Text 4 Notes from a Russian volunteer

By Anton Burkov

Student of Columbia University, resident of the city of Yekaterinburg

September 11, 16:00. Our team of volunteers is on the first floor of One Liberty Plaza which houses a makeshift headquarters, a hospital, and a kitchen. I remember, about two weeks ago, taking a snapshot of the twin towers 30 to 40 meters from One Liberty Plaza.

A large number of rescue workers suffer from dust and fatigue. Their eyes are filled with dust: There are not enough goggles to go around. We were assigned to wash rescuers' eyes. They come on their own, some groping their way to our room like blind men while others are led by the arms (they work themselves to a frazzle) and put into office chairs with water drips hanging from above. Gauze, water, and drops: The operation takes less than five minutes. Those who feel strong enough put on their helmets and go back in. Many have their pulse checked, cardiogram taken, and oxygen masks applied. A corner in the hall is set aside for serious cases. As treatment is administered, cell phones chirp in rescuers' pockets: It's their relatives calling. The answer is usually very short: "I'm okay; sorry, I have to go."

Suddenly a fire alarm goes off and everyone is ordered to leave the building. Evacuation begins. But five minutes" later it's all clear: The fire has been put out.

It grows completely dark. In the dark the concrete dust looks like snow. Winter. Electricity is laid on from gas-operated power generators. The site of the disaster is lit by powerful searchlights: The work never stops for a second.

I get acquainted with the members of our volunteer team. All of them are temporary residents in the city. We call ourselves International Team. I can only remember a few names and the eyes shining with the readiness to help, for the faces are hidden behind respirators:

Nelly from Britain, Kelly from Scotland, Dean from Britain, Boris from Germany... Some have come for holidays, some have come to study. What country, the citizens of what state was the terrorist attack aimed against?

Water runs out. As we go to fetch more water, we see rats running out of an adjacent building. A lot of rats. Could it be another - ?

Cement crumbs mixed with water from hydrants turn into a viscous cement mess. I realize it was a mistake to put on sandals when leaving home.

It is 5 a.m. We are exhausted. Our feet are burning. A fresh batch of volunteers arrives to relieve us. The first floor is completely taken up by rescuers taking a rest. We have to look for somewhere to sleep several stories above. It's a good thing there are more dian 100 of those stories. We do not have to go up too high: On the second floor we find a clothes store. There is as much dust there as out in the street, what with all the windows on the side of die International Trade Center blown out. Taking three identical overcoats (I glance at the price tags) at $400 apiece, I fling them into the dust, make a bed, and go to sleep. I have never used such expensive bedclothes before. I take off my respirator.

September 17. The city has changed visibly. Everyone has gotten used to fighter planes flying over New York.

In between news bulletins, somber music is broadcast on the radio. There are more and more people with crape bands on their chest. There are national flags in the windows, on car antennas, and in the hands of passersby. I open a copy of The New York Times: On the back page there is a picture of the national flag. Brief instructions below say: cut out and paste on the window.

Everywhere there are notices about meetings in support of the victims. Tuesday, September 18: Three minutes of silence from 8:45 to 8:48 a.m., die time the first aircraft crashed. Every day from 7:37 to 8:37 p.m., a candle night: Everyone is asked to light a candle and go out into the street. The candles will not go out until die last rescue worker has returned home; 8:45-9:03 p.m. — lights out.

There are disturbing notices asking to stop pogroms. History repeats itself. Not far from the university campus there was a hot-dog and hamburger stand run by Afghans. After the 11* the stand disappeared.