The report below was published on Oct. 12, 2001, one month after the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks.

The National Archives and Records Administration’s New York City office, part of the Northeast Region, is in Greenwich Village, just 20 blocks from where the World Trade Center once towered over the city.

The 11-person staff there handles an average of 50 researchers a day. But on September 11, 2001, the day of the terrorist attacks on the Trade Center and the Pentagon, life was far from ordinary. Here is an account of that day by Robert C. Morris, director.

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As I walked down Hudson Street in Greenwich Village around 7:20 Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001, the twin towers of the World Trade Center were clearly visible in the bright morning sun.

Although not realizing it at the time, I was seeing them intact for the last time. But I barely noticed them.

September 11 was primary day, and I was more concerned about articles in The New York Times on the mayoral race, stem cell research, the darkening economic outlook, and a new book by Weather Underground fugitive Bill Ayers.

Closer to home, two Columbia University history professors were coming at 10 o’clock to discuss our hosting a joint seminar session at the Regional Archives.

NARA’s New York office is on the top floor of 201 Varick Street, a 12-story Federal building in the western part of Greenwich Village. When I arrived just before 7:30, most staff members were already settling into their normal routines. For the next hour and a half they checked their email, re-shelved naturalization records, answered reference letters, and assisted researchers in the reading room.

At 8:34 I responded to an inquiry about the best date for a program review. Around 8:45, senior records analyst Karen Lucas began her records management workshop with a short instructional film. A few minutes later, archivist John Celardo was putting the finishing touches on a genealogical inquiry: “Copies of the naturalization records you requested, along with a bill for…”

Then all hell broke loose.

In the stacks, archives technician Joe Majid heard an airplane overhead followed moments later by a loud rumbling. Karen Lucas saw a blinding white light through the drapes in the conference room. And when someone telephoned to say that an airplane had crashed into the World Trade Center, 20 blocks south of us, employees from all over the building began streaming to the café on our floor, where they could get an unrestricted view of lower Manhattan.

We were stunned by what we saw: Smoke billowing from 1 World Trade Center and a gaping hole toward the top of the building. Archivist Greg Plunges informed Karen Lucas what had happened, and she told the workshop participants. One person started screaming that it was a terrorist attack. Another turned on her portable television. People began asking if they were going to be dismissed.

John Celardo instinctively ran back to his office, grabbed our new digital camera, and headed for the roof. He snapped a few pictures, moving from one side of the building to the other to get the best shot. At 9:06, eighteen minutes after the first crash, three staff members saw a second jetliner fly directly into the other tower. With seven pictures still left in the camera, John captured the horrifying moment when a massive ball of orange flames erupted from 2 World Trade Center.

Early news accounts on the radio did not give a definite cause of the initial explosion, but the second crash left little doubt that this was terrorism. Details were still sketchy, however, and after reaching colleagues in Philadelphia and Waltham, I emailed College Park: “It seems that at least one plane has hit the World Trade Center, and both towers are on fire. We are told that all entrances in and out of the city are closed. I can’t get through to anyone on the telephone. We will keep you advised.” The time was 9:32.

Twenty-seven minutes later the unthinkable happened—the south tower collapsed, sending out shock waves that registered over 2.4 on the seismographs at Columbia University’s Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory. John Celardo saw it happen in seeming slow motion. “The calamity of the event finally hit home,” he later recalled. “I fell to my knees and began to sob.”