NEW YORK�Whether the government knew, or how much it knew, about the impending Sept. 11, 2001 attack on the World Trade Center is weighing heavy on family members of victims, even as New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg prepares to officially end recovery efforts at the site.

To date, the New York City medical examiner says that some 19,000 body parts have been recovered from the 16-acre site where once stood the twin towers of the World Trade Center. New York City officials say that all human remains should be removed from Ground Zero by June.

On May 1 this year, a young bride of three years appeared on a local television news program to explain how happy she was to receive four identifiable body parts belonging to her husband�the last article sent was his heart. Her husband was one of the 2,552 victims at work on �9/11� that did not make it out.

She was a junior high school teacher on September 11. Shortly after the attacks, she left her job to become an advocate for families of victims. Many New Yorkers share her passion when it comes to the fallen 110-foot twin towers and the loss of their loved ones.

Why talk about body parts?

Well, for many families that is all they have � except for the memories. This is the story of September 11 at �Ground Zero� as told through Blacks who experienced the horror or family members of victims. In the moments after the first plane struck the north tower, chaos filled the streets. When the first tower collapsed, the faces of people were covered in dirt, soot, bewilderment, grief and horror. You could not tell White from Black as they trudged across the Brooklyn Bridge out of harm�s way.

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At 9:10 a.m., Kenneth Cubas, 48, called his mother on Staten Island and reassured her that he was fine. He worked on the 97th floor in Tower Two as a computer engineer for Fiduciary Trust. Moments earlier, at 9:05 a.m., United Airlines Flight 175, a Boeing 767 jet had slammed into his building, creating a red ball of fire that lit up the New York skyline. There were 2,000 people in the building at that time; 600 of them did not make it.

�He told me, �I�m okay, ma, see you tonight,� � says Dorothy Cubas, 76, remembering her last conversation with her son. �He told me to turn on the television and I would see the fire in his building, but he reassured me that he was fine.

�The 21 years that Kenneth was married, he would call me at least once every week. I miss his phone calls,� she says sadly.

Kenneth, separated from his wife, lived with his mother for three years. Ms. Cubas remembers her son trying to be quiet in the mornings as he prepared for work so as not to wake her, but he would always say good-bye when he was leaving. He moved into his own apartment in April 2001, so, on the morning of Sept. 11, there was no �see you tonight, ma.�

�I guess that is why he called me. He knew I would be expecting to hear from him,� she says. �I saw what was happening on my television. I put it in God�s hands, and for a while, I expected to see him walk through my front door, just like he promised.�

Ms. Cubas remembers her son as a loving person who bent over backwards to help others. Kenneth�s brother Larry, 50, fondly remembers how Kenneth was the peacemaker between he and another brother, Alfonso, 47.

�I remember as we were growing up, he would fight with me to make me tough, but if anyone else bothered me, he would speak up for me,� Larry says.

Larry Cubas works two blocks away from the WTC area as a foreign exchange trader, but on Sept. 11, he was in London on business. �Eight months after the attacks, I still think about my brother every day, and I am still trying to make some sense of his death,� he says. �I think about the way the buildings came down and how the plane crashed on the floors below my brother and I try to imagine his last minutes.�

Kenneth Cubas was one of 128 Black men killed in the attack. The largest ethnic group victimized were White males, 1, 593, according to the NYC Department of Health. There were 79 Black women killed, 394 White women, 166 Hispanic males, 87 Hispanic women, 112 Asian & Pacific Island men and 53 Asian & Pacific Island women. Most of the victims were between 30 to 44 years of age.

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�I opened the door of our home and my wife is sitting in the living room crying and I sit down and cry with her,� admits Ben Glascoe, 64, public affairs director for Con Edison. He has been married to his wife Gloria for 40 years and had two children, Keith Alexander Glascoe, 38, and a married daughter, Lee Wright, 37.

Keith was a NYC fireman, one of the 343 that died at the WTC. Twelve of the 343 were Black; another twelve were Latino.

Mr. Glascoe describes his son as a handsome young man that modeled and had movie and television credits under his belt. �He appeared in the 1991 movie The Professional, and he appeared on soap operas such as The Guiding Light,� Mr. Glascoe says proudly, adding that his son became a fireman because he wanted a regular check with good benefits.

�Keith has two sons, one is three, the other is a year-and-a-half, and my son wanted to make sure they were taken care of,� Mr. Glascoe says.

When the three-year-old visits, the first thing he does is take out the funeral palm cards from his dad�s memorial service and lays them out carefully, Mr. Glascoe explains.

�He puts the cards away, looks at me, and asks me when is his daddy coming home. It breaks my heart to look into his little face,� says Mr. Glascoe. He pauses several times during the interview, fighting back tears. �We miss our son so much,� he says.

The uniform services, fire, police and emergency medical technicians have received most of the public accolades for what they did on Sept. 11. A photo of Keith Alexander Glascoe hangs in front of the Vulcan Hall, home of the Black fireman�s association. He was not a member of the Vulcans, but they honor him just the same.

The ranks of Black NYC firefighters are too small to ignore a fireman that lost his life simply because he did not join the Vulcan Society, Vulcan President Lt. Paul Washington explained to The Final Call. Of the 11,500 NYC fire personnel, less than four percent are Black.

Captain Paul Green, 62, served as a fireman for 35 years and knew most of the 343 firefighters killed. But, because there are so few Black firefighters losing just one is critical, he says.

�Most of the guys we lost on September 11 were young, such as Keith Maynard,� Capt. Green adds. �Young Maynard was an up and coming firefighter who came to the Vulcan Society and jumped in with both feet. There was also Vernon Cherry and Leon Smith who come to mind as guys I miss seeing at our meetings.�

In a more reflective tone, he talks about a day in 1966 when he lost 12 firefighters in a fire on 23rd Street in Manhattan: �I thought that was my most depressing day, but that was a picnic compared to September 11.�

Fireman Keith Maynard, 30, was the sergeant-at-arms for the Vulcan Society. �I still feel my brother�s spirit,� says older brother Vernon Maynard. �Since September 11, there has been an empty space in my heart.�

Mr. Maynard said his brother always wanted to be a fireman.

�I remember Keith was six-years-old and a fire engine passed as we walked with our mother, he shouted at the top of his lungs, �I want to be a fireman,� and he died doing what he loved to do,� Mr. Maynard says. �My brother was full of life, he loved his job and he was dedicated to the job.�

Lieutenant Ella McNair, 44, the first Black woman to achieve that rank in NYC, says that losing all the men was traumatic for her. Victim Capt. Vernon Richards was her mentor.

�He took me under his wing and helped me with the lieutenant�s test,� she says. �He taught me how to fight to keep the job that I love so much. It is hard to understand what those guys went through, dying the way they did.�

Lt. McNair received her rank in January 2002. �I earned my stripes. They did not give them to me; I earned them,� she says defiantly.

Only the body of one Black fireman has been recovered and the jacket of another was found, according to Lt. Washington.

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The Port Authority Police lost 37 officers and 38 civilian workers on 9/11. Nine of the officers�Donald Foreman, Walter McNeil, Nathaniel Webb, Bruce Reynolds, David LaMast, Clinton Davis, Walwyn Stewart, Uhuru Houston and James Parham�were Black. According to the Port Authority Director of Public Information Alan Hicks, many of the civilian workers were Black and Latino.

However, if the full story about the Black experience of 9/11 is to be known, Port Authority Police Capt. Anthony Richard Whitaker, 57, can tell it. �I am still the commander here,� he told The Final Call from his office at the Holland Tunnel. He has been available at �Ground Zero� on a 12-hour on, 12-hour off basis. When asked to reflect on the reaction he had on Sept. 12, after having a better chance to evaluate the condition of the complex, he says, �I cried.�

�I had been transferred for a while to 1 Police Plaza, to man the phones, and I was crying then,� he says. �I still cry today, eight months later and I don�t know why.�

Speaking of the twin towers, he said, �Those two towers had character. They had energy and a sense of mystery.�

There were seven buildings located at the 16-acre complex and Capt. Whitaker says he knew every inch of each building. He knew thousands of the people that worked there, because for the 28-months he was in charge, he would greet them down in the shopping mall area as they left the various modes of transportation into the complex.

�I call it community policing. Four days of the week, I stood in front of [the Banana Republic] store greeting the commuters coming off the P.A.T.H. train and going to work,� he says.

When the attack hit, �We quickly evacuated the mall area. There were 78 stores and miraculously we got everyone out,� he recalls.

One thing Capt. Whitaker observed that morning was that many of the people he was used to seeing were missing. �I said to myself, this is not the normal number of folks we have coming through on a Tuesday morning. I later learned that was Election Day in New York City,� he says with a curious tone in his voice.

September 11, 2001 was the scheduled day for the long expected mayoral primary. The voting was later suspended by then-Mayor Rudolph Guiliani.

Capt. Whitaker�s story continues with him proceeding to the lobby of the north tower.

�I am standing in the lobby, and there is complete silence, but that did not last for long because in a few minutes I hear a roaring sound like thunder coming in my direction,� he recalls.

He said the roar was a huge ball of fire coming down the corridor. �There are people running in front of the ball of fire, there are people caught in the ball of fire, and there are people being thrown from the ball, and all of that is headed straight for me,� he continues. That is when the captain says things became fuzzy.

�I thought that I had dove into a doorway as the ball passed me by, but a security guard that is always stationed there said I scooped him up as the fire ball was approaching and we dove into a closet. Here this guy is thanking me for saving his life and I do not remember a thing.

�Not just the security guard, I am told that I saved the lives of 25 PA police officers,� he says. �All I remember of those few minutes was getting away from the ball of fire and after that, seeing two people running towards me completely consumed in flames, and they ran past me never saying a word.

�At that point I remember giving the order on my radio to completely evacuate the complex,� he says. �As I am running from the lobby a voice tells me not to look down. I hear this weird sound under my feet and if I had looked down, I would have known that I was stepping on bodies and body parts. Outside the buildings we kept hearing the sound of explosives, that sound was made by people crashing to the ground,� he says, his voice growing softer as he remembers the events.

By then, he had made it to the street, and that is when plane number two hit. �I remember giving the order to evacuate for the second time,� he says. �I remember giving orders to three Black officers�Walter McNeil, David Foreman and Bruce Reynolds�to stay at the command desk and establish land-line communications with our command in Jersey City, New Jersey. I remember sending Officer Nathaniel Webb with a New York City fire chief, and the look that Officer Webb gave me. We made eye contact until he was out of sight. He was saying with his eyes, �why me, why do I have to go,� � Capt. Whitaker recalls painfully.

When asked if he regrets giving those last orders, he said, �No!�

�I walked around in a daze for six months. Oh, I functioned, but it was like I was having a daily out-of-body experience,� he says.

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One person who cannot talk about September 11 is Bobby Griffin. His wife of seven years, Tawanna, 30, worked as a cashier for Forte Foods on the 101st floor of the south tower. Forte Foods catered to the workers for the securities firm Cantor Fitzgerald.

Her sister-in-law, Juanita Inniss, recalls Ms. Griffin�s story.

�September was supposed to be a happy month for my brother and his wife,� she says. Tawanna�s birthday had just passed on Sept. 4 and the couple celebrated their seventh wedding anniversary on Sept. 2. They have one child, Bobby Jr., age five.

Ms. Inniss says that her brother watched what unfolded at the WTC from his home in Brooklyn. �I called him after I heard what had happened, he said he felt helpless, he wanted to reach out to his wife,� Ms. Inniss says. �Even then he could not cry.�

She told The Final Call that from the beginning she was trying to make some sense out of what was happening. �All I could think of was Tawanna and how much she loved Bobby Jr. Until the buildings collapsed, I had hope that she would be fine,� Ms. Inniss recalls.

She said that over 200 people showed up at the memorial service, even though Ms. Griffin�s body was not recovered. �My mother is the only one able to talk freely about what happened. Little Bobby tells everyone that his mother is up in heaven,� she says.

Ms. Inniss says that what bothers her most is that no one talks about the loss of the regular people like Tawanna Griffin. �She did not wear a uniform, but she was there and she lost her life. Isn�t that important?� she asks.

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There were thousands of unsung heroes that day. One of them was Darryl Taylor, 52, who worked as an office manager on the 83rd floor in the north tower. He was not able to communicate with his family, but he did contact his company in New Jersey by fax.

�The telephones were knocked out immediately, but Darryl used his head and stayed in touch with the company,� Greg Taylor, his brother, said. What bothers his family is that most of the people on the 83rd floor made it out, but everyone working with Darryl Taylor died.

�We think that something was wrong with the fire door,� says Gyasi El-Bey, another brother. There are five children in the Taylor family. Their father Carl Taylor Sr., 78, lives in North Carolina. �We talked with our father from the very first moment that we learned of the attack,� the brothers explained. �He was very sad then and he is still distraught,� they say.

�We can imagine that Darryl, being one of the oldest persons at work, helped to keep everyone calm, even as things turned ugly,� Greg Taylor says.

Darryl Taylor was a fixture in the Black community on Staten Island. He played drums, both acoustic and congas. Many people say he reached the lives of many people through his cultural pursuits and through the quiet dynamism of his personality.

Staten Island has a population of 450,000, and on September 11, more than 200 people from the Island lost their lives at the WTC, 78 of them firemen. The Black community of Staten Island, according to census figures, numbers around 30,000.

�Darryl was the kind of guy that you knew had to be present when something was about to happen,� remembers Tim Martin, a life-long friend. �It was like when he entered the room, it became official.�

Mr. El-Bey and Mr. Taylor say they hope to use any money from the federal September 11 Fund for music scholarships for Black children on Staten Island. �We want to memorialize Darryl in some special way,� they say. Darryl Taylor never married and had no children of his own.

�It is good that the family wants to establish the scholarship fund,� Sajdah Muserwere Ladner told The Final Call. Ms. Ladner runs the Temple of The Arts, a cultural program located on Staten Island. Darryl was an important fixture in the cultural life of Black Staten Islanders, she says.

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Al Smith, 62, never thought he would ever hear the word hero attached to his name, but his exploits of Sept. 11 changed that forever. He said that his life is returning to some sense of normalcy eight months after the attacks. But he never tires of telling his story.

He worked as a messenger for the Port Authority on the 68th floor. He actually worked for a temporary agency, but the PA liked him so much they kept him on, he says.

On Sept. 11, Mr. Smith and five other men were stuck in an elevator somewhere around the 50th floor in the north tower. They dug their way out by cutting through the firewall with a window washer�s squeegee.

�I was the smallest, so I crawled out through the small opening we had made and went for help. Ironically, I ran into a fireman who came back with me and led all of us out of the building to safety,� Mr. Smith says.

He said he had gone downstairs to get breakfast for Ms. Mary Jones, 71, a receptionist in the PA office. �I would get breakfast every morning for Ms. Jones. She was like a mother figure to all of us,� he says.

�I never made it back with her breakfast, and I never saw her again. Miss Mary had a bad hip and had trouble walking and had to be helped down the stairs. They made it to the sixth floor and she became tired. They turned her over to the firemen and before they could get out the building �� he hesitates. �You know, when I think back on that day, I can only thank God for keeping me alive,� he says.