A stunning tale of escape traps its hero in replay

"He's not the most vocal person," says Gerard McEneaney, a colleague of Demczur at Union Local 32 BJ. "You wouldn't characterize him as outspoken – he's a very soft-spoken, unassuming man."

Now, bewildering change. After living through the attacks, his routine shattered, Demczur has been swept into a vortex of publicity, and he finds himself speaking more than he ever has.

Suddenly, he's a celebrity. In February, the manufacturer of the squeegee flew him to Reno, Nev., for the annual meeting of the International Window Cleaners Association. There, he spoke in front of hundreds of people.

Those who heard his speech recall a rapt audience. Even though his broken English was difficult to follow, Demczur's presence alone had a powerful effect. "It was just a few months after 9/11," says Mr. Fabry, "and, in some ways, it was an emotional outlet for us to feel connected."

To Demczur's astonishment, people came up to shake his hand, take pictures with him, and even get his autograph.

Flying to Reno wasn't easy. Planes still make him nervous, but the trip was an accomplishment, he thinks. Although he doesn't say it, all the attention is kind of fun at times. Acquaintances say he's basking in the well-deserved glory, even as he says he'd rather move on.

But the phone keeps ringing – three TV requests came during interviews for this story alone – and Demczur rarely says no to an interview.

"If I answer the phone, I'll say, 'no,' " says his wife Nadia, exasperated. "He can never say no. He wants to please everyone." After enduring their dad's endless interviews, his two children, too, are getting upset, and they ask him why he has to keep talking about the ordeal. When interviewers come now, Nadia is cordial and polite, but has little to say. The children leave the room.

There are other alienating moments. Demczur rarely drives now, because he feels dizzy behind the wheel, afraid to change lanes. On a recent trip to Canada, when he wanted to take a shift driving, his daughter became scared, and refused to sit near him. He gave it a try anyway, but had to stop after five minutes. He says he felt guilty and useless when his wife did all the driving.

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The outer rhythms of Demczur's work routines and family life have abruptly changed this past year. And the hero's role others have thrust upon him masks an inner life in turmoil.

"For me, when I come home, I'm never thinking about the media or something," Demczur reflects. "I [was] just, whew, whoa – I said, I'm lucky. God helped me out. I'm coming home, I'm staying home with my children. I know it's over, it's behind me, but the life's all changed.

"I can't sleep. I'm shaking. So many of my friends died, and I think, my God! You don't want to cry, but tears are coming by itself."

After months of psychotherapy and medication, he still wakes in the night, remembering faces: the guard at the Japanese bank on 93; the receptionist at Carr Futures on 92; a new employee who'd asked him where to go that morning. He was working with them the morning of Sept. 11.

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