Twenty years ago, with my eyes barely dry from witnessing some of the horrors of Sept. 11, 2001 first hand, we had reached the High Holy Days, which began the evening of Sept. 17, and tried to make sense of an event that turned our world and our lives upside down permanently.
That Monday evening, I stopped at Zaro’s, my favorite bakery in Grand Central, to pick up my regular High Holy Day order of two round challahs — one with raisins and the other plain — before commuting back to Fairfield. But nothing about the station or my commute was the same. It was like a war zone, flooded with soldiers and commuters, who seemed edgy and drained. The evening seemed almost surreal.