National 9/11 Pentagon Memorial

Monument/Landmark
National 9/11 Pentagon Memorial photo
Jesse Foltz
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Editorial Review

Review

A lesson for the living at Pentagon

By Manuel Roig-Franzia
Sunday, Aug. 28, 2011

Nearly 10 years on, airplanes still appear in the distance, vaguely at first, then clearer, then louder, then cringingly closer, wailing past the Pentagon.

Truckers still grind gears on Route 27, commuters still honk and rev and skid to rubber-burning stops in the clotted traffic.

But the human ear possesses special gifts, and, somehow, in that two-acre plot of ground called the Pentagon Memorial, especially if you really try, the ear can filter out all that noise and latch onto the sound of peace. It gurgles in the bubbling pools beneath 184 benches, the symbols of 184 lives lost on that day in September. Close your eyes, and listen to the water. Peace.

And then it stops.

Stops cold.

Does it every day.

Every day at 9:37 a.m.

One minute.

The pause feels like a challenge, a subtle admonition, jarring you, nudging you to think about what happened here at that very moment on a sunny morning in 2001 when a Boeing 757 turned into a weapon of mass destruction.

In its three-year life, this space - the first national Sept. 11 memorial - has become a place for the tourist and the mourner who isn't intimidated by logistics. It is "not easy to get to," says Thomas Heidenberger , a retired airline pilot whose wife, Michele , was a flight attendant aboard the plane that slammed into the Pentagon at more than 500 mph.

Most visitors pile out of Metro trains on the opposite side of the Pentagon and snake through parking lots to the other side, walking past one sign after another warning them against taking photos, a prohibition that ends when they arrive at the memorial. It has also become a destination for schoolchildren, with the creation of educational programs for children as young as kindergartners. Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, the site draws about half a million people each year, memorial officials say.

The memorial - one of the most compelling in a city packed with memorials - makes the visitor work to figure it out. It is far from a literal expression, not like the Iwo Jima Memorial, which explains everything in a glance. Instead, it's an abstraction, pushing visitors to sort out its meaning and decide how to relate to it.

Here is a group of teenagers, advancing tentatively through the thicket of benches. Three boys plop onto a cantilevered bench, pull out their water bottles, place them on the granite surface.

"It's a cemetery!" one of the girls screams, her face reddening, every inch of her tensing. "Not a table!"

Lisa Leonard, a retired Army colonel who volunteers as a docent, has heard it before. Once it was German tourists. They thought it would be disrespectful to sit on the benches. "But it's not a cemetery," Leonard told them. Not a cemetery, at all. Go ahead and sit.

Leonard, who was working in the Pentagon on Sept. 11, 2001, likes to scramble into the planting bed that rings the memorial and pull back the fronds to show visitors the top of a simple, unadorned concrete wall. It's three inches above ground level - one inch for each year of the too-short life of Dana Falkenberg, a passenger on American Airlines Flight 77, the youngest victim of the terrorist attack on the Pentagon. The wall rises in step with the ages of the victims, Leonard will say, cresting at 71 inches to honor John Yamnicky, a retired Navy captain who was on the same plane.

Tom Heidenberger, who was one of the original directors of the fund that created the $22 million memorial, keeps finding serendipity amid the symbolism. The memorial benches are organized in rows corresponding to the years the victims were born. Heidenberger noticed that his wife, coincidentally, was born in the same year, 1949, as Charles Burlingame, the captain of Flight 77. A captain always sits at the head of the plane, Heidenberger said one afternoon on the phone, and it just so happens that Capt. Burlingame is at the head of his wife's row. It seems fitting.

So does the placement of the benches commemorating the Falkenberg family. Heidenberger noticed that Dana, the 3-year-old, is honored next to her sister, Zoe , whose bench is in the next row across from Dana's, even though they were five years apart. Sayre Pono, a student from Maine, walked along Zoe's row.

"Life goes on," his teacher, Larry Ross, tells him - that's why you build a memorial: to honor the dead and inspire the living.

Heidenberger also noticed that the benches honoring Zoe's and Dana's parents, Charles Falkenberg and Leslie Whittington, also ended up directly across from each other because he was born in 1956 and she in 1955.

Visitors take refuge from the heat in the slender, slotted shade of crape myrtles. Maples that might have sprouted large, leafy canopies were planted originally but did not thrive and had to be replaced. So, even in its youth, the memorial continues to evolve.

Maintenance crews pamper the space. A Salvadoran immigrant, Lucas Avilio Guzman, delicately removes gravel from the walkways that is ever finding its way into the shallow pools beneath each bench. He was working in a hotel across the highway from the Pentagon when Flight 77 struck, and he fled the area on foot amid the chaos. He remembers the faces of the survivors he encountered.

"They were nervous wrecks," he recalls. Now he manicures gravel in the space that honors the survivors. His broom moves like a pendulum; it's as if he's tending a giant version of a Zen sand garden, pulling out gravel this week that will be back in the pools the next.

Guzman will arrive early on Sept. 11 to spruce up his Zen garden for the arrival of dignitaries for an invitation-only ceremony commemorating the 10th anniversary of the terrorist attacks.

Heidenberger will wait until the crowd disperses.

He has been to the memorial at many times of day and under many circumstances, often stopping there after his 20-mile weekend bike rides. But he doesn't like to attend events there on the 11th of September. That's a day he reserves for moments when well-intentioned speeches don't drown out the sound of burbling water. When he can be alone on a simple bench. Alone with his memories of Michele.

From Families' Grief, a Symbol of Loss and Hope

By Nick Miroff
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, September 11, 2008

Jim Laychak arrived at the corporate headquarters of Anheuser-Busch on a windy afternoon in April, thinking through his pitch. A company photographer snapped his picture beside a giant bronze eagle in the lobby, and executive Laura Reeves invited him upstairs. He had come to ask for a million dollars.

It was not an unreasonable sum. After all, the St. Louis brewing giant had helped the Pentagon Memorial Fund get started five years earlier with a $1 million donation. Laychak sat down at a wooden table in a suite with Reeves, senior director of the company's charitable foundation, and took out his promotional materials.

As Laychak started in, Reeves politely stopped him. "I hope you're not here to ask for money," she said. The air went out of the room. But as Reeves explained that the company's sales were slowing and money was tight, Laychak quickly recalibrated.

Five minutes later, he asked for the money anyway.

Laychak came out of the meeting with little more than a free brewery tour, but the episode was as telling a moment as any in the seven-year effort to build the country's first major Sept. 11 memorial, which will be dedicated this morning at the Pentagon and open to the public at 7 tonight. Its completion has not been the result of some large-scale government endeavor, but of one led by a small, determined group of victims' family members, such as Laychak, who have channeled their sorrow into a ceaseless fundraising campaign.

Money had been little more than an afterthought when the idea for a memorial to the victims of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attack on the Pentagon was proposed. Private donors would give quickly, the assumption went, and the country's outpouring of grief would merge into a river of cash. The money would supplement about $13 million left over from countries' donations to help pay for the Persian Gulf War, which Congress could allocate for construction.

The plan seemed solid. But by summer 2003, with the project advancing toward its construction phase, the funding assumptions looked shaky. The pointed memories of Sept. 11 were beginning to dull for many. The country was at war, and the government needed the $13 million for other things. Soon it was clear that the memorial's $22 million construction cost and $10 million endowment would have to be raised primarily by the families of the victims.

They set up a nonprofit organization, the Pentagon Memorial Fund, and enlisted a professional fundraiser. But when the money still did not come fast enough, Laychak, whose younger brother David Laychak was killed at his desk in the attack, decided on a more personal approach.

"If someone is going to say no to us," Laychak said, "then let them say no to me."

Since then, Laychak, the fund's director, has been traveling across the country to corporate boardrooms and the offices of philanthropists, making his pitch as if it were a business proposition or investment opportunity. Affable, easygoing and forthright, he has eschewed sentimentality in favor of a simple, direct appeal, applying skills developed in his career as a senior executive with the large consulting firm Accenture.

In time, Laychak, 49, came to absorb the stories of the other families he spoke for, carrying them into meetings with his own sense of loss. He learned that if he wanted big donors to give big sums, he had to "make the ask" without fear of rejection, as he did with Reeves at Anheuser-Busch.

"If you're not willing to make an ask, why would they be willing to give?" Laychak said.

And give they did, in small amounts and big bundles. Donors included AT&T, Boeing and the government of Taiwan. The state of Maryland gave, as did Fairfax County, former defense secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld and his wife, Joyce, and the Philip L. Graham Fund of The Washington Post.

Much of the money was gathered through large corporate gifts.

Partly because of the fundraising effort, the Pentagon Memorial has been completed several years ahead of the country's other two permanent memorial projects, in Lower Manhattan and Shanksville, Pa., the crash site of United Airlines Flight 93. Construction is underway on the $610 million National September 11 Memorial and Museum at the World Trade Center site, but its planners said recently that they are aiming for a 2011 opening.

The National Park Service is leading the creation of a memorial for the victims of Flight 93 in Shanksville, but construction has not begun. Some victims' relatives have raised concerns that the proposed design, which includes a grove of trees planted in an arc, resembles an Islamic crescent.

For at least several years, then, the Pentagon Memorial will probably be the emotional center of the country's Sept. 11 observance. It has cost more and taken longer to build than planned, but in its completion, there is hope among the builders, donors and family members who have created the memorial that its evocative design will challenge the indelibly dark memories of Sept. 11 with a new set of images: flowing water, polished steel and light.

From a window near her desk, Kathy Dillaber has watched the construction crews come and go at the memorial site. A personnel manager for the Army, she was at work at the Pentagon on the morning American Airlines Flight 77 hit the building like a bomb. Her youngest sister, Patricia E. Mickley, working as a budget analyst one floor below, was killed, along with two dozen of Dillaber's colleagues.

Over the years, Dillaber has seen the bulldozers clear the site, the excavators prepare its foundation and the 184 stainless steel memorial benches lowered into place, one for each of the dead. Just as she has observed the construction process from above, she will now look out on the completed memorial and its visitors. It will never be an easy view for her.

"I have a love-hate relationship with it," she said. "It's a beautiful memorial, and I'm very grateful. But I wish it wasn't there. I wish it didn't have to be there in the first place."

For several years, Dillaber has organized fundraisers for the memorial through her community theater in Alexandria, collecting $17,000. "It's been a kind of therapy for me," she said. "But I can't tell you how many good people we lost."

Even as rescuers and recovery crews combed through the rubble of the Pentagon site after the crash, family members began asking how the victims would be honored. Ideas for a memorial first turned up in a suggestion box at a family assistance center set up by the Pentagon immediately after the attack. One was from Laychak.

"In those horrible dark days, he was already writing suggestions for how to memorialize the people we lost," recalled Meg Falk, former director of the Pentagon's Office of Family Policy, who set up the center and is now retired.

In 2002, after Congress authorized the Pentagon to build the memorial, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers announced a worldwide design competition. The agency asked Falk to form a group with a dozen or so victims' family members who could advise and guide the project. Laychak was the first person Falk called.

"It was one of the hardest things I've had to do," she said. "Here were all of these people who were still so raw, still grieving, and I had to call them to ask them to get involved."

To a person, they all agreed.

Soon, the group was meeting monthly with officials from the Pentagon Renovation Program, the agency in charge of the rebuilding. Four or five locations for the memorial were proposed, Falk recalled, including one adjacent to the Metro station, which would be especially convenient for visitors.

"Some were nice spots," Falk said. "But the families said 9/11 had picked the site." They insisted that the memorial should rise on the grounds of the building's western side, exactly where the plane hit.

By February 2003, an 11-member jury of design professionals, scholars, Pentagon officials and victims' family members selected the winning plan from 1,126 entries. It was drafted by a young couple, Keith Kaseman and Julie Beckman, who proposed a parklike space with shade, trickling pools of water and rows of arcing, cantilevered "light" benches that would set the site aglow at night.

The Pentagon donated the land, but the construction cost of Kaseman and Beckman's project soon rose to $22 million. For legal and strategic reasons, the Pentagon Memorial Fund was created not long after that, with nine family members as its board of directors.

Having raised the money to build the memorial, the fund is developing a $10 million endowment to cover maintenance and other expenses. Lisa Dolan, one of the fund's board members, said the families' work will not end when the memorial is finished.

She plans to work on an initiative to encourage teachers to incorporate the site into their history lessons. "I'll still be out there working to keep the whole thing alive, so people don't forget," said Dolan, whose husband, Navy Capt. Robert Edward Dolan Jr., was killed in the attack. "I don't think the public thinks much about 9/11 now."

Laychak, who lives in Alexandria, also plans to continue in his role. Recently, Falk said that when Laychak called her, the two discussed what he would do once the memorial was open. At the end of the conversation, Falk said Laychak thanked her for picking him as someone who could get the site built. "He said, 'You changed my life,' " Falk recalled. "And I told him: 'No, you picked yourself.' "