Like most New Yorkers, prior to September 11, I could pass by a firehouse without really taking notice of it. Oh, maybe if the doors were open I’d peek inside, but by and large firehouses were just another essential but largely unnoticed part of the urban wallpaper. This is not to say that firefighters weren’t held in high esteem by New Yorkers. Women thought the guys were great-looking, and both men and women admired them for their staggering bravery. All this despite the fact that outside of Canadian hockey leagues the F.D.N.Y. was one of the last male bastions where a mustache was considered an acceptable form of self-expression.

September 11 transformed New York’s firefighters into symbols of a big, muscular city, men of epic courage and dedication. (And what an indication it is of the city’s growing maturity that firefighters hold the throne of admiration that dot-com tyros did two years ago, or Wall Street titans did a decade earlier.) Firehouses themselves have become shrines and destinations, places where New Yorkers go to pay their respects, say hello, and give thanks.

And just when you thought there was nothing left to learn about firefighters’ courage and selflessness come two stories that are both extraordinary in their own ways. On page 210, David Halberstam profiles Engine 40, Ladder 35, which lost 12 of the 13 men who responded on the 11th. Since then, Halberstam has become a regular at that station on the Upper West Side, learning the stories of the fallen and crafting his indelible portrait of the devastated company. It is, to my mind, one of the great magazine articles.

The Duane Street firehouse—Engine 7, Ladder 1—seven blocks north of the Twin Towers, was more fortunate than 40/35; every one of its firefighters survived. And V.F.  editor of creative development David Friend has the wrenching story of the two French filmmakers who became as close to those men as any nonfirefighter could have. Jules and Gedeon Naudet had been hanging out at the firehouse for months working on a documentary when the terrorists struck. Following their subjects throughout the day, they Filmed the entire event. Jules even shot from within the Trade Center, surviving the collapse of both towers.

In deference to the families of the men who never made it out, the Naudets turned down numerous and lucrative offers from news organizations all over the world for their hours of videotape. The brothers and their partner, James Hanlon, a fireman himself, wanted to wait, make their own documentary, and donate most of the proceeds to surviving firefighters and their families. When David Friend phoned—he has known the Naudets for a decade—they called back. They agreed to tell their story to Vanity Fair, and Friend’s account appears on page 182.

But what the brothers really needed was assistance in placing their documentary in theaters and on television, and they came to me for advice. I put them in touch with William Morris Agency president Jim Wiatt and his star agent Ben Silverman, who agreed to represent the Naudets pro bono. By now I had become one of the producers of the project, also on a pro bono basis, and took the team to CBS president and C.E.O. Les Moonves and CBS News head Andrew Heyward. They moved quickly: the network plans to broadcast the film in prime time this March. My own interests aside, what the two brothers and Hanlon have is the Zapruder film of September 11. It is as remarkable as their personal story of that day.