The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland (12 page)

Eithne Smith, Rabbi Leivi Sudak, and Lakewood Academy principal Jamey Jennings.
Photo courtesy of Eithne Smith

E
ithne Smith was working the fax machine. Since some passengers were having trouble reaching loved ones by phone, many had resorted to sending messages by fax. Inside the office of the Lakewood Academy, the only school in Glenwood, Smith was assembling the dispatches from passengers and feeding them into the machine. She sent so many faxes on Wednesday that her index finger was starting to swell from her pounding on the keys.

A native of Newfoundland and a teacher for twenty years, Smith loved the sense of family evoked in a school the size of Lakewood, with its 220 students and a faculty of seventeen. The school teaches the children of Glenwood and Appleton from kindergarten through grade twelve, and Smith constituted 100 percent of the school’s senior history department, 100 percent of the French department, and one-third of the English department. Like all of the teachers, she was used to doing a little bit of everything.

As she continued sending faxes and waiting patiently for confirmation that each had been received, one of the passengers walked into the office. Four planeloads of strandees—more than 650 people—had been sent to Glenwood and the neighboring town of Appleton. The majority of them were staying at the school.

“I’ve watched you all morning solve other people’s problems,” the woman said, “and now I have one for you.”

The woman explained that there was an Orthodox rabbi in the school, along with at least two women who were Orthodox Jews, and they hadn’t eaten since their plane had arrived in Gander more than twenty-four hours earlier because none of the food being served was kosher. They were hungry, but they didn’t want to complain to anyone. The woman said she only discovered this when she noticed the people weren’t eating and asked them why.

Smith was more than ready for the challenge. Her given name, Eithne, is an ancient Gaelic name that her mother had always loved. The two most recent uses of the name that Smith had found were for an old Irish battleship and a Catholic nun. Her husband often joked that he wasn’t sure which of the two she reminded him of more.

In the days following September 11, she was a little bit of both.

Smith promised the woman she’d fix the problem at once, called the main school district office, and told them she needed help. Within an hour the owner of the company that provides meals to the regular flights in and out of Gander drove to Glenwood with a cartonful of kosher meals for the school to use over the next few days.

“How did you know we were hungry?” asked Rabbi Leivi Sudak, when she came to tell them the food had arrived.

Smith told him another passenger had noticed.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything.”

Smith wished they had thought of asking for kosher meals without being prompted. The truth is, there just aren’t a lot of Jewish people in Newfoundland. The island is 98 percent Catholic and Protestant, and the only synagogue in the province is more than two hundred miles away in St. John’s. As far as she knew, the only Jewish person in Gander was David Zelcer, a correspondent for the CBC.

To help them take care of their needs for the duration of the crisis, the school gave Rabbi Sudak free rein in the faculty lounge, which had a stove, a sink, and a refrigerator. Along with several other Orthodox passengers, the rabbi turned the lounge into a kosher kitchen, complete with new pots, pans, cutlery, and cooking utensils.

Smith felt a great deal of warmth toward Rabbi Sudak, and as she often does to people she likes, she attempted to give him a reassuring hug. When the rabbi realized she was about to touch him, he gently stepped back and folded his arms across his body. He told her he appreciated the gesture, but in his faith it was improper for him to touch a woman.

There were so many different cultures represented in the school, it was just staggering to Smith. Soon after the passengers arrived, school officials hung a large map of the world on the wall and asked everyone to place a thumbtack next to the place they were from. By her count, at Lakewood Academy alone there were people from forty different countries, from Sri Lanka to Tasmania. There were women in burkas and men in flowing robes. The hallways were filled with the sounds of different languages.

After resolving the food crisis, Smith went back to faxing. Before long she was interrupted by a phone call from Australia. The woman on the line was trying to reach her son, Peter. The Red Cross said he had been sent to Glenwood, but Smith couldn’t find a record of him on their sheets. The woman was distraught. She had argued with her son before his flight took off and was upset that their last words to each other were filled with anger. Ever since the attacks on the United States, she had been frantically trying to find out where he was to make sure he was safe.

Smith set out to look for the young man. When she was unable to find him, she left notes around the school and on bulletin boards asking him to report to the office as soon as possible. An hour or so later he arrived.

He was a big fellow, tall and blond. He looked like the classic Aussie surfer. Spotting him holding one of the notes she had posted, Smith walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “That’s from your mother,” she said. “She wants you to call her. She says she’s not angry.”

Peter started sobbing uncontrollably. “I was afraid to call her,” he said. “I thought she would still be mad.” Smith took him by the hand and led him into the principal’s office and told him to call his mother that very instant.

G
eneral Barbara Fast finished her shopping and made it back to the Knights of Columbus building in time for dinner. The volunteers at the fraternal organization had made a point of cooking something special for the passengers on their first night with them and had prepared a roast-beef banquet. Rather than serving the meal buffet style, the volunteers insisted on each of the 154 passengers taking their seats and being waited on as if they were in a restaurant.

By now, some of the passengers knew what Fast did for a living. Some turned to her for answers. How could something like this have happened? Fast didn’t know what to tell them. How do you provide a rational explanation for such an irrational act?

Fast continued receiving updates from her staff in Germany. Initial reports from the Pentagon placed the death toll in the building as being very high, possibly as many as 900. She had walked those halls on many an occasion, and now they were nothing more than smoldering rubble. Ultimately, it was determined that 125 people were killed inside the Pentagon, with another 64 lost on the American Airlines flight that crashed into it.

And when the final lists were released, she counted several friends among those who died, including Lieutenant General Timothy Maude, the army’s deputy chief of staff for personnel and the highest-ranking officer killed on September 11. Fast had known General Maude and his family since 1996. The last time they had seen each other, she’d played a round of golf with him and his wife in Germany.

Wednesday was the Knights’ regular bingo night, but they canceled the event because of the arrival of their unexpected guests. Fast thought this was a mistake, as the organization could probably have made a fortune selling bingo cards to the passengers, who would have been thrilled by the diversion. Nevertheless, Fast wouldn’t have had time to play. After dinner, she spotted several Canadian military officials who were walking straight toward her.

“General Fast,” the lead officer said, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel McKeage.”

McKeage is the wing commander for the Canadian air force base in Gander. He apologized for not realizing sooner that she was there. He told her they were going to move her to a secure site on the base where she could speak candidly to her staff and that preparations were being made to get her out of Gander as soon as possible. A great deal had already been happening. While she was in Gander, German police had raided an apartment in Hamburg, where they believed much of the planning for September 11 took place.

In the morning, special arrangements were made to secretly fly Fast to Europe. By Friday, she was back at her command in Stuttgart, where her staff continued to help piece together the circumstances that led up to the attack and hunt for those responsible. Before leaving the Knights of Columbus, she said good-bye to some of the passengers and thanked the volunteers for their kindness.

Driving to the air force base, Fast commented to McKeage how wonderful everyone in town had been. It made her feel part of a family.

“We’re all Americans tonight,” replied McKeage.

T
he pilot of Lufthansa Flight 438 stopped by the Lions Club with news. Gathering all of the passengers together in one room, he announced that as soon as the plane was able to take off, they would probably have to return to Frankfurt rather than continuing on to Dallas. No final decision had been made, he added, but flying back to Europe was the most likely scenario.

Roxanne Loper had no intention of going to Germany. She was afraid she would run into immigration problems there with her newly adopted daughter, Alexandria, and that it might take her and Clark weeks to get another flight to the United States. She wanted to go home, and being in Canada was a lot closer to home than being in Germany.

“Why,” Roxanne said, interrupting the pilot, “do we have to go back to Germany? I don’t want to go back.” The other passengers started voicing their own objections.

The pilot was clearly frustrated by the brewing revolt. By a show of hands, he asked, how many people wanted to go on to the United States? Nearly every hand in the room went into the air.

“Okay,” he said, “let me talk to the Lufthansa people.”

The uncertainty upset Roxanne. She was adamant about not getting onto a plane that was headed to Germany. “I don’t care if I have to ride a camel naked across the border to prove I’m not hiding anything,” she told Stan Nichol, the Lions Club chef. “I’d rather do that than fly to Frankfurt and wait for another plane.”

Bruce MacLeod could see the strain on Roxanne. She hadn’t slept. And she was depressed and embarrassed that Alexandria was still throwing a fit whenever she tried to hold her. Roxanne reminded MacLeod of one of his kids. She was the same age as his daughter, and it hurt him to see Roxanne in such pain. He decided she needed a little break from everyone, and he remembered their conversation the night before about his motorcycle.

“I’m making a run,” he told her. “Do you want to come along?”

“You bet,” she said, her eyes lighting up.

Roxanne nearly bowled him over heading for the door. MacLeod owns a gold-colored Suzuki Cavalcade, a large bike designed for long-distance travel. It features a 1400 cc engine and all the creature comforts of an automobile—cruise control, AM-FM cassette radio, which could be plugged into their helmets, built-in rear saddlebags for storage. It was more than eight feet long and weighed about nine hundred pounds. Since buying the motorcycle in 1996, MacLeod and his wife, Sue, had traveled throughout Canada on it.

He tossed Roxanne his wife’s helmet and sunglasses and she climbed on behind him. The cold evening air felt good. He gave her a tour of the town and took her out to Cobbs Pond, and then they swung by the community center. Roxanne was stunned to see all of the items people were donating and the effort by the town’s volunteers to keep everything organized. And she laughed when she saw they were using the town’s ice rink to keep perishables from spoiling.

MacLeod was eager to ride out to the airport to see what was happening. As an air-traffic controller, he understood better than most just how historic the events of the last twenty-four hours had been. And like a kid, he wanted to see all of the planes.

The main road leading to the airport was blocked and guarded by Mounties. Fortunately, the guards were local boys and MacLeod asked if it was all right for them to just take a quick look at the airfield.

“She just wants to make sure her plane is still there,” he said with a smile.

The Mounties waved them through. MacLeod and Roxanne drove along the airport’s perimeter road and stopped near the fence at one end of the runway. The night before, when she stepped off the plane, Roxanne hadn’t noticed just how many planes were on the ground. Now that they were all empty, they were parked nose to tail, one after another.

“Wow,” she said, getting off the motorcycle. “That is amazing. All those planes. So many people.”

Roxanne looked away from MacLeod and stared at the stars in the sky. How could somebody do something so evil, something that adversely affected so many innocent lives? How could somebody have so much hatred for America? She could feel the tears on her face. It was all finally catching up to her: the notion that her country was under attack; the magnitude of the suffering of the families of the dead and missing; the ambiguity over how long she and the others would stay in Gander and where they would go next; the lack of sleep; the lack of privacy; the separation from Samantha; the rejection by Alexandria. On the side of the dark and empty road, dwarfed by the jumbo jets all around her, she allowed herself to cry. Normally she would have been embarrassed to be break down in front of a relative stranger. Yet somehow she felt safe with MacLeod. He was very paternal and protective. When she was done, she climbed back onto the motorcycle and they left. MacLeod took the long way to the club. He’d give her a chance to compose herself.