Abbate Maria Bellia - From Landfill to Hallowed Ground: the Largest Crime Scene in America

To all the victims of the 9/11 attacks and their families.

To the First Responders who perished that day and those who gave so much of themselves post-9/11 in a tireless effort to bring normalcy to a very dark period in our countrys history.

To the fallen NYC skyline, a one-of-a-kind view that will never be again.

Authors Note

Calm before the Storm

I remember clearly everything I did on September 11, 2001, and wish I didnt. I wish I had no memories of that day and wish that day had been different. Like so many thousands of others, I wish it had never happened, but it did, and my thoughts over a decade later are still too clear and too real.

I woke early, put on the coffee, and got my son Anthony up for school. Anthony was five years old and in kindergarten, and my daily routine was getting him ready, fed, dressed, and on the bus. My wife normally worked from home, but on this day, as luck would have it, she had to go to the office.

My son Dominic, who was one and a half, was up early as well, so I put him in his high chair. Dom and Anthony ate breakfast while the three of us watched television. Suddenly their cartoons were interrupted by a local news flash. The next thing I saw on the television was the south tower of the World Trade Center on fire. As the smoke billowed, I became mesmerized by what was happening. I assumed that this was some type of terrible, tragic accident, at which time I put Anthony on the bus.

Dominic and I continued to watch television, showing the tower smoking. I decided to call my father, Anthony Marra, who was the Borough Commander of Staten Island. I asked him if he was aware of what was going on at the World Trade Center. He said he had started to receive calls from his office about what was happening. I thought at first a small aircraft had crashed into the tower, but then I saw the second plane strike the North Tower with such force it almost came out the other side of the building. I said to my dad, This is not a coincidence. These are not small planes but commercial airliners. This has to be some kind of attack. My dad was silent and then agreed that, in his forty-year career, this would be a day that no one would be prepared for. As we said good-bye, we both knew what had to be done.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I knew I had three calls to make. The first was to my office at the Brooklyn South Gang Unit. I spoke with my Lieutenant Joe Cardinale, who instructed me to get my personal business in order and to make my way to the office. The second call was to my wife, Laura. I told her to tell her boss she needed to leave. She had witnessed the second tower being hit on television at work, so she knew what I meant.

The third call was to my in-laws who lived around the corner to ask them to come and stay with my youngest son Dominic so I could get my son Anthony from school. He was my main concern. I needed to see him, to know he was safe. When my mother-in-law arrived, I headed straight for P.S. 32.

When I pulled up to my sons school, the street looked like a parking lot. The outside of the school screamed the word panic with cars parked on sidewalks and grass. I had to block someones driveway to park a block away. The inside was jammed with people, and I could see the fear and panic on the other parents and teachers faces. We all had the same thought: Just get my child and go home. Phones were ringing, someone was talking over the loud speaker, and I heard someone say, Mr. Marra, do you want me to get Anthony? After what seemed like an eternity but was probably five minutes, we headed home. I gathered my work bag, told my mother-in-law I would stay in touch, and headed into Brooklyn around 9:15 a.m.

I was secure in the feeling that my children were safe and my wife was on her way home. Eventually my dad had to send a police car into New Jersey to get her. Laura was stuck in traffic so deep that she would not have gotten home unless this bold move was made. What I realized at a later moment was that despite all the craziness that was happening around us, all the fear, all the panic, this moment was truly the calm before the storm because what would follow in the next forty-five minutes would change all of us for the rest of our lives.

Field of Death

T he body bags were piled up on the ground, a morgue in the making. There was no particular formation, just piles waiting to be used. Eventually the body bags would be spread out right next to one another in a military formation like soldiers going into battle. The bags would cover the outfield of the Staten Island Yankees Stadium, located in Richmond Terrace, in Staten Island, New York. The stadium for the class A affiliate of the New York Yankees is located on the waterfront directly across from Manhattan, a ferry ride away.

On a normal afternoon, this stadium would provide one of the best views of any stadium in New York, a picturesque landscape of the New York City skyline. On this day, it would be the backdrop of a temporary morgue. It would provide a view of devastation and astonishment for its onlookers. On September 11, 2001, the outfield was something it was never intended to be.