In the aftermath of September 11, 2001, Emmy Award-winning Sound Editor Solange Schwalbe entered Ground Zero as a contractor- one of the few women rescue workers deep inside the pit of where te Twin Towers once stood. What she witnessed there would forever reshape her understanding of fear, service, and what it means to endure.
This memoir captures the recovery effort from the inside: the relentless search, the quiet rituals of honor, and the untold moments that history never recorded. Through scenes never before shared until now, Solange reveals a Ground Zero few have seen- where strength was silent, grief was constant, and humanity persisted amid ruin.
Interwoven with her personal journey is the redemptive spirit of America itself- a nation wounded yet unbroken, learning how to stand again. This is not a story of spectacle, but of resilience- personal and collective- and of what rises when everything familiar has fallen.
In the aftermath of September 11, 2001, Emmy Award-winning Sound Editor Solange Schwalbe entered Ground Zero as a contractor- one of the few women rescue workers deep inside the pit of where te Twin Towers once stood. What she witnessed there would forever reshape her understanding of fear, service, and what it means to endure.
This memoir captures the recovery effort from the inside: the relentless search, the quiet rituals of honor, and the untold moments that history never recorded. Through scenes never before shared until now, Solange reveals a Ground Zero few have seen- where strength was silent, grief was constant, and humanity persisted amid ruin.
Interwoven with her personal journey is the redemptive spirit of America itself- a nation wounded yet unbroken, learning how to stand again. This is not a story of spectacle, but of resilience- personal and collective- and of what rises when everything familiar has fallen.
Chapter Two
LIFE AS A VOLUNTEER
I never thought that one day I’d be living in Los Angeles, watching the towers fall on live television.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
My alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., just like every other workday. For years, I had it set to KNX News Radio, Los Angeles. It was my habit—I’d wake up to the sound of headlines, letting them settle in before getting out of bed. That morning, there were no typical updates. No weather, no traffic. Instead, all I heard was:
“The towers were hit.”
That was it. That was the first thing I heard. I don’t even remember throwing off the covers. One second, I was in bed. The next, I was across the room, turning on my TV so fast I didn’t even realize I had moved. The screen lit up with an image of Tower One burning. My brain couldn’t process everything. It was massive, the flames stretching across entire floors. This wasn’t a small accident. A tiny commuter plane didn’t hit the tower by mistake. I knew immediately. That’s when I saw it. Right in front of me, right there on live television—the second plane hit Tower Two.
6:03 a.m. my time. 9:03 a.m. New York time.
I gasped. My stomach dropped. I felt a cold wave run through my body.
I knew it. We were under attack.
It didn’t even take a second for my brain to register it. No hesitation. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t one tragic accident followed by another. This was coordinated. I just sat there, staring. Tears started running down my face, but I barely noticed. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the screen. The smoke, the fire, the chaos below.
Forty-two minutes later, the unthinkable happened: Tower Two collapsed. I screamed. I don’t even remember standing up, but I was on my feet, hands in my hair, scream- ing at the TV. “No, no, no!” It felt like I was watching a friend die in real time. Like someone had stabbed them in the back, right in front of me.
I didn’t know anyone who worked in the towers. I didn’t lose anyone personally. But it was personal to me. I remember thinking, How? How could something that big, that strong, that permanent just disappear in forty-two
minutes? Maybe after a week of fire damage, maybe if they had been burning for days. But this? This felt impossible. Those towers were my towers. I had stood on top of them, leaned against their windows, looked down over the city, feeling invincible.
Now they were gone. America was under attack.
I called Stephen. I don’t even remember what we said, only that I was crying and that he was in shock. I don’t remember if I called my dad or if he called me. Everything was a blur. I might have picked up the phone. I might have just sat there, frozen. I honestly don’t know.
Later that morning, the phone rang. It was Disney Studios. “Don’t come in,” they said. At the time, I was working as a Foley supervisor on a film called Snow Dogs. Everything was shutting down. All Disney properties. Disneyland, Disney World, the studio, even Tokyo Disney. It wasn’t just a New York thing; it was global. That’s when it sank in—the world had changed. So, I stayed right where I was, in my apartment in the Hollywood Hills, glued to the television. My dog sat beside me the whole time, curled up next to me as if he could sense something was wrong. September 11 was paralyzing. Seven hours straight, crying. The footage looped over and over again. And I watched it over and over again.
The planes hitting. The towers burning. The people jumping. The collapse.
The cloud of dust. It was unreal.
That afternoon, something strange happened. A bunch of us from work ended up at Disney Studios. I don’t remember how it was arranged, but we snuck onto the lot. We didn’t want to sit at home any longer, watching the horror replay repeatedly. We needed to do something, even if it was just being in the same room together. No one really spoke. We just worked. Or tried to.
WORK TOOK ON NEW MEANING
The next few days passed in a haze. I tried to work. Snow Dogs was almost done, but suddenly, it felt less urgent. It was a comedy. A lighthearted, fun family film. For the next few weeks that followed, I did my job. I finished Snow Dogs by November 2001 because I had to. But it was like moving through mud for me. I would find myself sitting in the studio thinking, Why the hell am I here? I was working on a comedy while the country was grieving. It felt wrong. But the alternative—doing nothing—felt worse. For this reason, I am forever grateful to Disney Studios.
Another movie project kept my mind busy. I started working on Black Hawk Down through December 2001. A war film amid the real war America. I should have felt something. But I didn’t. I was the third hire on the Foley team, completely disconnected from the process. I worked scene by scene, out of order, never seeing the full picture. It wasn’t until the screening that I realized what I had been working on. That disconnection saved me. If I had known, I don’t think I could have been able to handle it.
When I reflect on those months after September 11, one thing stands out: The people around me weren’t upset in the same way I was. They were angry. The conversations were different:
“Where was the Air Force?”
“Why didn’t President Bush act faster?” “How did four planes get hijacked at once?”
People were looking for someone to blame. I wasn’t. I was just in mourning. I didn’t care about the why. I cared about the loss. But I felt like I couldn’t show it. I was in LA, but my heart was in New York City. And that was the difference—LA wasn’t grieving the way New York City was. New York was my city. The towers were my towers. And now they were gone.
RETURNING TO A BROKEN SKYLINE
“I can’t go,” I told Stephen. “I can’t look at that skyline. I can’t see it without the towers.” Every December, since 1981, I had visited New York City. I felt plugged in whenever I would go there, and on batteries when I left. It was my tradition. It was my connection to the place I’d left behind. But this time felt different. “You need to come,” Stephen said. “Now more than ever.”
I do not remember how he convinced me. But he did. On December 20, 2001, I landed at JFK airport in New York City. We didn’t go home first. We didn’t even drop off my bags. We went straight to the Empire State Building. I stepped out onto the observation deck and looked south.
And there it was: nothing.
There was only a hollow space where my towers had once stood. A giant, glowing, floodlit wound in the middle of Lower Manhattan. From that height, it looked like a football field—too bright, too exposed, too raw. My throat tightened. I gripped the railing to keep myself steady and began to cry. It did not feel real. This was Ground Zero.
We spent the next days doing most of our usual Christmas things—the Christmas Tree, Rockefeller Center, Macy’s Santaland, even Olive Garden in Times Square. But the city was different. It was still moving, but it wasn’t the same. New York City was in mourning. Grief was in the air, in the streets, and even in the way people walked.
It was heavy.
I felt it. I finally felt it.
For the first time in months, I wasn’t suppressing
it anymore.
GROUND ZERO
A few days after Christmas, Stephen; his best friend, Peter; and I went to see Ground Zero up close. There were thousands of people. Standing. Staring. Cranes loomed over the wreckage, massive American flags hanging from them. Smoke still rose from the ruins. The air smelled like burnt flesh.
I pulled out my camera and started taking pictures. After a few minutes, I stopped and thought, What the hell am I doing? Turning to Stephen and Peter, I said, “I need to find out if they use volunteers. I need to do something.” That same day, we went to the American Red Cross office in Brooklyn.
“We’re not taking volunteers,” they told me. “Well, then who is?” I asked.
“The Salvation Army.”
The next day, I walked into the Salvation Army’s world headquarters in New York City and signed up. I completed eight hours of training. The result? A credential badge and a pass that got me inside the perimeter. I was ready to start volunteering. There were no movies lined up for me in LA. No job waiting. No reason to leave. It was almost as if the universe had cleared my schedule, giving me permission to stay. So, I did.
I was supposed to fly home on January 2, 2002. Instead, that would be my first day at Ground Zero. I rebooked my return flight for January 16. I called my dad and told him I was staying. He wasn’t happy. He thought it was too dan- gerous. “You shouldn’t be there,” he said. But I had to be.
THE BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING
The alarm rang through the silence of Stephen’s basement, pulling me from a restless sleep. January 2, 2002. My first day at Ground Zero. My first step into the unknown. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cold concrete floor biting at my feet. My body was awake, but my mind was still catching up. Was I really doing this?
I layered up—ski pants, sweatshirt, jacket, gloves, hat— dressing for the frigid January cold, preparing for whatever was ahead of me. I had been given only the basics: Report to the Salvation Army respite center at 7:00 a.m. Beyond that, I had no idea what to expect.
I stepped out into the early-morning dark, the air sharp against my face as I made my way to the train: the 7 train to Times Square and the 2/3 train down to Chambers Street.
I made it into Lower Manhattan and followed the flow of foot traffic toward Ground Zero. My heartbeat quickened as I approached the secured perimeter. Even without seeing the hollow pit where the towers once stood, I could feel it. I could smell it. It was in the air. A weight. A presence. I wasn’t just walking through New York City anymore—I was walking through history, through grief, through some- thing sacred.
Security was tight. ID checks, sign-ins, lines of law en- forcement monitoring every entry point. No one got in unless they belonged. And somehow, today, I belonged.
Respite centers were temporary relief stations set up after 9/11. They provided food, medical care, and emo- tional support for the first responders, rescue workers, and volunteers involved in the recovery efforts. The Salvation Army respite center, however, represented so much more. It was an enormous structure the size of two city blocks, with ceilings stretching twenty feet high. Located in the northwest corner of Ground Zero, it was a world all its own:
Rows of steam tables filled with hot food.
Racks of donated supplies—boots, jackets, gloves, protective gear, etc.
Massage and chiropractic stations. Counseling areas.
Showers and locker rooms.
It was a full-scale operation, running twenty-four hours a day, designed to keep the rescue workers going. I would later learn the rescue workers referred to it as the Taj Mahal. I met my supervisors there and was given my first assign- ment: Serve meals. I was stationed behind the food line. Breakfast duty first.
The Salvation Army had built a machine, and by the time I arrived in January, it ran like a well-oiled operation. I had completed my training on how to deal with rescue workers in “deplorable conditions.” But my supervisors drilled into me three simple rules:
Don’t talk about the site
Don’t talk about 9/11
Don’t talk about their jobs
Keep it light and act casual—as if we weren’t standing at the epicenter of one of the greatest tragedies in American history. I nodded. I understood. But even then, I had a feeling I would not be able to follow that rule for long.
Plates slid down the counter, hands reached out, and I served. It was cafeteria-style, an assembly line of necessity. You would think we were serving rations, but no. The best restaurants in New York City donated their finest meals. The food—oh, the food. Eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, pastries, and more. You name it; they had it. The aroma was almost surreal. Outside was the acrid smell of burnt flesh, yet in
here, it was nothing but the scent of something wholesome and delicious.
Some looked me in the eye and said thank you. Others did not speak at all. Some tried to smile. Some stared past me, lost in their own thoughts, their expressions hollow, distant. Everyone was covered in a thick layer of chalky gray-white dust and debris. The mix of pulverized concrete, asbestos, glass fibers, heavy metals, and other materials from the towers clung to their skin, clothes, and protective gear. Every face looked exhausted. Not just physically, but in a way I could not yet name. Like they had seen things no one should ever have to see.
By lunchtime, I started noticing something. The ones behind the food line like me were invisible—serving food, keeping their heads down, doing their assigned jobs—they were not the ones having real conversations. But the ones out in the room? The ones busing tables? Those were the ones who talked. I knew I would, too, if I could get off the food line.
THE COMMUTE HOME
That night, I took the long train ride back to Queens, my body aching, my head spinning. Stephen was waiting for me when I walked through the door. He had a million questions. What was it like? Who did you meet? What did you see? I told him everything I could—the magnitude of the tent, the faces of the workers, the unexpected warmth inside the bubble of the respite center. I had spent the entire day at Ground Zero—not as a visitor but as part of it. He listened, nodding, absorbing every word. I could see the questions in his eyes, the ones I had not even begun to answer for myself.
As I sat there, recalling how hard the day was, something settled inside me: No matter how difficult it was, quitting wasn’t an option. Some things demand more than a single day. Day one was just the beginning.
CALL ME HOLLYWOOD
The food line was structured and efficient. But something about it felt wrong to me—too impersonal. I wanted to connect, to understand, to feel something beyond the me- chanical repetition of serving food. That opportunity came when I switched to busing tables. It was a simple change, but it altered everything. Suddenly, I wasn’t standing behind a food line anymore. I was in the thick of it, moving between the workers, listening to their stories, making eye contact, and feeling their exhaustion.
I never thought twice about breaking the three rules. It wasn’t defiance—it was instinct. I needed to ask. I needed to know. And they answered. Maybe because no one else was asking. Maybe because they needed to talk. Or maybe because I wasn’t just another face. I was someone looking them in the eye and actually seeing them.
I introduced myself the same way every time:
“Hi, my name is Solange, but just call me Hollywood— it’s easier.”
I asked questions no one else dared. I did it because I cared.
And they knew it.
Hollywood became my calling card, a way to break the ice. And they talked to me. They told me things I wasn’t supposed to ask about. They told me about the things they saw, the weight of what they carried, the ghosts they en- countered every single day. I listened to them speak about their jobs. The excavation crews. The crane operators. The sanitation workers hauling away the wreckage. The iron workers scaling the skeletal remains of buildings. Their words carried exhaustion, but also purpose. They weren’t just here to work. They were here to honor the dead, to clear the way for healing. It was a common vision everyone shared. There were no egos at Ground Zero.
FALLING INTO ROUTINE
The routine as a volunteer settled in faster than I expected. The alarm clock, the early train, the cold air biting at my face as I made my way to the respite center. It would’ve been easier to stay in one of the hotels near Ground Zero that housed the hundreds of volunteers from all over the country. But for some reason, I chose to stay with Stephen an hour away in Queens. Maybe it was the familiarity, or maybe it was a way to keep one foot in reality while the rest of me was slipping into something I never imagined.
Every morning, I walked through the security gates, clocked in, and stepped into the controlled chaos of Ground Zero’s hidden sanctuary. After a few days, I knew the drill. Bus the tables. Greet the workers. Listen.
Unlike the exclusive respite centers for firefighters and police officers, our space was filled with the construction crews, the demolition teams, the recovery workers—the ones who lived in the dust. These weren’t men in uniform. These were the men in the hard hats, the steel-toed boots, the thick gloves caked in grime. They were covered in it—the dust, the sweat, the reality of what they were doing.
Many had no prior connection to New York City. They had come from all over the country, drawn by a call to serve. They weren’t just clearing rubble. They were excavating history, unearthing memories, sifting through the remains of lives tragically lost.
The workers were on seven-day shifts, twelve hours a day. They had no time to mourn. They had no space to grieve. And yet, in those few minutes at the respite center, over a hot meal, we offered a moment—however fleeting—where they could breathe.
THE CHILDREN’S CARDS
Something unexpected became one of my favorite tasks: the children’s cards. They arrived in massive boxes, hundreds at a time, sometimes thousands. Hand-drawn greetings, made by children all across America. Los Angeles. Chicago. Atlanta. Boston. Small towns I’d never heard of. Crayon- colored depictions of the towers, firefighters, and police officers. Tiny hands sketching flags, eagles, heroes. Some cards had words; others were just pictures.
“Thank you, firefighters.” “God Bless America.” “We love you, New York.”
I don’t know exactly who started it—if the Salvation Army organized it, or if it was just something that grew out of a need for children to cope. But I knew these cards mattered. It became my job to distribute them across the tables in the center. I’d spread handfuls onto each table.
Every day, the same faces would return. My “regulars.” The ones who always sat in the same seats, the ones who came in covered in dust, exhaustion etched into their skin. They would grab a plate of food, collapse into a chair, and flip through the kids’ cards. Sometimes they smiled. Sometimes they held the cards a little longer than expect- ed. And sometimes, they tucked a few into their pockets, keeping them as reminders of hope.
One of those cards stood out to me. A child had written,
“Thank you, President Bush, thank you, firefighters, thank you, EMS.” But the way it was worded? It sounded com- pletely wrong. It made us all laugh—a moment of humor that caught us off guard. Even here, in the middle of a tragedy, there were still moments of light.
The cards were like bright bursts of color against the white tables, white chairs, white walls, and deep-blue carpet of the respite center. It was pure, unfiltered humanity in contrast to the serene facade. I saw them as a reflection of myself—honest, unfiltered, and unapologetically real. I didn’t fit into the polished facade. While everything else fol- lowed a script, I acknowledged the weight of the moment, just as the cards did.
LIGHT IN DARKNESS
Each shift had maybe ten, sometimes twenty volunteers at a time, working to serve the rescue workers moving in and out of the respite center. But the volunteer turnover was constant—no one was allowed to stay longer than two weeks. The impact was too great. The weight of it all—psy- chologically, emotionally—was simply too much.
Despite everything about Ground Zero, there was an energy inside that tent—something you could feel in the air. It wasn’t joy, but it wasn’t despair either. It was resilience.
It was camaraderie. It was survival.
The children’s cards and I played a role: to acknowledge
and not overlook the situation. Looking back, I realize that if I had followed the rules—if I had just served the food and kept my mouth shut—my time at Ground Zero would’ve ended in two weeks. I would have packed my bags, taken my return flight, and gone back to LA, untouched. But I didn’t. I asked questions. I got involved. I wanted to know more. And because of that, my time would eventually extend well beyond the two weeks.
I'm Not Supposed to Know This: An Unlikely Account of Ground Zero After the 9/11 Attacks
By Solange Schwalbe and Matt Stern
Publisher: Amplify Publishing
Published Date: August 11, 2026
ASIN: B0GZYHC4NS
Page Count: 224 Pages
Triggers: 9/11, terrorism, death, grief, recovery work, trauma, loss, disaster aftermath, emotional distress, human remains, national tragedy
Star Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
What Did I Just Walk Into?
Well. I walked into Ground Zero through the eyes of someone who was not standing at a safe historical distance, and let me tell you, this is not the kind of book you casually pick up between snacks and laundry. I'm Not Supposed to Know This is a memoir that quietly grabs you by the shoulders and says, “You think you know this story, but you do not know this version.” Rude? Yes. Necessary? Also yes.
Ms. Solange Schwalbe was one of the few women working deep inside the pit after the September 11 attacks, and this account does not feel like a polished museum exhibit or some dramatized disaster special. It feels personal, raw, restrained, and deeply human. The kind of book that makes you sit still for a minute after a chapter because your brain and heart need to have an emergency staff meeting.
Here’s What Slapped:
The emotional restraint. This could have easily turned into spectacle, but it does not. The writing understands that the horror of Ground Zero does not need decoration. The silence, the rituals, the exhaustion, the grief, and the quiet acts of service already carry more weight than any overblown language ever could.
I also appreciated the focus on the unseen pieces of history. The workers, the small moments, the things that never made it into the headlines, the humanity in a place defined by ruin. Ms. Schwalbe’s perspective brings something intimate and important to the larger story of 9/11 recovery. It is not about making the tragedy bigger. It is about making the people inside it visible.
What Could’ve Been Better:
Honestly, this is not a “what could have been better” kind of read. It is more of a “take a breath, respect the weight of it, and keep reading” situation.
Perfect for Readers Who Love:
Memoirs about resilience, firsthand historical accounts, emotional nonfiction, stories of service, 9/11 history, recovery narratives, and books that remind you ordinary people can carry impossible things.
Reviewed by Robin for Robin’s Review