Thomas Von Essen - Strong of Heart: Life and Death in the Fire Department of New York

STRONG OF HEART

LIFE AND DEATH IN THE FIRE DEPARTMENT OF NEW YORK

THOMAS VON ESSEN

This book is dedicated to the children left behind on September 11; and to my own children and grandchildren, who gave me some comfort in the face of so much sorrow.

Ive loved the FDNY my whole life. Like a lot of young boys, I always looked up to firefighters, especially because one of my uncles was in the fire department and four were in the police department. When I was very young, one of my childhood memories was of my uncle Eddie, one of my mothers younger brothers who was a firefighter in Brooklyn, being thrown from a ladder truck going to a fire. He was seriously injured and the doctors thought he might not be able to walk again.

My mother took me to Kings County Hospital to visit Uncle Eddie. Despite his tremendous pain, all he talked about was returning to work. And he did. He recovered and had a long career in the fire department, got injured twice more, and then retired as a captain. Even as a young boy, I understood that this was not a regular job. This was a job for heroes.

As mayor, I went to hundreds of fires and met thousands of firefighters. They remain the bravest men I know. Tom Von Essen is a firefighters firefighter.

Although we both attended Bishop Loughlin High School in Brooklyn at the same time, I didnt meet Tom until I was running for mayor of New York City. I got to know him when I was elected mayor and Tom had emerged as the respected president of the Uniformed Firefighters Association, the main labor union of the New York City Fire Department.

In 1996 I chose Tom to be the citys fire commissioner. The choice surprised a lot of people, since Tom was the head of the firefighters union and thus had been on the other side of the negotiating table. But from that vantage point, I recognized Toms dedication to the department and his excellent leadership skills. He never let the city down. He reformed a department that had remained largely unchanged since its inception, and his attention to detail regarding safety training and response time saved countless lives. Under Toms command, civilian casualties fell to record lows.

One of the departments saddest days was the Fathers Day fire of 2001. Three firefighters were killed in the tragedy. I prayed that this would be the last time Tom and I would stand together at a firefighters funeral. I only wish that were the case.

The horrible events of September 11 forever changed New York City and its fire department. The FDNY lost 343 menmore in a single day than the department had lost in the last hundred years. Ill never forget seeing Tom on that day, his face frozen in sorrow.

Tom was with Ray Downey, Pete Ganci, Father Mychal Judge, and Bill Feehan as they set up the board that the department uses to plan its emergency response. Theyre all gone; hes still here. He wanted to stay with his men, but I needed him with me to help, to advise the public, to relay information about evacuation, and to coordinate the rescue with the police commissioner and the director of Emergency Services. He was outside when the first tower collapsed, was nearly crushed and covered in debris, and walked north to find us. Tom knew that the firefighters hed seen moments before, men he loved and respected for years, could not have fared well as they rushed in while everyone else rushed out.

For as much as America has learned about the FDNY, one story that hasnt been told enough is that September 11, as awful as it was, involved by far the greatest rescue in American history. More than 25,000 people were safely evacuated from the towers, almost entirely due to the courage and professionalism of the best-trained fire department in the world. Tom tirelessly consoled the countless grieving families and boosted the morale of the workers trying to dig out from under.

Over the next few months I was impressed and even awed by the way Tom held his shattered department together. He was indefatigable and wonderfully compassionate, never succumbing to the unbelievable pressures put on him in the wake of the attacks. Tom Von Essen was ready to lead when the department he loves needed him most.

It is crucial to maintain a sense of humor when dealing with a catastrophic situation and the person who was best at that was perhaps the person most affected by the tragedy. Whether cracking jokes with President Bush after his Ground Zero visit or poking fun at us for finally using forks after a week of eating with our hands, Tom kept our spirits up even as his own heart was breaking. In addition to his humor, Toms gift for telling it like it is makes him a natural storyteller.

Ive spoken at far too many funerals for firefighters. At the end of every eulogy, I ask everyone there to stand and applaud the departed hero, so the family can feel

the strength of the emotion. Tom deserves that same applause, the acknowledgment due to a true hero and a fine man.

Rudolph W. Giuliani

SUNDAY, JANUARY 6, 2002

My family is in the middle of a dark church and the priest is drizzling Holy Water on the forehead of my granddaughter, Julia, and talking about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Julia wriggles happily in my daughters arms.

All I want to do is get out of here.

The memories hit me as soon as we walked in. The last time I was here, it was a Friday night, at the end of the longest week I can remember. The church, nearly empty today, was overflowing. People spilled into the aisles and along the back wall. On the right, pew after pew was filled with Franciscan monks in their brown robes. On the left, up front, sat Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani, hunched over and looking weary. My wife and kids sat nearby. I had barely seen them in days.

By the altar, in an open casket, lay the body of Father Mychal Judge.

The white-haired priest was one of our chaplains, a genial and soothing presence at major fires who had be come one of the most beloved figures in the New York City Fire Department.

To me, he was simply a close friend, one of the best I had. I wasnt a devout Catholic, as I had been when I was small, but Father Judge had been that rare kind of priest who radiated goodness and made the old Bible stories relevant to the world I know, in a way that made me want to believe. As fire commissioner, I had spent many long hours with him, seeking his advice and, at times, reassurance. On my darker days over the years, he had sent me dozens of encouraging cards and notes. He had become a close friend to my whole family and had baptized Julias two-year-old sister, my first grandchild, Rita. He was supposed to have baptized Julia, too.

On too many nights, Father Judge and I had found ourselves sitting in a hospital emergency room, trying to find the words to tell some widow or mother that her husband or son had just died fighting a fire. In the middle of chaos and sorrow, we often exchanged knowing glances in search of strength. Usually he was the one giving it, and I was the one taking. I knew I was supposed to be a comforting presence at those times, but I was always a wreck on the verge of tears. Not Father Judge. He would stay calm and soothing as he took the hands of the families and spoke to them. He seemed able to suck the pain and worry and fear out of them and absorb it into himself, to take on the burdens of others and bring them relief.

Looking down at him in his casket, I wished I could do the same. The ruddy, robust face I knew so well had taken on a bluish hue that I recognized as the color of death. His features were twisted into a pained, unfamiliar grimace. It felt like a knife in my heart.