Mr. Weinstein, an old man with a thick Yiddish accent and blue numbers tattooed on his arm, took command

ON a regular Tuesday in 1965, I got off the school bus with my older brother and walked to our apartment building. As usual, there was a crowd of people waiting for the elevator; it was a little after five p.m., and everyone was on their way home after work.

We got into the elevator at five twenty-five. People crowded in behind us until the elevator was at capacity, then the doors closed, and it began its slow ascent.

Suddenly the lights went out. The elevator shuddered to a stop.

We had no idea that we were among over 800,000 people stranded and stuck in elevators and subways all over New York City in what would be known as the Great Northeast Blackout of 1965. All we knew was that we were trapped in a dark, crowded cubicle.

There were flashes of light as people began flicking their cigarette lighters. One man took advantage of the light to force open the decorative door, which revealed the steel door with its huge lever. Another man pushed the lever, and the elevator door flew open. Miraculously, we had stopped about six feet above the lobby, and as the door opened, we could see the people still waiting on the ground floor.

There was a very small opening at the bottom of the elevator. Mr. Weinstein, an old man with a thick Yiddish accent and blue numbers tattooed on his arm, took command. Authoritatively, he called, “Let’s at least save the boys!”