A Friend Who Never Came Home

By: Greg Mitchell Like others in the VNU editorial edifice at 9th Street and Broadway, E & P staffers work closer to Ground Zero than most other journalists in New York, and perhaps that's why we brought a special passion to our post-9/11 coverage five years ago. In the days after the terrorist attacks we hailed courageous reporters and photographers who rushed to the scene to get that story. Some suffered serious injury or were killed.

My own story is a minor one in the drama, yet it illustrates how so many of us -- all of us here -- were profoundly affected.

A few minutes ago, at around 8:50 this morning, exactly five years after the first hijacked plane hit the tower, I watched the wife of a friend read his name aloud at Ground Zero.

Every weekday morning, when I finish my commute by exiting the subway at Astor Place, nothing but empty sky greets me looking south down Lafayette Street. Until five years ago, I saw something quite different filling much of the same sky: the twin totems of the World Trade Center, welcoming me above ground in Manhattan, and not that far off.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was midway to Grand Central Terminal on a Metro North train, heading south along the Hudson as usual, when the conductor came on the public-address system and said, "A plane has just hit the World Trade Center." And, sure enough, straight down the river, I could see one of the Twin Towers smoking.

Then, a few minutes later, pulling into Grand Central, came another announcement: "You're not going to believe this, folks, but a plane has just hit the other tower."

My first thought was: "What floor does Jon Albert work on?" I recalled it as being horrendously high. I had just talked with my friend, who lived about a mile away in our river town, the previous night. I had managed his son Steve for several years, and he was on my team -- and Jon was a coach -- on our fall league team at that time. And I'd written about Jon, one of the good guys, and his boy in a recent book.

Only much later, when I learned the flight paths of the two jetliners, did I realize that as I was speeding along the river, at least one of the hijacked planes was probably flying directly overhead. Nearing the city, I might have even heard it.

After arriving at Grand Central, I stood transfixed before a TV screen, and eventually, in horror, saw the first tower collapse. I could not recall which tower Jon worked in.

I spent the next three hours trying to reach our office, more than 30 blocks south, toward Ground Zero. I took a cab for a few blocks, then traffic stopped. I walked back to Grand Central thinking the subways might be running again. They weren't, and Grand Central had been evacuated, as hundreds fled in panic.

Like other New Yorkers, I staggered around in a daze for an hour, not knowing if more planes were heading for us. Then I trudged on foot to the office. As I got below 14th Street, I could see the mountain of deadly smoke covering that familiar patch of blue sky that once embraced the towers. I was a veteran of ground zeroes, having spent a lot of time in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but this was here, this was now.

Swirls of acrid dust blew in my face -- pulverized concrete and (I imagined) human residue, rushing north up Fourth Avenue. It was snowing death.

Well, I reached the office, with the same smell already in the A/C. I don't remember if I helped get some Web stories posted. Somehow I got home late that night, and could not return the next day as everything south of 14th Street was sealed off. Quickly I learned that Jon Albert, indeed, had not come home the night of 9/11.

Yet tragedy, in some ways, was even closer. The couple living directly across the street from us on our hillside had a daughter who worked in one of the towers, and was also missing. About a month earlier, we had donated our son's old swing/play set from our backyard to this couple -- for use when their daughter brought her kids to visit.

On Sept. 13, I dodged the police lines to help get the next issue out, on time: a small miracle. To do it, we had to ignore the disturbing smells from outside that often filtered through our ventilation system. Our first cover was all black with "September 11, 2001" in white type.

My friend Jon Albert, and the neighbor's daughter, and nearly 3000 others, still hadn't come home (they never would). The following week, we ran on the cover a picture of Aris Economopoulos, a photographer for The Star-Ledger in Newark, N.J., barely escaping the ruins of Ground Zero, still clutching his camera.

Jon Albert's son, after a fabulous high school pitching career, entered college this month. The neighbors across the way today put out an American flag with a banner recalling the losses of 9/11. At 8:50 this morning, Jon's widow, Donna Albert, read his name at Ground Zero.