midtown?", and she usually gets the story.