COLLEGE YEARS
We took the world as given. Cigarettes
Were twenty-several cents a pack, and gas
As much per gallon. Sex came wrapped in rubber
And veiled in supernatural scruples — call
Them chivalry…
Psychology was in the mind; abstract
Things grabbed us where we lived; the only life
Worth living was the private life, and — last,
Worst scandal in this characterization —
We did not know we were a generation.
They glanced at one another like tigers taking measure of a menacing new rival.
But in this kind of jungle you could never be sure where the real danger lurked.
It was Monday, September 20, 1954. Eleven hundred sixty-two of the best and brightest young men in the world were lined up outside that monstrous Victorian Gothic structure known as Memorial Hall. To register as members of the future Harvard Class of ’58.
Running the sartorial spectrum from Brooks Brothers to hand-me-downs, they were variously impatient, terrified, blasé, and numb. Some had traveled thousands of miles, others a few blocks. Yet all knew that they were now merely at the beginning of the greatest journey of their lives.
Shadrach Tubman, son of the president of Liberia, flew from Monrovia via Paris to New York’s Idlewild Airport, whence he was driven to Boston in his Embassy’s limousine.
John D. Rockefeller, IV, unpretentiously took the train up from Manhattan and splurged on a taxi from South Station to the Yard.
Apparently the Aga Khan simply epiphanized. (Other rumors had it that he’d flown there on a magic carpet — or a private jet.) In any case, he stood in line waiting to register just like any mortal.
These freshmen had arrived already luminaries. They had been born directly into the limelight.
But on this last day of summer 1954, more than a thousand other potential comets were waiting to burst from dark anonymity to light up the sky.
Among them were Daniel Rossi, Jason Gilbert, Theodore Lambros, and Andrew Eliot.
They — and a fifth, still half a world away — are the heroes of this story.
DANIEL ROSSI
I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and the sky.
I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and the sky.
From earliest childhood Danny Rossi had a single, desperate ambition — to please his father.
And one single haunting nightmare — that he never could.
At first he believed there was a legitimate reason for Dr. Rossi’s indifference.
After all, Danny was the slender, unathletic brother of the toughest fullback in the history of Orange County, California. And all the time that Frank Rossi was scoring touchdowns and attracting college scouts, Dad was too involved with him to pay attention to his younger son.
The fact that Danny got good grades — which Frank never did — made no impression whatsoever. After all, his brother stood a mighty six feet two (a head taller than Danny), and his mere entrance on the field could bring a stadium of cheering people to their feet.
What could little bespectacled red-haired Danny do that earned applause? He was, or so his mother constantly reported, a gifted pianist. Almost a prodigy. This would have made most parents proud. And yet Dr. Rossi never once had come to hear him play in public.
Understandably, Danny felt enormous pangs of envy. And a resentment growing slowly into hatred. Frank is not a god, a person, too. Sooner or later you’re going to notice.
But then in 1950, Frank, a fighter pilot, was shot down in Korea. Now Danny’s pent-up jealousy transformed, in painful stages, first to grief and then to guilt. He somehow felt responsible. As if he’d wished his brother’s death.
At the ceremony in which they named the school athletic field for Frank, his father wept uncontrollably. Danny looked with anguish at the man he so admired.
And he vowed to bring him consolation. Yet, how could he give his father joy?
Even hearing Danny practice annoyed Arthur Rossi. After all, a dentist’s busy day was orchestrated to the grating noise of drills. And so he had a cork-lined studio built in the cellar for his sole surviving son.
Danny understood this was no act of generosity, that his father wished to be freed from the sight as well as the sound of him.
Yet, Danny was determined to keep fighting for his father’s love. And he sensed sport was the only way for him to rise from the cellar of paternal disapproval.
There was just one possibility for a boy of his size — running. He went to see the track coach and asked shyly for advice.
He now got up at six each morning, slipped on sneakers, and left the house to train. His excessive zeal during those early weeks made his legs sore and heavy.
But he persevered. And kept it all a secret. Till he had something worth telling Dad.
On the first day of spring, the coach made the entire — squad run a mile to gauge their fitness. Danny was surprised that he could actually stay near the real runners for the first three quarters.
But suddenly his mouth was parched, his chest aflame. He started to slow down. From the center of the field — he heard the coach call out, “Hang in there, Rossi. Don’t give up.”
Fearing the displeasure of this surrogate father, Danny drove his weary body through the final lap. And threw himself, exhausted, onto the grass. Before he could catch his breath, the coach was standing above him with a stopwatch.
“Not bad, Danny. You sure surprised me — five minutes forty-eight seconds. If you stick with it, you can go a heck of a lot faster. In fact, five minutes can sometimes cop third place in our dual meets. Go to the supply desk and get a uniform and spikes.”
Sensing the proximity of his goal, Danny temporarily abandoned afternoon piano practice to work out with the team. And that usually meant ten or twelve grueling quarter-miles. He threw up after nearly every session.
Several weeks later, the coach announced that, as a reward for his tenacity, Danny would be their third-miler against Valley High.
That night he told his father. Despite his son’s warning that he’d probably get badly beaten, Dr. Rossi insisted on attending.
That Saturday afternoon, Danny savored the three happiest minutes of his childhood.
As the fidgety runners lined up at the middle of the cinder track, Danny saw his parents sitting in the first row.
“Let’s go, son,” his father said warmly. “Show ’em the good old Rossi stuff.”
These words so ignited Danny that he forgot the coach’s instructions to take it easy and pace himself, instead, as the gun went off, he bolted to the front and led the pack around the first turn.
Christ, thought Dr. Rossi, the kid’s a champion. Shit, thought the coach, the kid’s crazy. He’ll burn himself out.
As they completed the first lap, Danny glanced up at his father and saw what he had always thought impossible — a smile of pride for him.
“Seventy-one seconds,” called the coach. “Too fast, Rossi. Much too fast.”
“Looking good, son!” called Dr. Rossi.
Danny soared through the next four hundred yards on wings of paternal approval.
He passed the halfway mark still in the lead. But now his lungs were starting to burn. By the next curve, he had gone into oxygen debt. And was experiencing what runners not inaccurately call rigor mortis. He was dying.
The opposition sped past him and opened a long lead. From across the field he heard his father shout, “Come on, Danny, show some guts!”
They clapped when he finally finished. The sympathetic applause that greets the hopelessly outclassed competitor.
Dizzy with fatigue, he looked toward the stands. His mother was smiling reassuringly. His father was gone, it was like a bad dream.
Inexplicably, the coach was pleased. “Rossi, I’ve never seen a guy with more guts. I caught you in five minutes fifteen seconds. You’ve got real potential.”
“Not on the track,” Danny replied, limping away. “I quit.” He knew, to his chagrin, that all his efforts had only made matters worse. For his embarrassing performance had been on the track of Frank Rossi Field.
Humiliated, Danny returned to his previous life. The keyboard became an outlet for all his frustrations. He practiced day and night, to the exclusion of everything else.
He had been studying since he was six with a local teacher. But now this honorable gray-haired matron told his mother candidly that she had nothing more to give the boy. And suggested to Gisela Rossi that her son audition for Gustave Landau — a former soloist in Vienna, now spending his autumnal years as music director of nearby San. Angelo Junior College.
The old man was impressed by what he heard and accepted Danny as a pupil.
“Dr. Landau says he’s very good for his age,” Gisela reported to her husband at dinner. “He thinks that he could even play professionally.”
To which Dr. Rossi responded with a monosyllabic, “Oh.” Which meant that he’d reserve all judgment.
Dr. Landau was a gentle if demanding mentor. And Danny was the ideal pupil. He was not only talented but actually eager to be driven. If Landau said go through an hour of Czerny’s keyboard exercises every day, Danny would do three or four.
“Am I improving fast enough?” he’d ask anxiously.
“Ach, Daniel, you could even work yourself a little less. You’re young. You should go out some evenings and have fun.”
But Danny had no time — and knew nothing that would bring him “fun.” He was in a hurry to grow up. And every waking moment when he was not in school, he spent at the piano.
Dr. Rossi was not unaware of his son’s antisocial tendencies. And it upset him.
“I’m telling you, Gisela, it’s unhealthy. He’s too obsessive. Maybe he’s trying to compensate for his shortness or something. A kid his age should be going out with girls. God knows Frank was a real Casanova by this time.”
Art Rossi was distressed to think that a son of his could have turned out to be so… unmanly.
Mrs. Rossi, on the other hand, believed that if the two men were a little closer, her husband’s qualms might disappear.
And so at the end of dinner the next evening, she left them on their own. So they could chat.
Her husband was perceptibly annoyed, since he always found talking to Danny a disquieting experience.
“Everything okay at school?” he inquired.
“Well, yes and no,” Danny replied — just as uneasy as his father.
Like a nervous infantryman, Dr. Rossi feared he might be crossing — into a minefield.
“What seems to be the matter?”
“Dad, everybody at school sort of thinks I’m weird. But a lot of musicians are like me.”
Dr. Rossi began to sweat. “How is that, son?”
“Well, they’re really passionate about it. I’m that way, too. I want to make music my life.”
There was a brief pause as Dr. Rossi searched for an appropriate response.
“You’re my boy,” he said at last, as an evasive alternative to an expression of sincere affection.
“Thanks, Dad. I think I’ll go down and practice now.” After Danny left, Art Rossi poured himself a drink and thought, I guess I should be grateful. A passion for music was better than several others he could have imagined.
Just after his sixteenth birthday, Danny made his debut as a soloist with the Junior College Symphony. Under the baton of his mentor, he played Brahms’s arduous Second Piano Concerto before a packed auditorium that included his parents.
As Danny stepped on stage, pale with fright, his glasses caught the glare of the primitive spotlight, nearly blinding him. When at last he reached the piano, he felt paralyzed.
Dr. Landau walked over and whispered, “Don’t worry, Daniel, you are ready.”
Danny’s terror magically dissipated.
The applause seemed to go on forever.
As he bowed and turned to shake his teacher’s hand, Danny was startled to see tears in the old man’s eyes.
Landau embraced his protégé.
“You know, Dan, you made me real proud tonight.”
Ordinarily, a son so long starved for paternal affection would have been ecstatic to get such a compliment. But that evening Daniel Rossi had been intoxicated by a new emotion: the adoration of a crowd.
From the time he entered high school, Danny had his heart set on going to Harvard, where he could study composition with Randall Thompson, choral master, and Walter Piston, virtuoso symphonist. This alone gave him the inspiration to slog through science, math, and civics.
For sentimental reasons, Dr. Rossi would have liked to see his son at Princeton, the university celebrated by F. Scott Fitzgerald. And which would have been Frank’s alma mater.
But Danny was impervious to all persuasion. And finally Art Rossi stopped his campaign.
“I can’t get anywhere with him. Let the kid go where he wants.”
But something occurred to shake the dentist’s laissez-faire attitude. In 1954, the zealous Senator McCarthy was focusing his scrutiny upon “that Commie sanctuary Harvard.” Some of its professors would not cooperate with his committee and discuss their colleagues’ politics.
Worse, the President of Harvard, the stubborn Dr. Pusey, then refused to fire them as Joe McCarthy had demanded.
“Son,” Dr. Rossi asked with growing frequency, “how can anyone whose brother died protecting us from communism even dream of going to that kind of school?”
Danny remained taciturn. What was the point of answering that music isn’t political?
As Dr. Rossi persevered with his objections, Danny’s mother tried desperately not to take sides. And so Dr. Landau was the only person with whom Danny could discuss his great dilemma.
The old man was as circumspect as possible. And — yet — he confessed to Danny, “This McCarthy frightens me. You know, they started out in Germany like this.”
He paused uneasily, now pained by unhealed memories.
Then he continued softly, “Daniel, there is fear throughout the country. Senator McCarthy thinks he can dictate to Harvard, tell them whom to fire and so forth.
I think their president has shown enormous bravery. In fact, I wish I could express to him my admiration.”
“How could you do that, Dr. Landau?”
The old man leaned slightly toward his brilliant pupil and said, “I would send them you.”
The Ides of May arrived and with them letters of acceptance. Princeton, Harvard, Yale, and Stanford all wanted Danny. Even Dr. Rossi was impressed — although he feared his son might make a fatal choice.
Armageddon came that weekend when he summoned Danny to his cordovan-upholstered study. And asked the crucial question.
“Yes, Dad,” he answered diffidently, “I’m going to Harvard.”
There was a deathly silence.
Up till now, Danny had cherished the unconscious hope that when his father saw the strength of his conviction, he would finally relent.
But Arthur Rossi was as adamant as stone.
“Dan, this is a free country. And you’re entitled to go to whatever college you desire. But I’m also free to express my own dissent. And so I choose not to pay a penny of your bills. Congratulations, son, you’re on your own. You’ve just declared your independence.”
For an instant Danny felt confused and lost. Then, as he studied his father’s face, he began to comprehend that this McCarthy business was just a pretext. Art Rossi simply didn’t give a damn for him at all.
And he realized that he had to rise above his childish need for this man’s approbation.
For now he knew he’d never get it, Never.
“Okay, Dad,” he whispered hoarsely, “if that’s the way you want it....”
He turned and left the room without another word. Through the heavy door, he heard a timpani of punches pounding savagely on his father’s desk.
Yet strangely he felt free.
JASON GILBERT, JR.
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
He was the Golden Boy. A tall and blond Apollo with the kind of magnetism women loved and men admired. He excelled at every sport he played. His teachers adored him, for despite his universal popularity, he was soft-spoken and respectful.
In short, he was that rare young man whom every parent dreams of as a son. And every woman dreams of as a lover.
It would be tempting to say that Jason Gilbert, Jr., was the American Dream.
Certainly a lot of people thought so. But beneath his dazzling exterior there was a single inner blemish. A tragic flaw he had inherited — from generations of his ancestors.
Jason Gilbert had been born Jewish.
His father had worked hard to camouflage the fact. For Jason Gilbert, Sr., knew from the bruises of his Brooklyn childhood that being Jewish was a handicap, an albatross around the soul. Life would be far better if everyone could simply be American.
He had long considered disposing of the liability of his last name. And finally, one autumn afternoon in 1933, a circuit court judge gave Jacob Gruenwald a new life as Jason Gilbert.
Two years later, at his country club’s spring ball, he met Betsy Newman, blond, petite, and freckle-faced. They had a great deal in common. Love of theater, dancing, outdoor sports. Not least of all, they shared a passionate indifference to the practices of their ancestral faith.
To avoid the pressures from their more religious relatives to have a “proper” ceremony, they decided to elope.
Their marriage was a happy one whose joy was magnified in 1937 when Betsy gave birth to a boy, whom they named Jason, Jr.
The very moment that he heard the splendid news, in the smoke-filled waiting room, the elder Gilbert made a silent vow. He would protect his newborn son from suffering the slightest hardship because he was of nominally Jewish parents. No, this boy would grow up and be a first-class member of American society.
By this point Gilbert, Sr., was executive vice-president of the rapidly expanding National Communications Corporation. He and Betsy were living on a lush three-acre homestead in growing — and unghettoed — Syosset, Long Island.
Three years later, baby sister Julie came along. Like her brother, she inherited her mother’s blue eyes and blond hair though only — Julie got the freckles.
Their childhood was idyllic. Both seemed to thrive on the regimen of self-improvement that their father had devised for them. It began with swimming and continued with riding and tennis instruction. And, of course, skiing on their winter holidays.
Young Jason was prepared with loving rigor to become a demon of the tennis courts.
First he was tutored at a nearby club. But when he showed the promise that his father had fully expected, each Saturday the elder Gilbert personally drove his budding champion to Forest Hills for coaching by Ricardo Lopez, former Wimbledon and U.S. champion. Dad watched every minute of the sessions, shouting encouragement and reveling in Jason’s progress.
The Gilberts had intended to bring up their children with no religion at all. But they soon discovered that, even in a place as easygoing as Syosset, no one could exist in unaffiliated limbo. It was worse than being … something second rate.
Fortune dealt them yet another ace when a new Unitarian church was built nearby.
They were accepted cordially, though their participation was sporadic, to say the least. They hardly ever went on Sundays. At Christmas they were on the slopes and Easter on the beach. But at least they belonged.
Both parents were intelligent enough to know that trying to raise their children as Mayflower WASPs would ultimately cause them psychological perplexities. And so they taught their son and daughter that their Jewish background was like a little rivulet that poured from the Old Country to join with the mighty mainstream of American society.
Julie went away to boarding school, but Jason opted to remain at home and attend Hawkins-Atwell Academy. He loved Syosset, and was especially reluctant to give up the chance of dating girls. Which, next to tennis, was his favorite sport.
And in which he was equally successful.
Admittedly, he was no whirlwind in the classroom. Still, his grades were good enough to all but guarantee admission to the university he and his father — dreamed of — Yale.
The reasons were both intellectual and emotional. The Yale man seemed a tripartite aristocrat-gentleman, scholar, and athlete. And Jason simply looked like he was born to go there.
And yet the envelope that arrived on the morning of May 12 was suspiciously underweight, suggesting that its message was short. It was also painful.
Yale had rejected him.
The Gilberts’ consternation turned to rage when they learned that Tony Rawson, whose grades were certainly no better than Jason’s, and whose backhand most assuredly was worse, had been accepted at New Haven.
Jason’s father insisted on an immediate audience with the school headmaster, himself an old Yalie.
“Mr. Trumbull,” he demanded, “can you possibly explain how they could reject my son and take young Rawson?”
The gray-templed educator puffed at his pipe and replied, “You must understand, Mr. Gilbert, Rawson is a Yale ‘legacy’. His father and grandfather were both Old Blues. That counts for a lot up there. The feeling for tradition runs extremely deep.”
“All right, all right,” the elder Gilbert responded, “but could you give me a plausible explanation of why a boy like Jason, a real gentleman, a great athlete —”
“Please, Dad,” Jason interrupted, increasingly embarrassed. But his father persisted. “Could you tell me why your alma mater wouldn’t want a man like him?”
Trumbull leaned back on his chair and replied, “Well, Mr. Gilbert, I’m not privy to the actual deliberations of the Yale committee. But I do know that the boys in New Haven like to have a ‘balanced mix’ in every class.”
“Mix?”
“Yes, you know,” the headmaster explained matter-of-factly, “there’s the question of geographical distribution, of alumni sons — as in Tony’s case. Then there’s the proportion of high school and prep school students, musicians, athletes …”
By now Jason’s father knew what Trumbull was implying. “Mr. Trumbull,” he inquired with all the restraint he could still muster, “this ‘mix’ you refer to, does it also include — religious background?”
“In fact, yes,” the headmaster answered affably. “Yale doesn’t have what you would call a quota. But it does, to some extent, limit the number of Jewish students it accepts.”
“That’s against the law!”
“I should hardly think so,” Trumbull replied. “Jews are — what? — two and a half percent of the national population? I’d wager Yale accepts at least four times that number.”
Gilbert, Sr., was not about to wager. For he sensed that the older man knew the exact percentage of Jews accepted annually by his alma mater.
Jason feared an angry storm was brewing and longed at all cost to avert it.
“Look, Dad, I don’t want to go to a school that doesn’t want me. As far as I’m concerned, Yale can go to hell.”
He then turned to the headmaster and said apologetically, “Excuse me, sir.”
“Not at all,” Trumbull responded. “A perfectly understandable reaction. Now let’s think positively. After all, your second choice is a very good school. Some people even think Harvard is the best college in the country.”
TED LAMBROS
Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself,
That in my action I may soar as high,
As I can now discern with this clear eye.
All sensible people are selfish.
Great God, I ask thee for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself,
That in my action I may soar as high,
As I can now discern with this clear eye.
All sensible people are selfish.
He was a commuter. A member of that small and near-invisible minority whose finances were not sufficient to allow them the luxury of living with their classmates on campus. Thus, they were Harvard men only by day — a part and yet apart — forced to return at night by bus or subway to the real world, Ironically, Ted Lambros had been born almost in the shadow of the Yard. His father, Socrates, who had come to America from Greece in the early thirties, was the popular proprietor of The Marathon restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue, a brisk walk north from Widener Library.
In his establishment, as he would frequently boast to members of his staff (in other words, his family), more great minds would nightly gather than ever had “symposiazed” at the Academy of Plato. Not just philosophers, but Nobel Prize winners in physics, chemistry, medicine, and economics. And even Mrs. Julia Child, who had pronounced his wife’s lamb in lemons “most amusing.”
Moreover, his son Theodore attended Cambridge High and Latin School, so very near the sacred precinct that it was almost part of the college itself.
Since the elder Lambros held the members of the faculty in a reverence bordering on idolatry, it was natural that his son grew up with a passionate desire to go to Harvard.
At sixteen, the tall and darkly handsome Theodore was promoted to full waiterhood, thus bringing him in closer contact with these academic luminaries.
Ted felt a thrill when they merely said good evening to him.
He wondered why. Just what was this Harvardian charisma he could sense even in the briefest motion of depositing a plate of Kleftiko?
One apocalyptic evening, it at last became clear. They had such uncanny confidence. Self-assurance emanated from these dignitaries like a halo — whether they were discussing metaphysics or the merits of a new instructor’s wife.
Being the son of an insecure immigrant, Ted especially admired their ability to love themselves and treasure their own intellects.
And it gave him a goal in life. He wanted to become one of them. Not just an undergraduate but an actual professor. And his father shared the dream.
Much to the discomfort of the other Lambros children, Daphne and Alexander, Papa would often rhapsodize at dinner about Ted’s glorious future.
“I don’t know why everybody thinks he’s so great,” young Alex would grudgingly retort.
“Because he is,” said Socrates with mantic fervor. “Theo is this family’s true lambros.” He smiled at his pun on their last name, which in Greek meant “gleam” or “brilliance.”
From Ted’s small room on Prescott Street, where he grinded well into the night, he could see the lights of Harvard Yard barely two hundred yards away. So close, so very close. And if his concentration ever flagged, he would rouse himself by thinking, “Hang in, Lambros, you’re almost there.” For, like Odysseus in the swirling sea around Phaeacia, he could actually perceive the goal of all his long and mighty struggles.
Consistent with these epic fantasies, he dreamed about the maiden who’d be waiting for him on this magic isle. A golden-haired young princess like Nausicaa. Ted’s Harvard dreams embraced the Radcliffe girls as well.
Thus, when he read the Odyssey for senior English honors class and reached book 6 — Nausicaa’s great infatuation with the handsome Greek washed up on her shore — he saw it as an augury of the delirious reception he would get when at last he arrived.
But Ted’s straight A in that English course was one of the very few he received all year. In fact, most of the time he earned solid if not brilliant B-pluses. He was more plugger than slugger. So could he dare hope to be admitted to Fair Harvard?
He stood merely seventh in his class, with College-Board scores only slightly higher than average. True, Harvard usually sought out well-rounded individuals. But Ted adjudged himself to be a square. For after studying and waitering, where was the time to learn the harp or go out for a team? He was somberly objective and kept trying to persuade his — father not to expect the impossible.
But Papa Lambros was unswervingly optimistic. He was confident that Ted’s letters of recommendation from the “gigantic personalities” who dined at The Marathon would have a magical effect.
And in a way, they did. Ted Lambros was accepted — albeit without financial aid. This meant he was condemned to remain in his cell on Prescott Street, unable to taste the joys of Harvard life beyond the classroom. For he would have to spend his evenings slaving at The Marathon to earn the six-hundred-dollar tuition.
Still Ted was undaunted. Though he was only at the foothills of Olympus, at least he was there, ready to climb.
For Ted believed in the American dream. That if you wanted something badly enough and devoted your heart and soul to it, you would ultimately succeed.
And he wanted Harvard with the same “unperishable fire” that drove Achilles till he conquered Troy.
But then Achilles didn’t have to wait on tables every night.
ANDREW ELIOT
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse…
The newest Eliot to enter Harvard continued a tradition that began in 1649.
Andrew had a privileged childhood.
Even after they had gracefully divorced, his parents lavished on him all a growing boy could wish for. He had an English nanny and a horde of teddy bears. And from as early as he could recall, they sent him to the most expensive boarding schools and summer camps. They established a trust fund, making his future secure.
In short, they gave him everything except their interest and attention.
Of course they loved him. That went without saying. Perhaps that is why they never actually said it. They simply assumed he would know that they appreciated what a fine and independent son he was.
Yet, Andrew was the first of his entire family to feel himself unworthy of admission to Harvard. As he often joked selfdeprecatingly, “They let me in because my name was Eliot and I could spell it.”
Clearly, his ancestry cast giant shadows on his confidence. And, quite understandably, what he regarded as a lack of creativity only magnified his innate inferiority complex.
Actually, he was a rather bright young man. He had a modest way with words — as witnessed by the diary he kept from prep school onward. He played soccer well.
He was a wing whose corner kicks helped many a center-forward score.
That was an index of his personality — he was always happy when he could assist a friend.
And off the field he was kind, thoughtful, and considerate. Most of all, though he would not have arrogated such a distinction for himself, he was considered by his many friends a darn nice guy.
The university was proud to have him. But, Andrew Eliot ’58 had a quality that set him apart from every other member of his Harvard class.
He was not ambitious.
***
Just after 5:00 A.M. on September 20, a Greyhound bus reached the dingy terminal in downtown Boston and disgorged, among its passengers, a tired and sweaty Daniel Rossi. His clothing was a mass of wrinkles and his reddish hair unkempt. Even his glasses were fogged with transcontinental grime.
He had left the West Coast three days earlier with sixty dollars in his pocket, of which he still had fifty-two. For he had all but starved his way across America.
Totally exhausted, he was barely able to drag his single suitcase (full of music scores he’d studied on the journey, and a shirt or two) down to the subway for Harvard Square. First he trudged to Holworthy 6, his freshman lodgings in the Yard, then registered as quickly as possible so that he could return to Boston and transfer from his California branch to Local No. 9 of the Musicians Union.
“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” cautioned the secretary. “We got a million piano players out of work. Actually, the only keyboard jobs available are holy ones. You see, the Lord just pays the union minimum.” Pointing her long, vermilion-painted fingernail toward the small white notices pinned on a bulletin board, she added wryly, “Choose your religion, kid.”
After a careful study of the possibilities, Danny returned with two scraps of paper.
“These would be great for me,” he said. “Organist on Friday night and Saturday morning at the temple in Maiden, and Sunday morning at this church in Quincy. Are they still available?”
“That’s why they’re hangin’ there, kid. But, as you can see, the bread they’re offering’s more like Ritz crackers.”
“Yeah,” Danny replied, “but I can really use whatever money I can get my hands on. Do you get many Saturday-night dance gigs?”
“Gee, you sure seem hungry. Got a big family to support or somethin’?”
“No. I’m a freshman at Harvard and need the dough for tuition.”
“How come those rich guys irs Cambridge didn’t give you a scholarship?”
“It’s a long story,” Danny said uneasily. “But I’d be grateful if you’d keep me in mind. In any case, I’ll stay in touch.”
“I’m sure you will, kid.
Just before eight the preceding day, Jason Gilbert, Jr., had awakened in Syosset, Long Island.
The sun always seemed to shine more — brightly in his bedroom. Perhaps it was reflected from his many glittering trophies.
He shaved, put on a new Chemise Lacoste, then hauled his luggage, as well as assorted tennis and squash rackets, down to his 1950 Mercury coupé convertible. He was looking forward to roaring up the Post Road in the buggy he had lovingly rebuilt with his own hands, souping it up and even adding a dual fiberglass exhaust.
The entire Gilbert household — Mom, Dad, Julie, Jenny the housekeeper and her husband Maxwell the gardener — were waiting to see him off.
There was much kissing and embracing. And a short valedictory from his father.
“Son, I won’t wish you luck because you don’t need it. You were born to be number one — and not just on the tennis court.”
Though Jason did not show it, these parting words had the opposite of their intended effect. For he was already uneasy at the prospect of leaving home and testing his mettle against the real big leaguers of his generation. That last-minute reminder of Dad’s high expectations made him even more nervous.
Still, he might have taken comfort had he known that his adoring father’s speech had been echoed several hundred times that day by several hundred other parents who were also sending their uniquely gifted progeny off to Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Five hours later, Jason stood outside his assigned freshman dormitory, Straus A-32, on which a scrap of torn yellow paper was taped.
To my roommate: I always nap in the afternoon, so please be quiet.
It was signed simply “D. D.”
Jason quietly unlocked the door and carried his baggage practically on tiptoe into the one free bedroom. After placing his suitcases on the metal bed (it creaked slightly), he glanced out the window.
He had a view — and all the noise — of hectic Harvard Square. But Jason didn’t mind.
He was actually in a buoyant mood, since there was still enough time left to stroll to Soldier’s Field and find a pickup game of tennis. Already dressed in white, he merely grabbed his Wilson and a can of Spauldings.
Luckily, he recognized a varsity player who had defeated him in a summer tournament two years earlier. The guy was happy to see Jason again, agreed to hit a few, and then quickly learned how much the new arrival had improved.
When he got back to Straus Hall, there was another yellow note on the door, announcing that D. D. had gone to dinner and would then proceed to the library (the library — they hadn’t even registered!) to study, and would be back just before 10:00 P.M. If his roommate planned on coming in after that, would he be kind enough to be as quiet as possible.
Jason showered, put on a fresh Haspel cord jacket, grabbed a quick bite at a cafeteria in the Square, then tooled up to Radcliffe to scout the freshman girls. He returned about ten-thirty and was duly respectful of his unseen roommate’s need for rest.
The next morning he woke to find yet another note.
I have gone to register.
If my mother calls, tell her I had a good dinner last night.
Jason crumpled up this latest communiqué and marched off to join the line that now stretched well around the block outside Memorial Hall.
The high intentions of his message notwithstanding, the elusive D. D. was not by any means the first member of The Class to register. For at the very stroke of nine, the large portals of Memorial Hall had opened to admit Theodore Lambros.
Three minutes earlier, Ted had left his home on Prescott Street to stride over and claim a tiny but indelible place in the history of the oldest college in America.
To his mind, he had entered Paradise.
***
Andrew Eliot’s father drove him down from Maine in the family’s vintage station wagon, laden with carefully packed trunks containing tweed and shetland jackets, white buck shoes, assorted moccasins, rep ties, and a term’s supply of button-down and tab-collar shirts. In short, his school uniforms.
As usual, father and son did not speak much to each other. Too many centuries of Eliots had gone through this same rite of passage to make conversation necessary.
They parked by the gate closest to Massachusetts Hall (some of whose earlier occupants had been George Washington’s soldiers). Andrew ran into the Yard and rushed up to Wig G-21 to enlist the aid of his former prep school buddies in hauling his gear. Then, as they were toting barge and lifting bale, he found himself momentarily standing alone with his father. Mr.
Eliot took the occasion to impart a bit of worldly advice.
“Son,” he began, “I would be very grateful if you did your best not to flunk out of here. For though there are innumerable secondary schools in this great land of ours, there is only one Harvard.”
Andrew gratefully acknowledged this astute paternal counsel, shook his father’s hand, and raced off to the dorm. His two roommates had already begun to help him unpack. Unpack his liquor, that is. They were toasting their reunion after a summer of self-styled debauchery in Europe.
“Hey, you guys,” he protested, “you could at least have asked me. Besides, we’ve got to go register.”
“Come off it, Eliot,” said Dickie Newall as he took another swig. “We walked past there just a while ago and there’s a line around the goddamn block.”
“Yeah,” Michael Wigglesworth — affirmed, “all the weenies want to get there first. The race, as we well know, is not always to the swift.”
“I think it is at Harvard,” Andrew politely suggested. “But in any case, it isn’t to the smashed. I’m going over.”
“I knew it.” Newall sniggered. “Old Eliot, my man, you’ve got the makings of a first-class wonk.”
Andrew persisted, undaunted by this preppie persiflage. “I’m going, guys.”
“Go on,” Newall said, dismissing him with a haughty wave. “If you hurry back we’ll save you some of your Haig & Haig. By the way, where’s the rest of it?”
And so Andrew Eliot marched through Harvard Yard to join the long, winding thread of humanity — and ultimately to be woven into the multicolored fabric called The Class of ’58.
***
By now The Class was all in Cambridge, though it would take several hours more for the last of them to be officially enrolled.
Inside the cavernous hail, beneath a giant stained-glass window, stood the future leaders of the world. Nobel Prize winners, tycoons of industry, brain surgeons, and a few dozen insurance salesmen.
First they were handed large manila envelopes with all the forms to be signed (in quadruplicate for the Financial Office, quintuplicate for the Registrar, and, inexplicably, sextuplicate for the Health Department). For all this paperwork they sat side by side at narrow tables that stretched forever and seemed to meet only in infinity.
Among the questionnaires to be completed was one for Phillips Brooks House, part of which asked for religious affiliation (response was optional).
Though none of them was particularly pious, Andrew Eliot, Danny Rossi, and Ted Lambros marked the boxes next to Episcopal, Catholic, and Greek Orthodox, respectively. Jason Gilbert, on the other hand, indicated that he had no religious affiliation whatsoever.
After the official registration, they had to run an endless gauntlet — of wild, paper-waving proselytizers, all vociferously urging Harvard’s now — official freshmen to join the Young Democrats, Republicans, Liberals, Conservatives, mountain climbers, scuba divers, and so on.
Countless irrepressible student hucksters noisily cajoled them to subscribe to the Crimson (“Cambridge’s only breakfast-table daily”), the Advocate (“so you can say you read these guys before they got their Pulitzers”), and the Lampoon (“if you work it out, it comes to about a penny a laugh”). In short, none but the most determined misers or abject paupers emerged with wallets unscathed.
Ted Lambros could sign up for nothing as his schedule was already fully committed to courses academic — by day and culinary by night.
Danny Rossi put his name down for the Catholic Club, assuming that religious girls would be a little shyer and therefore easier to meet. Maybe they would even be as inexperienced as he.
Andrew Eliot made his way through all this welter like a seasoned explorer routinely hacking through dense foliage. The kind of social clubs that he’d be joining did their recruitment in a more sedate and far less public fashion.
And Jason Gilbert, except for buying a quick subscription to the Crimson (so he could send the chronicles of his achievements home to Dad and Mom), strode calmly through the phalanx of barkers, much like his ancestors had traversed the Red Sea, and returned to Straus.
Miracle of miracles, the mysterious D. D. was actually awake. Or at least his bedroom door was open and someone was lying on the bed, face enveloped by a physics text.
Jason hazarded direct discourse. “Hi there, are you D. D.?” A pair of thick, horn-rimmed spectacles cautiously peeked above the book.
“Are you my roommate?” a nervous voice responded.
“Well, I’ve been assigned to Straus A thirty-two,” Jason answered.
“Then you’re my roommate,” the young man logically concluded. And after carefully marking with a paper clip the line where he had left off reading, he put down his book, rose and offered a somewhat cold and clammy hand.
“I’m David Davidson,” he said.
“Jason Gilbert.”
D. D. then eyed his roommate suspiciously and asked, “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“No, it’s bad for the wind. Why do you ask, Dave?”
“Please, I prefer to be called David,” he replied. “I ask because I specifically requested a nonsmoking roommate. Actually I wanted a single, but they don’t allow freshmen to live alone.”
“Where are you from?” Jason inquired.
“New York. Bronx High School of Science. I was a finalist in the Westinghouse Competition. And you?”
“Long Island. Syosset. All I’ve been is finalist in a couple of tennis tournaments. Do you play any sport, David?”
“No,” the young scholar replied. “They’re all a waste of time. Besides, I’m premed. I have to take things like Chem Twenty. What’s your chosen career, Jason?”
God, thought Jason, do I have to be interviewed just to be this wonk’s cellmate?
“To tell the truth, I haven’t decided yet. But while I’m thinking about it, shouldn’t we go out and buy some basic furniture for the living room?”
“What for?” D. D. asked warily. “We each have a bed, a desk, and a chair. What else do we need?”
Well, said Jason, “a couch might be nice. You know, to relax and study in during the week. We could also use an icebox. So we’d have something cold to serve people on the weekends.”
“People?” D. D. inquired, somewhat agitated. “Do you intend to have parties here?”
Jason was running out of patience.
“Tell me, David, did you specifically request an introverted monk as your roommate?”
“No.”
“Well, you didn’t get one. Now, are you going to chip in for a second-hand couch or not?”
“I don’t need a couch,” he replied sanctimoniously.
“Okay,” said Jason, “then I’ll pay for it myself. But if I ever — see you sitting on it, I’ll charge you rent.”
--*--
Andrew Eliot, Mike Wigglesworth, and Dickie Newall spent all that afternoon scouring the furniture emporia in and around the Square and procured the finest leatherette pieces available. After expending three hours and $195, they stood at the ground floor of G-entry with all their treasures.
“God,” Newall exclaimed, “I shudder to think how many lovelies will succumb on this incredible chaise longue. I mean they’ll just take one look at it, disrobe, and hop right on.
“In that case, Dickie,” Andrew interrupted his old buddy’s reverie, “we’d better lug it up the stairs. If a Cliffie passes while we’re standing here you might just have to perform in public.”
“Don’t think I couldn’t,” Newall answered with bravado, quickly adding, “come on let’s get this paraphernalia up the stairs. Andy and I’ll take the couch.” And then, turning to the largest member of their trio, he called out, “Can you manage that chair by yourself, Wigglesworth?”
“No sweat,” the tall athlete replied laconically. And with that he lifted the huge armchair, placed it on his head as if it were a large padded football helmet, and started up the stairwell.
“That’s our mighty Mike,” Newall quipped. “Fair Harvard’s future crew immortal and the first man from this college who’ll play Tarzan in the movies.”
--*--
“Just three more steps. Please, you guys,” Danny Rossi implored.
“Hey, listen, kid, the deal was we’d deliver it. You didn’t say there would be stairs. We always take pianos in an elevator.”
“Come on,” Danny protested, “you guys knew that they don’t have any in Harvard dorms. What’s it going to take for you to deliver this up just three more steps into my room?
“Another twenty bucks,” replied one of the burly delivery men.
“Hey, look, the damn piano only cost me thirty-five.”
“Take it or leave it, kid. Or you’ll be singin’ in the rain.”
“I can’t afford twenty bucks,” Danny moaned.
“Tough titty, Harvard boy,” growled the more talkative of the two movers. And they ambled off.
Danny sat there on the steps of Holworthy for several minutes pondering his great dilemma. And then the notion came to him.
He placed the rickety stool in position, lifted the lid of the ancient upright, and began, first tentatively and then with increasing assurance, to animate the fading ivories with “The Varsity Drag.”
Since most of the windows in the Yard were open because of the Indian Summer weather, it was not long before a crowd surrounded him. Some spirited freshmen even began to dance. To get in shape for conquests up at Radcliffe and on other social battlefields.
He was terrific. And his classmates were genuinely thrilled to discover what a talent they had in their midst. (“The guy’s another Peter Nero,” someone remarked.) At last Danny finished — or thought he had. But everybody clapped and shouted for more. So he started taking requests for pieces as varied as “The Saber Dance” and “Three Coins in the Fountain.”
At last, a university policeman happened on the scene. It was just what Danny had been hoping for.
“Listen,” the officer growled, “you can’t play a pianer outside in the Yard. You gotta move this here instrument into a dorm.”
The freshmen booed.
“Hey, listen,” Danny Rossi said to his enthusiastic audience. “Why don’t we all bring this piano up the stairs to my room and then I’ll play all night.”
There were cheers of assent as half a dozen of the strongest present started carrying Danny’s upright with festive alacrity.
“Wait a minute,” the cop warned, “remember, no playing after ten P.M. Them are the rules.”
More hisses, boos, and grunts as Danny — Rossi politely answered, “Yes, sir, Officer. I promise I’ll only play till dinnertime.”
--*--
Though he, of course, was not privileged to be moving from the cubicle he’d occupied throughout his high school days, Ted Lambros nonetheless spent much of that afternoon purchasing essential items in The Coop.
First and foremost, a green bookbag, a must for every serious Harvard man — a utilitarian talisman that carried the tools of your trade and identified — you as a bona fide scholar. He also bought a large, rectangular crimson banner whose white felt letters proudly boasted “Harvard — Class of 1958,” And, while other freshmen were hanging identical chauvinistic fabrics on the walls of their dormitories in the Yard, Ted hung his over the desk in his tiny bedroom.
For good measure, he acquired an impressive-looking pipe from Leavitt & Pierce, which he would someday learn to smoke.
As the afternoon waned, he checked and rechecked his carefully purchased secondhand wardrobe and inwardly pronounced himself ready to meet tomorrow’s Harvard challenge.
And then, the magic aura broken, he headed up Massachusetts Avenue to The Marathon, where he would have to don the same old hokey costume in order to serve lamb to the lions of Cambridge.
--*--
It was a day of standing on lines. First in the morning at Memorial Hall, and then just after 6:00 P.M., when the dinner column began to form at the Freshman Union, winding outside, down its granite steps, and almost into Quincy Street. Naturally, each freshman wore a tie and jacket — although the garments varied in color and quality, depending on the means and background of the wearer. The rules explicitly proclaimed that the only civilized attire in which a Harvard man could take a meal.
But these formally accoutred gentlemen were in for a rude surprise. There were no dishes.
Instead, their food was scooped out into a tan plastic doggy bowl divided into unequal sections of undetermined purpose. The only rational compartment was the cavity within the hub of this contraption, which could hold a glass of milk.
Ingenious as it was, it could not hide the fact that freshman food was absolutely wretched.
What was that gray sliced stuff slapped at them at the first station? The serving biddies claimed it was meat. It looked like innersoles to most and tasted much that way to all. It was no consolation that they could eat all they wanted. For who would ever want more of this unchewable enigma?
The only real salvation was the ice cream. It was plentiful and filling. And to an eighteen-year-old this can compensate for almost any culinary lapse. And did so in prodigious quantities.
No one really bitched in earnest. Far, although not all of them admitted it, they were excited just to be there. The tasteless food gave every person in The Class an opportunity to be superior to something.
Nearly all of them were used to being number one in some domain. The Class contained no fewer than 287 high school valedictorians, each painfully aware that only one of them was good enough to match that achievement at Harvard.
By some uncanny instinct, the jocks had already started to discover one another.
At one round table in the outer circle, Clancy Roberts was subtly campaigning for the freshman hockey captaincy. At yet another, football linemen, who had met an hour earlier at Dillon Field House, savored what would be among the last meals they would be obliged to take with the plebs. For, once the pads were on, they’d be dining at the training table in the V–Club, where the meat, though no less gray, would be served twice as thick.
The huge, wood-paneled hall reverberated with the loud chatter of nervous freshmen. You could tell who had gone to high schools and who to prep schools. For the latter dressed in matching plumage — shetland jackets and rep ties — and ate in larger groups, whose conversation and laughter were homogenized. The would-be physicist from Omaha, the poet from Missouri, and the future lawyer-politician from Atlanta ate alone. Or, if after twenty-four hours they could still stand them, with their roommates.
Harvard did not choose your living companions without much deliberation and analysis. Indeed, some keen sadistic genius must have spent innumerable hours on this strange apportionment. And what a task it was — a smorgasbord containing eleven hundred wholly different dishes. What would you serve with what? What would go well and what give interpersonal dyspepsia? Someone in the administration knew. Or at least thought he did.
Of course, they asked you for your preferences. Nonsmoker, athlete, interested in art, et cetera. Preppies naturally requested and received accommodations with their buddies. But then, they were the few conformists in this monstrous colony of oddballs, where exceptions were the norm.
What, for example, could they do with Danny Rossi, whose singular request had been a dormitory as near as possible to Paine Hall, the music building? Put him with another music type? No, that might risk a clash of egos. And what Harvard wanted was harmonious tranquility among its freshmen, who that week were in the process of receiving the most agonizing lesson of their lives. They were about to learn that the world did not spin uniquely around them.
For reasons inexplicable to everyone except the college powers, Danny Rossi was assigned to share his rooms in Holworthy with Kingman Wu, a Chinese future architect from San Diego (perhaps the link was California), and Bernie Ackerman, a mathematics whiz and champion fencer from New Trier High School in a suburb of Chicago.
As they all ate dinner at the Union that evening, it was Bernie who tried to puzzle out why they three had been thrown together by the mandarins of Harvard roommate-ism.
“It’s the stick,” he offered as a solution. “That’s the only symbol that connects us three.”
“Is that supposed to be profound or just obscene?” asked Kingman Wu.
“Hell, don’t you see it?” Ackerman persisted. “Danny’s going to be a great conductor. What do those guys wave at an orchestra? Batons. Me, I’ve got the biggest stick, ’cause I’m a fencer. Get it now?”
“And me?” asked Wu.
“What do architects most often draw with? Pencils, pens. There’s the three sticks and the solution to the mystery of our being put together.”
The Chinaman was not impressed. “You’ve just awarded me the smallest one.” He frowned.
“Well, you know where to stick it, then,” Ackerman suggested with a self-congratulatory chuckle.
And thus the first eternal enmity among The Class of ’58 was born.
--*--
In spite of his outward self-assurance, Jason Gilbert was nervous about going to the Union on his own for that inaugural repast. So desperate was he that he actually sought out D. D. in order to propose they go together. Alas, his roommate was already back before Jason had even dressed.
“I was the third on line,” he boasted. “I had eleven ice creams. That’ll really please my mom.”
So Jason ventured out alone. As luck would have it, near the steps of Widener Library he ran into a guy he’d played (and beaten) in the quarter finals of the Greater Metropolitan Private Schools Tourney. The fellow proudly introduced his quondam rival to his current roommates as “the S.O. B. who’s going to knock me off for number one. Unless that guy from California beats us both.”
Jason was happy to join them, and the talk was mostly of the tennis court. And the wretched food. And doggy bowls, of course.
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse…
The newest Eliot to enter Harvard continued a tradition that began in 1649.
Andrew had a privileged childhood.
Even after they had gracefully divorced, his parents lavished on him all a growing boy could wish for. He had an English nanny and a horde of teddy bears. And from as early as he could recall, they sent him to the most expensive boarding schools and summer camps. They established a trust fund, making his future secure.
In short, they gave him everything except their interest and attention.
Of course they loved him. That went without saying. Perhaps that is why they never actually said it. They simply assumed he would know that they appreciated what a fine and independent son he was.
Yet, Andrew was the first of his entire family to feel himself unworthy of admission to Harvard. As he often joked selfdeprecatingly, “They let me in because my name was Eliot and I could spell it.”
Clearly, his ancestry cast giant shadows on his confidence. And, quite understandably, what he regarded as a lack of creativity only magnified his innate inferiority complex.
Actually, he was a rather bright young man. He had a modest way with words — as witnessed by the diary he kept from prep school onward. He played soccer well.
He was a wing whose corner kicks helped many a center-forward score.
That was an index of his personality — he was always happy when he could assist a friend.
And off the field he was kind, thoughtful, and considerate. Most of all, though he would not have arrogated such a distinction for himself, he was considered by his many friends a darn nice guy.
The university was proud to have him. But, Andrew Eliot ’58 had a quality that set him apart from every other member of his Harvard class.
He was not ambitious.
Just after 5:00 A.M. on September 20, a Greyhound bus reached the dingy terminal in downtown Boston and disgorged, among its passengers, a tired and sweaty Daniel Rossi. His clothing was a mass of wrinkles and his reddish hair unkempt. Even his glasses were fogged with transcontinental grime.
He had left the West Coast three days earlier with sixty dollars in his pocket, of which he still had fifty-two. For he had all but starved his way across America.
Totally exhausted, he was barely able to drag his single suitcase (full of music scores he’d studied on the journey, and a shirt or two) down to the subway for Harvard Square. First he trudged to Holworthy 6, his freshman lodgings in the Yard, then registered as quickly as possible so that he could return to Boston and transfer from his California branch to Local No. 9 of the Musicians Union.
“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” cautioned the secretary. “We got a million piano players out of work. Actually, the only keyboard jobs available are holy ones. You see, the Lord just pays the union minimum.” Pointing her long, vermilion-painted fingernail toward the small white notices pinned on a bulletin board, she added wryly, “Choose your religion, kid.”
After a careful study of the possibilities, Danny returned with two scraps of paper.
“These would be great for me,” he said. “Organist on Friday night and Saturday morning at the temple in Maiden, and Sunday morning at this church in Quincy. Are they still available?”
“That’s why they’re hangin’ there, kid. But, as you can see, the bread they’re offering’s more like Ritz crackers.”
“Yeah,” Danny replied, “but I can really use whatever money I can get my hands on. Do you get many Saturday-night dance gigs?”
“Gee, you sure seem hungry. Got a big family to support or somethin’?”
“No. I’m a freshman at Harvard and need the dough for tuition.”
“How come those rich guys irs Cambridge didn’t give you a scholarship?”
“It’s a long story,” Danny said uneasily. “But I’d be grateful if you’d keep me in mind. In any case, I’ll stay in touch.”
“I’m sure you will, kid.
Just before eight the preceding day, Jason Gilbert, Jr., had awakened in Syosset, Long Island.
The sun always seemed to shine more — brightly in his bedroom. Perhaps it was reflected from his many glittering trophies.
He shaved, put on a new Chemise Lacoste, then hauled his luggage, as well as assorted tennis and squash rackets, down to his 1950 Mercury coupé convertible. He was looking forward to roaring up the Post Road in the buggy he had lovingly rebuilt with his own hands, souping it up and even adding a dual fiberglass exhaust.
The entire Gilbert household — Mom, Dad, Julie, Jenny the housekeeper and her husband Maxwell the gardener — were waiting to see him off.
There was much kissing and embracing. And a short valedictory from his father.
“Son, I won’t wish you luck because you don’t need it. You were born to be number one — and not just on the tennis court.”
Though Jason did not show it, these parting words had the opposite of their intended effect. For he was already uneasy at the prospect of leaving home and testing his mettle against the real big leaguers of his generation. That last-minute reminder of Dad’s high expectations made him even more nervous.
Still, he might have taken comfort had he known that his adoring father’s speech had been echoed several hundred times that day by several hundred other parents who were also sending their uniquely gifted progeny off to Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Five hours later, Jason stood outside his assigned freshman dormitory, Straus A-32, on which a scrap of torn yellow paper was taped.
To my roommate: I always nap in the afternoon, so please be quiet.
It was signed simply “D. D.”
Jason quietly unlocked the door and carried his baggage practically on tiptoe into the one free bedroom. After placing his suitcases on the metal bed (it creaked slightly), he glanced out the window.
He had a view — and all the noise — of hectic Harvard Square. But Jason didn’t mind.
He was actually in a buoyant mood, since there was still enough time left to stroll to Soldier’s Field and find a pickup game of tennis. Already dressed in white, he merely grabbed his Wilson and a can of Spauldings.
Luckily, he recognized a varsity player who had defeated him in a summer tournament two years earlier. The guy was happy to see Jason again, agreed to hit a few, and then quickly learned how much the new arrival had improved.
When he got back to Straus Hall, there was another yellow note on the door, announcing that D. D. had gone to dinner and would then proceed to the library (the library — they hadn’t even registered!) to study, and would be back just before 10:00 P.M. If his roommate planned on coming in after that, would he be kind enough to be as quiet as possible.
Jason showered, put on a fresh Haspel cord jacket, grabbed a quick bite at a cafeteria in the Square, then tooled up to Radcliffe to scout the freshman girls. He returned about ten-thirty and was duly respectful of his unseen roommate’s need for rest.
The next morning he woke to find yet another note.
I have gone to register.
If my mother calls, tell her I had a good dinner last night.
Jason crumpled up this latest communiqué and marched off to join the line that now stretched well around the block outside Memorial Hall.
The high intentions of his message notwithstanding, the elusive D. D. was not by any means the first member of The Class to register. For at the very stroke of nine, the large portals of Memorial Hall had opened to admit Theodore Lambros.
Three minutes earlier, Ted had left his home on Prescott Street to stride over and claim a tiny but indelible place in the history of the oldest college in America.
To his mind, he had entered Paradise.
Andrew Eliot’s father drove him down from Maine in the family’s vintage station wagon, laden with carefully packed trunks containing tweed and shetland jackets, white buck shoes, assorted moccasins, rep ties, and a term’s supply of button-down and tab-collar shirts. In short, his school uniforms.
As usual, father and son did not speak much to each other. Too many centuries of Eliots had gone through this same rite of passage to make conversation necessary.
They parked by the gate closest to Massachusetts Hall (some of whose earlier occupants had been George Washington’s soldiers). Andrew ran into the Yard and rushed up to Wig G-21 to enlist the aid of his former prep school buddies in hauling his gear. Then, as they were toting barge and lifting bale, he found himself momentarily standing alone with his father. Mr.
Eliot took the occasion to impart a bit of worldly advice.
“Son,” he began, “I would be very grateful if you did your best not to flunk out of here. For though there are innumerable secondary schools in this great land of ours, there is only one Harvard.”
Andrew gratefully acknowledged this astute paternal counsel, shook his father’s hand, and raced off to the dorm. His two roommates had already begun to help him unpack. Unpack his liquor, that is. They were toasting their reunion after a summer of self-styled debauchery in Europe.
“Hey, you guys,” he protested, “you could at least have asked me. Besides, we’ve got to go register.”
“Come off it, Eliot,” said Dickie Newall as he took another swig. “We walked past there just a while ago and there’s a line around the goddamn block.”
“Yeah,” Michael Wigglesworth — affirmed, “all the weenies want to get there first. The race, as we well know, is not always to the swift.”
“I think it is at Harvard,” Andrew politely suggested. “But in any case, it isn’t to the smashed. I’m going over.”
“I knew it.” Newall sniggered. “Old Eliot, my man, you’ve got the makings of a first-class wonk.”
Andrew persisted, undaunted by this preppie persiflage. “I’m going, guys.”
“Go on,” Newall said, dismissing him with a haughty wave. “If you hurry back we’ll save you some of your Haig & Haig. By the way, where’s the rest of it?”
And so Andrew Eliot marched through Harvard Yard to join the long, winding thread of humanity — and ultimately to be woven into the multicolored fabric called The Class of ’58.
By now The Class was all in Cambridge, though it would take several hours more for the last of them to be officially enrolled.
Inside the cavernous hail, beneath a giant stained-glass window, stood the future leaders of the world. Nobel Prize winners, tycoons of industry, brain surgeons, and a few dozen insurance salesmen.
First they were handed large manila envelopes with all the forms to be signed (in quadruplicate for the Financial Office, quintuplicate for the Registrar, and, inexplicably, sextuplicate for the Health Department). For all this paperwork they sat side by side at narrow tables that stretched forever and seemed to meet only in infinity.
Among the questionnaires to be completed was one for Phillips Brooks House, part of which asked for religious affiliation (response was optional).
Though none of them was particularly pious, Andrew Eliot, Danny Rossi, and Ted Lambros marked the boxes next to Episcopal, Catholic, and Greek Orthodox, respectively. Jason Gilbert, on the other hand, indicated that he had no religious affiliation whatsoever.
After the official registration, they had to run an endless gauntlet — of wild, paper-waving proselytizers, all vociferously urging Harvard’s now — official freshmen to join the Young Democrats, Republicans, Liberals, Conservatives, mountain climbers, scuba divers, and so on.
Countless irrepressible student hucksters noisily cajoled them to subscribe to the Crimson (“Cambridge’s only breakfast-table daily”), the Advocate (“so you can say you read these guys before they got their Pulitzers”), and the Lampoon (“if you work it out, it comes to about a penny a laugh”). In short, none but the most determined misers or abject paupers emerged with wallets unscathed.
Ted Lambros could sign up for nothing as his schedule was already fully committed to courses academic — by day and culinary by night.
Danny Rossi put his name down for the Catholic Club, assuming that religious girls would be a little shyer and therefore easier to meet. Maybe they would even be as inexperienced as he.
Andrew Eliot made his way through all this welter like a seasoned explorer routinely hacking through dense foliage. The kind of social clubs that he’d be joining did their recruitment in a more sedate and far less public fashion.
And Jason Gilbert, except for buying a quick subscription to the Crimson (so he could send the chronicles of his achievements home to Dad and Mom), strode calmly through the phalanx of barkers, much like his ancestors had traversed the Red Sea, and returned to Straus.
Miracle of miracles, the mysterious D. D. was actually awake. Or at least his bedroom door was open and someone was lying on the bed, face enveloped by a physics text.
Jason hazarded direct discourse. “Hi there, are you D. D.?” A pair of thick, horn-rimmed spectacles cautiously peeked above the book.
“Are you my roommate?” a nervous voice responded.
“Well, I’ve been assigned to Straus A thirty-two,” Jason answered.
“Then you’re my roommate,” the young man logically concluded. And after carefully marking with a paper clip the line where he had left off reading, he put down his book, rose and offered a somewhat cold and clammy hand.
“I’m David Davidson,” he said.
“Jason Gilbert.”
D. D. then eyed his roommate suspiciously and asked, “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“No, it’s bad for the wind. Why do you ask, Dave?”
“Please, I prefer to be called David,” he replied. “I ask because I specifically requested a nonsmoking roommate. Actually I wanted a single, but they don’t allow freshmen to live alone.”
“Where are you from?” Jason inquired.
“New York. Bronx High School of Science. I was a finalist in the Westinghouse Competition. And you?”
“Long Island. Syosset. All I’ve been is finalist in a couple of tennis tournaments. Do you play any sport, David?”
“No,” the young scholar replied. “They’re all a waste of time. Besides, I’m premed. I have to take things like Chem Twenty. What’s your chosen career, Jason?”
God, thought Jason, do I have to be interviewed just to be this wonk’s cellmate?
“To tell the truth, I haven’t decided yet. But while I’m thinking about it, shouldn’t we go out and buy some basic furniture for the living room?”
“What for?” D. D. asked warily. “We each have a bed, a desk, and a chair. What else do we need?”
Well, said Jason, “a couch might be nice. You know, to relax and study in during the week. We could also use an icebox. So we’d have something cold to serve people on the weekends.”
“People?” D. D. inquired, somewhat agitated. “Do you intend to have parties here?”
Jason was running out of patience.
“Tell me, David, did you specifically request an introverted monk as your roommate?”
“No.”
“Well, you didn’t get one. Now, are you going to chip in for a second-hand couch or not?”
“I don’t need a couch,” he replied sanctimoniously.
“Okay,” said Jason, “then I’ll pay for it myself. But if I ever — see you sitting on it, I’ll charge you rent.”
Andrew Eliot, Mike Wigglesworth, and Dickie Newall spent all that afternoon scouring the furniture emporia in and around the Square and procured the finest leatherette pieces available. After expending three hours and $195, they stood at the ground floor of G-entry with all their treasures.
“God,” Newall exclaimed, “I shudder to think how many lovelies will succumb on this incredible chaise longue. I mean they’ll just take one look at it, disrobe, and hop right on.
“In that case, Dickie,” Andrew interrupted his old buddy’s reverie, “we’d better lug it up the stairs. If a Cliffie passes while we’re standing here you might just have to perform in public.”
“Don’t think I couldn’t,” Newall answered with bravado, quickly adding, “come on let’s get this paraphernalia up the stairs. Andy and I’ll take the couch.” And then, turning to the largest member of their trio, he called out, “Can you manage that chair by yourself, Wigglesworth?”
“No sweat,” the tall athlete replied laconically. And with that he lifted the huge armchair, placed it on his head as if it were a large padded football helmet, and started up the stairwell.
“That’s our mighty Mike,” Newall quipped. “Fair Harvard’s future crew immortal and the first man from this college who’ll play Tarzan in the movies.”
“Just three more steps. Please, you guys,” Danny Rossi implored.
“Hey, listen, kid, the deal was we’d deliver it. You didn’t say there would be stairs. We always take pianos in an elevator.”
“Come on,” Danny protested, “you guys knew that they don’t have any in Harvard dorms. What’s it going to take for you to deliver this up just three more steps into my room?
“Another twenty bucks,” replied one of the burly delivery men.
“Hey, look, the damn piano only cost me thirty-five.”
“Take it or leave it, kid. Or you’ll be singin’ in the rain.”
“I can’t afford twenty bucks,” Danny moaned.
“Tough titty, Harvard boy,” growled the more talkative of the two movers. And they ambled off.
Danny sat there on the steps of Holworthy for several minutes pondering his great dilemma. And then the notion came to him.
He placed the rickety stool in position, lifted the lid of the ancient upright, and began, first tentatively and then with increasing assurance, to animate the fading ivories with “The Varsity Drag.”
Since most of the windows in the Yard were open because of the Indian Summer weather, it was not long before a crowd surrounded him. Some spirited freshmen even began to dance. To get in shape for conquests up at Radcliffe and on other social battlefields.
He was terrific. And his classmates were genuinely thrilled to discover what a talent they had in their midst. (“The guy’s another Peter Nero,” someone remarked.) At last Danny finished — or thought he had. But everybody clapped and shouted for more. So he started taking requests for pieces as varied as “The Saber Dance” and “Three Coins in the Fountain.”
At last, a university policeman happened on the scene. It was just what Danny had been hoping for.
“Listen,” the officer growled, “you can’t play a pianer outside in the Yard. You gotta move this here instrument into a dorm.”
The freshmen booed.
“Hey, listen,” Danny Rossi said to his enthusiastic audience. “Why don’t we all bring this piano up the stairs to my room and then I’ll play all night.”
There were cheers of assent as half a dozen of the strongest present started carrying Danny’s upright with festive alacrity.
“Wait a minute,” the cop warned, “remember, no playing after ten P.M. Them are the rules.”
More hisses, boos, and grunts as Danny — Rossi politely answered, “Yes, sir, Officer. I promise I’ll only play till dinnertime.”
Though he, of course, was not privileged to be moving from the cubicle he’d occupied throughout his high school days, Ted Lambros nonetheless spent much of that afternoon purchasing essential items in The Coop.
First and foremost, a green bookbag, a must for every serious Harvard man — a utilitarian talisman that carried the tools of your trade and identified — you as a bona fide scholar. He also bought a large, rectangular crimson banner whose white felt letters proudly boasted “Harvard — Class of 1958,” And, while other freshmen were hanging identical chauvinistic fabrics on the walls of their dormitories in the Yard, Ted hung his over the desk in his tiny bedroom.
For good measure, he acquired an impressive-looking pipe from Leavitt & Pierce, which he would someday learn to smoke.
As the afternoon waned, he checked and rechecked his carefully purchased secondhand wardrobe and inwardly pronounced himself ready to meet tomorrow’s Harvard challenge.
And then, the magic aura broken, he headed up Massachusetts Avenue to The Marathon, where he would have to don the same old hokey costume in order to serve lamb to the lions of Cambridge.
It was a day of standing on lines. First in the morning at Memorial Hall, and then just after 6:00 P.M., when the dinner column began to form at the Freshman Union, winding outside, down its granite steps, and almost into Quincy Street. Naturally, each freshman wore a tie and jacket — although the garments varied in color and quality, depending on the means and background of the wearer. The rules explicitly proclaimed that the only civilized attire in which a Harvard man could take a meal.
But these formally accoutred gentlemen were in for a rude surprise. There were no dishes.
Instead, their food was scooped out into a tan plastic doggy bowl divided into unequal sections of undetermined purpose. The only rational compartment was the cavity within the hub of this contraption, which could hold a glass of milk.
Ingenious as it was, it could not hide the fact that freshman food was absolutely wretched.
What was that gray sliced stuff slapped at them at the first station? The serving biddies claimed it was meat. It looked like innersoles to most and tasted much that way to all. It was no consolation that they could eat all they wanted. For who would ever want more of this unchewable enigma?
The only real salvation was the ice cream. It was plentiful and filling. And to an eighteen-year-old this can compensate for almost any culinary lapse. And did so in prodigious quantities.
No one really bitched in earnest. Far, although not all of them admitted it, they were excited just to be there. The tasteless food gave every person in The Class an opportunity to be superior to something.
Nearly all of them were used to being number one in some domain. The Class contained no fewer than 287 high school valedictorians, each painfully aware that only one of them was good enough to match that achievement at Harvard.
By some uncanny instinct, the jocks had already started to discover one another.
At one round table in the outer circle, Clancy Roberts was subtly campaigning for the freshman hockey captaincy. At yet another, football linemen, who had met an hour earlier at Dillon Field House, savored what would be among the last meals they would be obliged to take with the plebs. For, once the pads were on, they’d be dining at the training table in the V–Club, where the meat, though no less gray, would be served twice as thick.
The huge, wood-paneled hall reverberated with the loud chatter of nervous freshmen. You could tell who had gone to high schools and who to prep schools. For the latter dressed in matching plumage — shetland jackets and rep ties — and ate in larger groups, whose conversation and laughter were homogenized. The would-be physicist from Omaha, the poet from Missouri, and the future lawyer-politician from Atlanta ate alone. Or, if after twenty-four hours they could still stand them, with their roommates.
Harvard did not choose your living companions without much deliberation and analysis. Indeed, some keen sadistic genius must have spent innumerable hours on this strange apportionment. And what a task it was — a smorgasbord containing eleven hundred wholly different dishes. What would you serve with what? What would go well and what give interpersonal dyspepsia? Someone in the administration knew. Or at least thought he did.
Of course, they asked you for your preferences. Nonsmoker, athlete, interested in art, et cetera. Preppies naturally requested and received accommodations with their buddies. But then, they were the few conformists in this monstrous colony of oddballs, where exceptions were the norm.
What, for example, could they do with Danny Rossi, whose singular request had been a dormitory as near as possible to Paine Hall, the music building? Put him with another music type? No, that might risk a clash of egos. And what Harvard wanted was harmonious tranquility among its freshmen, who that week were in the process of receiving the most agonizing lesson of their lives. They were about to learn that the world did not spin uniquely around them.
For reasons inexplicable to everyone except the college powers, Danny Rossi was assigned to share his rooms in Holworthy with Kingman Wu, a Chinese future architect from San Diego (perhaps the link was California), and Bernie Ackerman, a mathematics whiz and champion fencer from New Trier High School in a suburb of Chicago.
As they all ate dinner at the Union that evening, it was Bernie who tried to puzzle out why they three had been thrown together by the mandarins of Harvard roommate-ism.
“It’s the stick,” he offered as a solution. “That’s the only symbol that connects us three.”
“Is that supposed to be profound or just obscene?” asked Kingman Wu.
“Hell, don’t you see it?” Ackerman persisted. “Danny’s going to be a great conductor. What do those guys wave at an orchestra? Batons. Me, I’ve got the biggest stick, ’cause I’m a fencer. Get it now?”
“And me?” asked Wu.
“What do architects most often draw with? Pencils, pens. There’s the three sticks and the solution to the mystery of our being put together.”
The Chinaman was not impressed. “You’ve just awarded me the smallest one.” He frowned.
“Well, you know where to stick it, then,” Ackerman suggested with a self-congratulatory chuckle.
And thus the first eternal enmity among The Class of ’58 was born.
In spite of his outward self-assurance, Jason Gilbert was nervous about going to the Union on his own for that inaugural repast. So desperate was he that he actually sought out D. D. in order to propose they go together. Alas, his roommate was already back before Jason had even dressed.
“I was the third on line,” he boasted. “I had eleven ice creams. That’ll really please my mom.”
So Jason ventured out alone. As luck would have it, near the steps of Widener Library he ran into a guy he’d played (and beaten) in the quarter finals of the Greater Metropolitan Private Schools Tourney. The fellow proudly introduced his quondam rival to his current roommates as “the S.O. B. who’s going to knock me off for number one. Unless that guy from California beats us both.”
Jason was happy to join them, and the talk was mostly of the tennis court. And the wretched food. And doggy bowls, of course.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
September 21, 1954
My roommates and I celebrated our first night at Harvard by not eating there. We elected instead to go into Boston, have a quick meal at the Union Oyster House, and then move on to Scollay Square, the sole oasis of sleaze in the city’s desert of puritanical decency.
Here we attended the edifying spectacle at the Old Howard. This venerable burlesque theater has housed the legendary strippers of the age, not least of whom was tonight’s attraction, Irma the Body.
After the performance (if that’s the word for it), we all dared one another to go backstage and invite the leading lady to join us sophisticates for a drop of champagne. First we thought of composing an elegant epistle (“Dear Miss Body …”), but then decided a live emissary would be more effective.
At this point there were huge piles of braggadocio being hurled back and forth. Each of us showed our tremendous latent courage by pretending to be on our way in. Yet no one took more than two steps toward that stage door.
I then came up with a brilliant solution: “Hey, why don’t we all go?”
We all eyed one another to see who’d be first to respond. But no one did.
Then, in a sudden, inexplicable fit of conscientiousness, we unanimously decided that discretion bade us get some sleep to prepare us for the rigors of a Harvard education. The spirit, we reasoned, must take precedence over the flesh.
Alas, poor Irma, you don’t know what you missed.
***
Twelve freshmen stood in a straight line, stark naked. They were of varying somatotypes, ranging from corpulent to frail (Danny Rossi was among them.) Their physiques were as disparate as Mickey Mouse and Adonis (Jason Gilbert was also among the dozen). Before them stretched a wooden bench some three feet off the ground, and behind it an imperious gymnasium official who had menacingly introduced himself as “Colonel” Jackson.
“Awright,” he barked. “You freshmen are about to take the famous Harvard Step Test. Which, as you don’t have to be a Harvard man to figger out, involves the stepping up and stepping down on this here step. Clear so far? Now, this here test was devised during the war so’s we could check our G.I.s’ fitness. And it must have worked, ’cause we beat Hitler, didn’t we?”
He paused to await some expression of patriotic enthusiasm on the part of his charges. But, losing patience, he continued laying down the rules.
“Okay, when I blow my whistle, you start climbing on and off the bench. We’ll be playing an L.P. and also I’ll be beating time with this here stick. Now this procedure will continue for five entire minutes. And I’m watching all of you, so don’t goof off or miss a step or you’ll be majoring in P.T. exercises the whole darn year.”
Danny trembled inwardly as this officious ogre rambled on.
Shit, he told himself, these other guys are so much — taller than I. For them it’s just like stepping on a curb. For me this lousy bench is like Mount Everest. It isn’t fair.
“Awright,” Colonel Jackson snapped. “When I say go, you start stepping. And keep in time!”
Go!
And they were off.
As an L.P. blared stridently, the monster pounded his stick with relentless, debilitating regularity. Up-two-three-four, up-two-three-four, up-two-three-four.
After a few dozen steps, Danny was beginning to tire. He wished the colonel’s beat would slacken even slightly, but the man was an infernal metronome. Still, at least it would soon be over — he prayed.
“Half a minute!” Jackson called out.
Thank God, thought Danny, just a little more and I’ll be able to stop.
But an agonizing thirty seconds thereafter, the official bellowed, “One minute down, just four to go!”
No, thought Danny, not another four minutes. I can barely breathe. Then he reminded himself that if he quit, he’d have to take a gym class with this sadist in addition to his other courses! And so he mustered all his inner fortitude, the courage that had once fueled him on the running track, and fought beyond the limits of his pain.
“Come on, you puny carrot top,” the torture master bellowed. “I can see you’re skipping steps. Keep going, or I’ll make you do an extra minute.”
Sweat was pouring down all of the dozen freshmen’s limbs. And even splashing onto their neighbors.
“Two minutes. Just three more to go.”
Now Danny sensed in desperation that he’d never make it. He could barely lift his legs. He was sure he’d fall and break an arm. Farewell to concertizing. All because of this ridiculously useless exercise in animality.
Just then a quiet voice next to him said, “Take it easy, kid. Try to breathe normally. If you miss a step, I’ll do my best to block you.”
Danny wearily looked up. It was a blond and muscular classmate who had uttered this encouragement. An athlete in such splendid shape that he had breath enough to give advice while he was stepping regularly up and down. All Dan could do was nod in gratitude. He steeled himself and persevered.
“Four minutes,” cried the Torquemada in a sweatshirt. “Only one to go. You guys are doing pretty good — for Harvard men.”
Danny Rossi’s legs were suddenly rigid. He couldn’t take another step.
“Don’t quit now,” his neighbor whispered. “Come on, babe, just another lousy sixty seconds.”
Then Danny felt a hand reach underneath his elbow and — pull him up. His limbs unlocked, and stiffly he resumed the grueling climb to nowhere.
And then at last, deliverance. The whole nightmare was over.
“Awright. Everybody sit down on the bench and put your hand on the neck of the guy on your right. We’re going to take pulses.”
The freshmen, now initiated in this sweaty rite of passage, gladly collapsed and struggled to regain their breath.
When Colonel Jackson had recorded all pertinent fitness information, the twelve exhausted freshmen were instructed to take showers and proceed, still in their birthday suits, down two flights of stairs to the pool. Because, as the overbearing instructor so aptly expressed it, “Whoever cannot swim fifty yards cannot graduate this university.”
As they stood side by side under the showers washing off the sweat of persecution, Danny said to the classmate whose magnanimous assistance would allow him countless extra hours at the keyboard, “Hey, I can never thank you enough for saving me out there.”
“That’s okay. It’s a stupid test to start with. And I pity anyone who’d have to listen to that ape give orders for a whole semester. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Danny Rossi,” said the smaller man, offering a soapy hand.
“Jason Gilbert,” the athletic type replied, and added with a grin, “can you swim okay, Dan?”
“Yes, thanks.” Danny smiled. “I’m from California.
“California, and you’re not a jock?”
“My sport is the piano. Do you like the classics?”
“Nothing heavier than Johnny Mathis. But still, I’d like to hear you play. Maybe after dinner sometime in the Union, huh?”
“Sure,” Danny said, “but if not, I promise you a pair of tickets for my first public — performance.”
“Gee, are you that good?”
“Yes,” said Danny Rossi quietly, without embarrassment.
Then they both descended to the pool and, in adjoining lanes, Jason with flamboyant speed, Danny with deliberate caution, swam the obligatory fifty yards that marked their final physical requirement for a degree at Harvard.
September 21, 1954
My roommates and I celebrated our first night at Harvard by not eating there. We elected instead to go into Boston, have a quick meal at the Union Oyster House, and then move on to Scollay Square, the sole oasis of sleaze in the city’s desert of puritanical decency.
Here we attended the edifying spectacle at the Old Howard. This venerable burlesque theater has housed the legendary strippers of the age, not least of whom was tonight’s attraction, Irma the Body.
After the performance (if that’s the word for it), we all dared one another to go backstage and invite the leading lady to join us sophisticates for a drop of champagne. First we thought of composing an elegant epistle (“Dear Miss Body …”), but then decided a live emissary would be more effective.
At this point there were huge piles of braggadocio being hurled back and forth. Each of us showed our tremendous latent courage by pretending to be on our way in. Yet no one took more than two steps toward that stage door.
I then came up with a brilliant solution: “Hey, why don’t we all go?”
We all eyed one another to see who’d be first to respond. But no one did.
Then, in a sudden, inexplicable fit of conscientiousness, we unanimously decided that discretion bade us get some sleep to prepare us for the rigors of a Harvard education. The spirit, we reasoned, must take precedence over the flesh.
Alas, poor Irma, you don’t know what you missed.
Twelve freshmen stood in a straight line, stark naked. They were of varying somatotypes, ranging from corpulent to frail (Danny Rossi was among them.) Their physiques were as disparate as Mickey Mouse and Adonis (Jason Gilbert was also among the dozen). Before them stretched a wooden bench some three feet off the ground, and behind it an imperious gymnasium official who had menacingly introduced himself as “Colonel” Jackson.
“Awright,” he barked. “You freshmen are about to take the famous Harvard Step Test. Which, as you don’t have to be a Harvard man to figger out, involves the stepping up and stepping down on this here step. Clear so far? Now, this here test was devised during the war so’s we could check our G.I.s’ fitness. And it must have worked, ’cause we beat Hitler, didn’t we?”
He paused to await some expression of patriotic enthusiasm on the part of his charges. But, losing patience, he continued laying down the rules.
“Okay, when I blow my whistle, you start climbing on and off the bench. We’ll be playing an L.P. and also I’ll be beating time with this here stick. Now this procedure will continue for five entire minutes. And I’m watching all of you, so don’t goof off or miss a step or you’ll be majoring in P.T. exercises the whole darn year.”
Danny trembled inwardly as this officious ogre rambled on.
Shit, he told himself, these other guys are so much — taller than I. For them it’s just like stepping on a curb. For me this lousy bench is like Mount Everest. It isn’t fair.
“Awright,” Colonel Jackson snapped. “When I say go, you start stepping. And keep in time!”
Go!
And they were off.
As an L.P. blared stridently, the monster pounded his stick with relentless, debilitating regularity. Up-two-three-four, up-two-three-four, up-two-three-four.
After a few dozen steps, Danny was beginning to tire. He wished the colonel’s beat would slacken even slightly, but the man was an infernal metronome. Still, at least it would soon be over — he prayed.
“Half a minute!” Jackson called out.
Thank God, thought Danny, just a little more and I’ll be able to stop.
But an agonizing thirty seconds thereafter, the official bellowed, “One minute down, just four to go!”
No, thought Danny, not another four minutes. I can barely breathe. Then he reminded himself that if he quit, he’d have to take a gym class with this sadist in addition to his other courses! And so he mustered all his inner fortitude, the courage that had once fueled him on the running track, and fought beyond the limits of his pain.
“Come on, you puny carrot top,” the torture master bellowed. “I can see you’re skipping steps. Keep going, or I’ll make you do an extra minute.”
Sweat was pouring down all of the dozen freshmen’s limbs. And even splashing onto their neighbors.
“Two minutes. Just three more to go.”
Now Danny sensed in desperation that he’d never make it. He could barely lift his legs. He was sure he’d fall and break an arm. Farewell to concertizing. All because of this ridiculously useless exercise in animality.
Just then a quiet voice next to him said, “Take it easy, kid. Try to breathe normally. If you miss a step, I’ll do my best to block you.”
Danny wearily looked up. It was a blond and muscular classmate who had uttered this encouragement. An athlete in such splendid shape that he had breath enough to give advice while he was stepping regularly up and down. All Dan could do was nod in gratitude. He steeled himself and persevered.
“Four minutes,” cried the Torquemada in a sweatshirt. “Only one to go. You guys are doing pretty good — for Harvard men.”
Danny Rossi’s legs were suddenly rigid. He couldn’t take another step.
“Don’t quit now,” his neighbor whispered. “Come on, babe, just another lousy sixty seconds.”
Then Danny felt a hand reach underneath his elbow and — pull him up. His limbs unlocked, and stiffly he resumed the grueling climb to nowhere.
And then at last, deliverance. The whole nightmare was over.
“Awright. Everybody sit down on the bench and put your hand on the neck of the guy on your right. We’re going to take pulses.”
The freshmen, now initiated in this sweaty rite of passage, gladly collapsed and struggled to regain their breath.
When Colonel Jackson had recorded all pertinent fitness information, the twelve exhausted freshmen were instructed to take showers and proceed, still in their birthday suits, down two flights of stairs to the pool. Because, as the overbearing instructor so aptly expressed it, “Whoever cannot swim fifty yards cannot graduate this university.”
As they stood side by side under the showers washing off the sweat of persecution, Danny said to the classmate whose magnanimous assistance would allow him countless extra hours at the keyboard, “Hey, I can never thank you enough for saving me out there.”
“That’s okay. It’s a stupid test to start with. And I pity anyone who’d have to listen to that ape give orders for a whole semester. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Danny Rossi,” said the smaller man, offering a soapy hand.
“Jason Gilbert,” the athletic type replied, and added with a grin, “can you swim okay, Dan?”
“Yes, thanks.” Danny smiled. “I’m from California.
“California, and you’re not a jock?”
“My sport is the piano. Do you like the classics?”
“Nothing heavier than Johnny Mathis. But still, I’d like to hear you play. Maybe after dinner sometime in the Union, huh?”
“Sure,” Danny said, “but if not, I promise you a pair of tickets for my first public — performance.”
“Gee, are you that good?”
“Yes,” said Danny Rossi quietly, without embarrassment.
Then they both descended to the pool and, in adjoining lanes, Jason with flamboyant speed, Danny with deliberate caution, swam the obligatory fifty yards that marked their final physical requirement for a degree at Harvard.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
September 22, 1954
Yesterday we had the stupid Harvard Step Test. Being in reasonable shape for soccer, I passed it with no sweat. (Or to be more accurate, a lot of sweat, but very little effort.) The only trouble came when “Colonel” Jackson made us reach over to feel the neck artery of the guy next to you, my neighbor was so slippery with perspiration that I couldn’t find his pulse. So when that Fascist character came by to write it down, I just made up a number that popped into my head.
When we got back to the dorm, the three of us reviewed this fairly degrading experience. We all agreed that the most undignified and unnecessary aspect was the damn posture picture just before the Step Test. Imagine, now Harvard has a personal file of everyone — or perhaps more accurately, every member of The Class — standing naked in front of the camera, ostensibly to test our posture. But probably so that when one of us becomes President of the — United States, the phys. ed. department can pull out his picture and see what the leader of the greatest nation in the world looks like in the raw.
What really bugged Wigglesworth was that some thief could break into the IAB, filch our photographs, and sell them for a fortune.
“To whom?” I asked. “Who’d pay to see the pictures of a thousand naked Harvard freshmen?”
This gave him pause for thought. Who indeed would treasure such a portrait gallery? Some horny Wellesley girls, perhaps. Then something else occurred to me: do Cliffies have to take these pictures too?
Newall thought they did. And I conceived this great idea of sneaking into the Radcliffe gym to steal their pictures. What a show! Then we’d know what girls to concentrate our efforts on.
At first they really liked my plan. But then their courage sort of evanesced.
And Newall argued that a “real man” should be able to find out empirically.
So much for bravery. I would have liked that midnight raid.
I think.
***
Study cards were due in at 5:00 P.M. on Thursday. This gave The Class of ’58 a little time to shop around and choose a balanced program. They’d need courses for their majors, some for distribution, and some perhaps for cultural enrichment. And, most important, a gut. At least one really easy course was absolutely necessary for those who were either preppies or pre-med.
For Ted Lambros, who was certain he’d be majoring in classics, the selection was fairly straightforward: Latin 2A, Horace and Catullus, and Nat. Sci. 4 with the pyrotechnic L. K. Nash, who regularly blew himself up several times a year.
Both as a gut and a requirement, he took Greek A, an introduction to the classical version of the language he had used since birth. After two semesters he would be able to read Homer in the original. And in the meantime, as a fourth course, he would read the famous epics in translation with John Finley, the legendary Eliot Professor of Greek Literature. “Hum 2,” as it was affectionately known, would provide stimulation, information, and, as everyone at Harvard knew, an easy grade.
Danny Rossi had already planned his schedule during his cross-country trek. Music 51, Analysis of Form, an unavoidable requirement for every major. But the rest would be pure joy. A survey of orchestral music from Haydn to Hindemith. Then, beginning German, to prepare him to conduct the Wagner operas. (He’d start Italian and French later.) And, of course, the college’s most popular and inspirational free ride — Hum 2.
He had wanted to take Walter Piston’s Composition Seminar, and had assumed that the great man would admit him even though Danny was a freshman and the class had mostly graduates. But Piston turned him down “for his own good.”
“Look,” the composer had explained, “the piece you handed in was charming. And I really didn’t have to see it. Gustave Landau’s letter was enough for me. But if I take you now, you might be in the paradoxical position of — how can I put it? — being able to sprint and not to walk. If it’s any consolation, when Leonard Bernstein was here we forced him to do his basic music ‘calisthenics’ just like you.”
“Okay,” Danny said with polite resignation. And as he left thought, I guess that was his way of saying my piece is pretty juvenile.
--*--
Freshmen who are preppies have a great advantage. Through their network of old graduates familiar with the Cambridge scene, they learn precisely what the courses are to take and which ones to avoid.
The Harris Tweed underground imparts to them the secret word that is the key to making good at Harvard: bullshit. The greater the opportunity for tossing the verbiage like so much salad (unimpeded by the need for such trivia as facts), the more likely the course would be a snap.
They also arrived at college well versed in the techniques of the essay question, and could pad their paragraphs with such useful phrases as “from a theoretical point of view,” or “upon first inspection we may seem to discern a certain attitude which may well survive even closer scrutiny,” and so forth. This sort of wind can sail you halfway through an hour test before you have to lay a single fact on paper.
But you can’t do that in math. So for God’s sake, man, stay away from science. Even though there’s a Nat. Sci. requirement for course distribution, take it in your sophomore year. By then you’ll have perfected your prose style so that you might even be able to argue that, from a certain point of view, two and two might just possibly equal five.
The program Andrew Eliot selected was a preppie’s dream. First, Soc. Rel. 1, because the name — Social Relations — was itself an invitation to throw bull. Then English 10, a survey from Chaucer to his cousin Tom. It was fairly rigorous but he’d read most of the stuff (at least in Hymarx outlines) in senior year at prep school.
His choice of Fine Arts 13 also showed astuteness, Not much reading, little taking down of notes. For it meant mostly watching slides. Moreover, the noon hour of its meeting and the semidarkness of its atmosphere were most conducive if one needed a short nap before lunch. Also, Newall pointed out, “As soon as we find girlfriends at the Cliffe, that auditorium will be the perfect spot for making out.”
There was no problem about his final course. It had to be Hum 2. In addition to its many other attractions, since the instructor held the chair endowed by Andrew’s ancestors, he looked upon Professor Finley as a sort of family retainer.
The night they handed in their study cards, Andrew, Wig, and Newall had a gin-and-tonic party to honor their official course commitment to self-betterment.
“So, Andy,” Dickie asked after his fourth, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
And Andrew answered, only half in jest, “Frankly, I don’t think I really want to grow up.”
September 22, 1954
Yesterday we had the stupid Harvard Step Test. Being in reasonable shape for soccer, I passed it with no sweat. (Or to be more accurate, a lot of sweat, but very little effort.) The only trouble came when “Colonel” Jackson made us reach over to feel the neck artery of the guy next to you, my neighbor was so slippery with perspiration that I couldn’t find his pulse. So when that Fascist character came by to write it down, I just made up a number that popped into my head.
When we got back to the dorm, the three of us reviewed this fairly degrading experience. We all agreed that the most undignified and unnecessary aspect was the damn posture picture just before the Step Test. Imagine, now Harvard has a personal file of everyone — or perhaps more accurately, every member of The Class — standing naked in front of the camera, ostensibly to test our posture. But probably so that when one of us becomes President of the — United States, the phys. ed. department can pull out his picture and see what the leader of the greatest nation in the world looks like in the raw.
What really bugged Wigglesworth was that some thief could break into the IAB, filch our photographs, and sell them for a fortune.
“To whom?” I asked. “Who’d pay to see the pictures of a thousand naked Harvard freshmen?”
This gave him pause for thought. Who indeed would treasure such a portrait gallery? Some horny Wellesley girls, perhaps. Then something else occurred to me: do Cliffies have to take these pictures too?
Newall thought they did. And I conceived this great idea of sneaking into the Radcliffe gym to steal their pictures. What a show! Then we’d know what girls to concentrate our efforts on.
At first they really liked my plan. But then their courage sort of evanesced.
And Newall argued that a “real man” should be able to find out empirically.
So much for bravery. I would have liked that midnight raid.
I think.
Study cards were due in at 5:00 P.M. on Thursday. This gave The Class of ’58 a little time to shop around and choose a balanced program. They’d need courses for their majors, some for distribution, and some perhaps for cultural enrichment. And, most important, a gut. At least one really easy course was absolutely necessary for those who were either preppies or pre-med.
For Ted Lambros, who was certain he’d be majoring in classics, the selection was fairly straightforward: Latin 2A, Horace and Catullus, and Nat. Sci. 4 with the pyrotechnic L. K. Nash, who regularly blew himself up several times a year.
Both as a gut and a requirement, he took Greek A, an introduction to the classical version of the language he had used since birth. After two semesters he would be able to read Homer in the original. And in the meantime, as a fourth course, he would read the famous epics in translation with John Finley, the legendary Eliot Professor of Greek Literature. “Hum 2,” as it was affectionately known, would provide stimulation, information, and, as everyone at Harvard knew, an easy grade.
Danny Rossi had already planned his schedule during his cross-country trek. Music 51, Analysis of Form, an unavoidable requirement for every major. But the rest would be pure joy. A survey of orchestral music from Haydn to Hindemith. Then, beginning German, to prepare him to conduct the Wagner operas. (He’d start Italian and French later.) And, of course, the college’s most popular and inspirational free ride — Hum 2.
He had wanted to take Walter Piston’s Composition Seminar, and had assumed that the great man would admit him even though Danny was a freshman and the class had mostly graduates. But Piston turned him down “for his own good.”
“Look,” the composer had explained, “the piece you handed in was charming. And I really didn’t have to see it. Gustave Landau’s letter was enough for me. But if I take you now, you might be in the paradoxical position of — how can I put it? — being able to sprint and not to walk. If it’s any consolation, when Leonard Bernstein was here we forced him to do his basic music ‘calisthenics’ just like you.”
“Okay,” Danny said with polite resignation. And as he left thought, I guess that was his way of saying my piece is pretty juvenile.
Freshmen who are preppies have a great advantage. Through their network of old graduates familiar with the Cambridge scene, they learn precisely what the courses are to take and which ones to avoid.
The Harris Tweed underground imparts to them the secret word that is the key to making good at Harvard: bullshit. The greater the opportunity for tossing the verbiage like so much salad (unimpeded by the need for such trivia as facts), the more likely the course would be a snap.
They also arrived at college well versed in the techniques of the essay question, and could pad their paragraphs with such useful phrases as “from a theoretical point of view,” or “upon first inspection we may seem to discern a certain attitude which may well survive even closer scrutiny,” and so forth. This sort of wind can sail you halfway through an hour test before you have to lay a single fact on paper.
But you can’t do that in math. So for God’s sake, man, stay away from science. Even though there’s a Nat. Sci. requirement for course distribution, take it in your sophomore year. By then you’ll have perfected your prose style so that you might even be able to argue that, from a certain point of view, two and two might just possibly equal five.
The program Andrew Eliot selected was a preppie’s dream. First, Soc. Rel. 1, because the name — Social Relations — was itself an invitation to throw bull. Then English 10, a survey from Chaucer to his cousin Tom. It was fairly rigorous but he’d read most of the stuff (at least in Hymarx outlines) in senior year at prep school.
His choice of Fine Arts 13 also showed astuteness, Not much reading, little taking down of notes. For it meant mostly watching slides. Moreover, the noon hour of its meeting and the semidarkness of its atmosphere were most conducive if one needed a short nap before lunch. Also, Newall pointed out, “As soon as we find girlfriends at the Cliffe, that auditorium will be the perfect spot for making out.”
There was no problem about his final course. It had to be Hum 2. In addition to its many other attractions, since the instructor held the chair endowed by Andrew’s ancestors, he looked upon Professor Finley as a sort of family retainer.
The night they handed in their study cards, Andrew, Wig, and Newall had a gin-and-tonic party to honor their official course commitment to self-betterment.
“So, Andy,” Dickie asked after his fourth, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
And Andrew answered, only half in jest, “Frankly, I don’t think I really want to grow up.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
October 5, 1954
The occasions that we thousand-odd will meet together as a class in our entire lifetime are extremely rare.
We gather three times while we are in college. First at the Freshman Convocation — sober, serious, and boring. Then at the notoriously gross Freshman Smoker — just the opposite. And, finally, after jumping all the necessary hurdles, one June morning four years hence when we’ll receive diplomas.
Otherwise, we go through Harvard on our own. They say our most important meeting is a quarter-century after we all graduate. That would be 1983 — impossible to think that far away.
They also say that when we come back for our Twenty-fifth Reunion we’ll be feeling something vaguely like fraternity and solidarity. But for now, we’re much more like the animals on Noah’s Ark. I mean, I don’t think the lions had too much to chat about with the lambs. Or with the mice. That’s just about the way me and my roommates feel about some of the creatures that are on board with us for this four-year voyage. We live in different cabins and sit on different decks.
Anyway, we gathered all together as The Class of ’58 tonight in Sanders Theater. And it was pretty solemn.
I know Dr. Pusey isn’t everybody’s hero nowadays, but when he talked tonight about the university’s tradition of defending academic freedom, it was kind of moving.
He chose as an example A. Lawrence Lowell, who at the beginning of this century succeeded my greatgranddad as President of Harvard. Apparently, right after World War I, a lot of guys in Cambridge had flirtations with the Socialists and Communists — then preaching hot, new stuff. Lowell was under tremendous pressure to dismiss the lefties from the faculty.
Now, even guys as dim as I caught Pusey’s tacit parallel with Senator McCarthy’s unrelenting war on him when he quoted Lowell’s great defense of professors in the classroom being absolutely free to teach “the truth as they see it.”
You have to hand it to him. He’s demonstrated courage as Hemingway defined it, “grace under pressure.” And yet The Class of ’58 did not give him a standing ovation.
But something tells me that when we’re older and have seen more of the world, we’ll feel ashamed that we didn’t acknowledge Pusey’s bravery tonight.
***
“Where you going, Gilbert?”
“Where does it look like, D. D.? To breakfast, obviously.”
“Today?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Come on, Gilbert, you should know better. Don’t you realize it’s Yom Kippur?”
“So?”
“Well, don’t you know what it is?”
“Of course, the Day of Atonement for Jews.”
“Gilbert, you should be fasting today,” his roommate admonished. “You talk as if you’re not Jewish.”
“Well, D. D., as a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re as Jewish as I am.”
“On what evidence do you base that categorical statement?” Jason said good-humoredly.
“Well, to begin with, haven’t you noticed that Harvard always assigns Jews to the same rooms? Why else do you think they put you with me?”
“I wish I knew,” Jason said jocularly.
“Gilbert,” D. D persisted, “do you actually stand there and deny that you are of the Jewish faith?”
“Look, I know my grandfather was a Jew. But as far as faith is concerned, we belong to the local Unitarian church.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing,” D. D. retorted. “if Hitler were alive he’d still consider you a Jew.”
“Listen, David,” Jason answered, unperturbed, “in case you haven’t heard, that bastard’s been dead for several years now. Besides, this is America. You do recall that bit in the Bill of Rights about freedom of worship. In fact, the grandchild of a Jewish man can even have breakfast on Yom Kippur.”
But D. D. was far from conceding defeat.
“Gilbert, you should read Jean-Paul Sartre’s essay on Jewish identity. It would wake you up to your dilemma.”
“I didn’t realize that I had one, frankly.”
“Sartre says that someone’s Jewish if the world regards him a Jew. And that means, Jason, you can be a blond, eat bacon on Yom Kippur, wear your preppie clothes, play squash — it doesn’t change a thing. The world will still consider you a Jew.”
“Hey, look, so far, the only guy that’s ever given me grief on this whole business has been you, my friend.”
And yet Jason realized inwardly that what he’d just stated was not quite the truth. For had he not experienced a little “problem” vis-à-vis the Yale Admissions Office?
“Okay,” D. D. concluded as he buttoned up his coat, “if you want to go on living like an ostrich, it’s your privilege.
But sooner or later you’ll learn.” And in parting, he added sarcastically, “Have a good breakfast.”
“Thanks,” Jason called cheerily, “and don’t forget to pray for me.”
***
The old man gazed at the wine-dark sea of students reverently awaiting his comments on Odysseus decision to sail homeward after ten years of breathless encounters with women, monsters, and monstrous women.
He was standing on the stage of Sanders Theater, the only Harvard building large enough — or indeed appropriate — to house the lectures of Professor John H. Finley, Jr., chosen by Olympus to convey the glory that was Greece to the hoi polloi of Cambridge. Indeed, such was his charismatic eloquence that many of the hundreds who entered Humanities 2 in September as philistines emerged by Christmas as passionate philhellenes.
Thus it was that on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10:00 A.M., fully one-quarter of the entire population of Harvard College gathered to hear the great man’s lectures on the Epic from Homer to Milton. Everyone seemed to have a favorite vantage point for viewing Finley. Andrew Eliot and Jason Gilbert preferred the balcony. Danny Rossi, killing two birds with one stone, would alter his position frequently since he wanted to master the acoustics of the hall, venue for Harvard’s major concerts and even the occasional — visit by the Boston Symphony.
Ted Lambros always sat in the first row, lest he miss a single winged word. He had come to Harvard already wanting to major in Latin and Greek, but Finley’s survey endowed the prospect with mystical grandeur that filled him with euphoria as well as ethnic pride.
Today Finley was discussing Odysseus’ departure from the enchanted isle of the nymph Calypso, despite her passionate pleas and promises to grant him eternal life. “Imagine —” Finley breathed to his rapt auditors. He then paused while all wondered what he would ask them to conjure.
“Imagine our hero is offered an unending idyll with a nymph who will remain forever young. Yet, he forsakes it all to return to a poor island and a woman who, Calypso explicitly reminds him, is fast approaching middle age, which no cosmetic can embellish. A rare, tempting proposition, one cannot deny. But what is Odysseus’ reaction?
He then paced back and forth, and recited without book, clearly translating from the Greek as he went along:
“Goddess, I know that everything you say is true and that clever Penelope is no match for your face and figure. But she is after all a mortal and you divine and ageless. Yet despite all this I yearn for home and for the day of my returning.
He stopped pacing and walked slowly and deliberately to the edge of the stage.
“Here,” he said, at a whisper that was nonetheless audible in the farthest corner, “is the quintessential message of the Odyssey …”
A thousand pencils poised in readiness to transcribe the crucial words to come.
“In, as it were, leaving an enchanted — and one must presume pleasantly tropical — isle to return to the cold winter winds of, shall we say, Brookline, Massachusetts, Odysseus forsakes immortality for — identity. In other words, the imperfections of the human state are outweighed by the glory of human love.”
There was a brief pause while the audience waited for Finley to draw breath before daring to do so themselves.
And then applause. Slowly the spell was broken as students marched out the various Sanders Theater exits. Ted Lambros was close to tears and felt he had to say something to the master. But it took him a few seconds to gather his courage. By this time, the nimble academic had donned his tan raincoat and fedora and had reached the tall arched gateway.
Ted approached him diffidently. As he did he was amazed that, on terra firma, this man of such great stature was actually of normal height.
“Sir, if you’ll permit me,” he began, “that was the most inspiring lecture I’ve ever heard. I mean, I’m just a freshman, but I’m going to major in classics, and I’ll bet you’ve made a thousand converts in there …, uh, sir.”
He knew he was rambling gauchely, but Finley was accustomed to such reverential clumsiness. And in any case he was pleased.
“A freshman and already decided on the classics?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Lambros, sir. Theodore Lambros, ’58.”
“Ah,” said Finley, “‘Theo-doros,’ gift of God, and ‘lampros’ — a truly Pindaric name. One thinks of the famous verses in Phythian 8 — Lampron phengos epestin and ron, ‘radiant light that shines on men.’ Do come and see us for Wednesday tea at Eliot House, Mr. Lambros.”
Before Ted could even thank him, Finley turned on his — heels and marched off into the October wind, reciting Pindar all the way.
***
Jason woke at the sound of someone in great distress.
He glanced quickly at his night table. It was just after 2:00 A.M. From across the suite, he heard muffled sobbing and frightened cries of, “No, no!”
He leapt out of bed and rushed across to D. D.’s door, the source of all those tormented noises.
Knocking softly, Jason asked, “David, are you okay?”
The sobbing stopped abruptly and there was only silence. Jason knocked again and rephrased his question.
“Are you all right in there?”
Through the closed door came the curt response, “Go away, Gilbert. Leave me alone.” But it was in a strangely anguished tone of voice.
“Listen, D. D., if you don’t open up I’m going to break in.”
After a second he heard the scraping of a chair. A moment later the door opened a crack. And his roommate peeked out nervously. Jason could perceive that he had been at his desk studying.
“What do you want?” snapped D. D.
“I heard noises,” Jason replied. “I thought you were in some kind of pain.”
“I just fell asleep for a minute and had a sort of nightmare. It’s nothing.
And I’d be grateful if you’d let me study.” He closed the door again.
Jason still would not retreat.
“Hey, listen, D. D., you don’t have to be pre-med to know that people can go nuts from not sleeping. Haven’t you studied enough for one night?”
The door opened again.
“Gilbert, I couldn’t possibly go to bed if I thought any of my competition were still awake studying. Chem. Twenty is the survival of the fittest.”
“I still think a little rest would make you fitter, David,” Jason said softly.
“What was your nightmare, by the way?
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“It’s silly,” D. D. laughed nervously, “but I dreamed that they handed out the bluebooks — and I didn’t understand the questions. Stupid, ha? Anyway, you can go to bed now, Jason. I’m perfectly okay.”
The next morning, D. D. made no mention whatsoever of the trauma of the night before. In fact, he was exceptionally obnoxious, as if unconsciously informing Jason that what he had seen a few hours earlier was just a one-time aberration.
Still Jason felt duty-bound to say something to the dorm proctor, who was nominally supposed to be responsible for their welfare. Besides, Dennis Linden was a medical student and might understand the whole phenomenon that Jason had witnessed.
“Dennis,” cautioned Jason, “you’ve got to give me your word that this is strictly confidential.”
“Absolutely,” the soon-to-be-M.D. replied. “I’m glad you called this thing to my attention.”
“Seriously, I think D. D. will go bonkers if he doesn’t get all A’s. He’s got this wild obsession that he has to be first in The Class.”
Linden puffed his Chesterfield, blew rings into the air, and answered casually, “But, Gilbert, we both know that’s an impossibility.”
“What makes you so sure?” Jason inquired, puzzled.
“Listen, let me tell you something in confidence. Your roommate wasn’t even number one in his own high school, which sent half-a-dozen guys here with much higher averages and board scores. In fact, the Admissions Office only rated him a little over 10.5.”
“What?” Jason asked.
“Look, as I said, this stuff is really classified. But Harvard calculates the future standing of each student they accept —.”
“In advance?” Jason interrupted.
The proctor nodded and continued. “And what’s more, they’re almost never wrong.”
“You mean to tell me that you know what grades I’m going to get this January?” Jason asked with stupefaction.
“Not only that,” the future doctor answered, “we know pretty much just where you’ll graduate.”
“Why not tell me now, so I won’t bother studying too hard,” Jason said, only barely joking.
“Now come on, Gilbert, what I said is absolutely off the record, And I only told you so you could be ready to support your roommate when he wakes up to discover that he isn’t Einstein.”
Jason suddenly erupted with angry resentment.
“Hey, listen, Dennis, I’m not fit to act as a psychiatrist. Can’t we do something to help this guy now?”
The proctor took another puff and answered, “Jason, young Davidson — who, between the two of us, I find a little twerp —i s here at Harvard precisely to learn his limitations. That is, if I may say so, one of the things that we do best. Let this ride till midterm. If the guy’s unable to deal with the fact that he’s not on top of the mountain, then maybe we’ll arrange for him to talk to someone in the Health Department. Anyway, I’m glad that you called this to my attention. Don’t hesitate to come again if he starts acting weird.”
“He’s always acted weird,” Jason responded with a half-smile.
“Gilbert,” said the proctor, “you’ve got no idea what whackos they accept at Harvard. D. D. is a damn Gibraltar compared to some of the nutcases I’ve seen.”
October 5, 1954
The occasions that we thousand-odd will meet together as a class in our entire lifetime are extremely rare.
We gather three times while we are in college. First at the Freshman Convocation — sober, serious, and boring. Then at the notoriously gross Freshman Smoker — just the opposite. And, finally, after jumping all the necessary hurdles, one June morning four years hence when we’ll receive diplomas.
Otherwise, we go through Harvard on our own. They say our most important meeting is a quarter-century after we all graduate. That would be 1983 — impossible to think that far away.
They also say that when we come back for our Twenty-fifth Reunion we’ll be feeling something vaguely like fraternity and solidarity. But for now, we’re much more like the animals on Noah’s Ark. I mean, I don’t think the lions had too much to chat about with the lambs. Or with the mice. That’s just about the way me and my roommates feel about some of the creatures that are on board with us for this four-year voyage. We live in different cabins and sit on different decks.
Anyway, we gathered all together as The Class of ’58 tonight in Sanders Theater. And it was pretty solemn.
I know Dr. Pusey isn’t everybody’s hero nowadays, but when he talked tonight about the university’s tradition of defending academic freedom, it was kind of moving.
He chose as an example A. Lawrence Lowell, who at the beginning of this century succeeded my greatgranddad as President of Harvard. Apparently, right after World War I, a lot of guys in Cambridge had flirtations with the Socialists and Communists — then preaching hot, new stuff. Lowell was under tremendous pressure to dismiss the lefties from the faculty.
Now, even guys as dim as I caught Pusey’s tacit parallel with Senator McCarthy’s unrelenting war on him when he quoted Lowell’s great defense of professors in the classroom being absolutely free to teach “the truth as they see it.”
You have to hand it to him. He’s demonstrated courage as Hemingway defined it, “grace under pressure.” And yet The Class of ’58 did not give him a standing ovation.
But something tells me that when we’re older and have seen more of the world, we’ll feel ashamed that we didn’t acknowledge Pusey’s bravery tonight.
“Where you going, Gilbert?”
“Where does it look like, D. D.? To breakfast, obviously.”
“Today?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Come on, Gilbert, you should know better. Don’t you realize it’s Yom Kippur?”
“So?”
“Well, don’t you know what it is?”
“Of course, the Day of Atonement for Jews.”
“Gilbert, you should be fasting today,” his roommate admonished. “You talk as if you’re not Jewish.”
“Well, D. D., as a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re as Jewish as I am.”
“On what evidence do you base that categorical statement?” Jason said good-humoredly.
“Well, to begin with, haven’t you noticed that Harvard always assigns Jews to the same rooms? Why else do you think they put you with me?”
“I wish I knew,” Jason said jocularly.
“Gilbert,” D. D persisted, “do you actually stand there and deny that you are of the Jewish faith?”
“Look, I know my grandfather was a Jew. But as far as faith is concerned, we belong to the local Unitarian church.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing,” D. D. retorted. “if Hitler were alive he’d still consider you a Jew.”
“Listen, David,” Jason answered, unperturbed, “in case you haven’t heard, that bastard’s been dead for several years now. Besides, this is America. You do recall that bit in the Bill of Rights about freedom of worship. In fact, the grandchild of a Jewish man can even have breakfast on Yom Kippur.”
But D. D. was far from conceding defeat.
“Gilbert, you should read Jean-Paul Sartre’s essay on Jewish identity. It would wake you up to your dilemma.”
“I didn’t realize that I had one, frankly.”
“Sartre says that someone’s Jewish if the world regards him a Jew. And that means, Jason, you can be a blond, eat bacon on Yom Kippur, wear your preppie clothes, play squash — it doesn’t change a thing. The world will still consider you a Jew.”
“Hey, look, so far, the only guy that’s ever given me grief on this whole business has been you, my friend.”
And yet Jason realized inwardly that what he’d just stated was not quite the truth. For had he not experienced a little “problem” vis-à-vis the Yale Admissions Office?
“Okay,” D. D. concluded as he buttoned up his coat, “if you want to go on living like an ostrich, it’s your privilege.
But sooner or later you’ll learn.” And in parting, he added sarcastically, “Have a good breakfast.”
“Thanks,” Jason called cheerily, “and don’t forget to pray for me.”
The old man gazed at the wine-dark sea of students reverently awaiting his comments on Odysseus decision to sail homeward after ten years of breathless encounters with women, monsters, and monstrous women.
He was standing on the stage of Sanders Theater, the only Harvard building large enough — or indeed appropriate — to house the lectures of Professor John H. Finley, Jr., chosen by Olympus to convey the glory that was Greece to the hoi polloi of Cambridge. Indeed, such was his charismatic eloquence that many of the hundreds who entered Humanities 2 in September as philistines emerged by Christmas as passionate philhellenes.
Thus it was that on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10:00 A.M., fully one-quarter of the entire population of Harvard College gathered to hear the great man’s lectures on the Epic from Homer to Milton. Everyone seemed to have a favorite vantage point for viewing Finley. Andrew Eliot and Jason Gilbert preferred the balcony. Danny Rossi, killing two birds with one stone, would alter his position frequently since he wanted to master the acoustics of the hall, venue for Harvard’s major concerts and even the occasional — visit by the Boston Symphony.
Ted Lambros always sat in the first row, lest he miss a single winged word. He had come to Harvard already wanting to major in Latin and Greek, but Finley’s survey endowed the prospect with mystical grandeur that filled him with euphoria as well as ethnic pride.
Today Finley was discussing Odysseus’ departure from the enchanted isle of the nymph Calypso, despite her passionate pleas and promises to grant him eternal life. “Imagine —” Finley breathed to his rapt auditors. He then paused while all wondered what he would ask them to conjure.
“Imagine our hero is offered an unending idyll with a nymph who will remain forever young. Yet, he forsakes it all to return to a poor island and a woman who, Calypso explicitly reminds him, is fast approaching middle age, which no cosmetic can embellish. A rare, tempting proposition, one cannot deny. But what is Odysseus’ reaction?
He then paced back and forth, and recited without book, clearly translating from the Greek as he went along:
“Goddess, I know that everything you say is true and that clever Penelope is no match for your face and figure. But she is after all a mortal and you divine and ageless. Yet despite all this I yearn for home and for the day of my returning.
He stopped pacing and walked slowly and deliberately to the edge of the stage.
“Here,” he said, at a whisper that was nonetheless audible in the farthest corner, “is the quintessential message of the Odyssey …”
A thousand pencils poised in readiness to transcribe the crucial words to come.
“In, as it were, leaving an enchanted — and one must presume pleasantly tropical — isle to return to the cold winter winds of, shall we say, Brookline, Massachusetts, Odysseus forsakes immortality for — identity. In other words, the imperfections of the human state are outweighed by the glory of human love.”
There was a brief pause while the audience waited for Finley to draw breath before daring to do so themselves.
And then applause. Slowly the spell was broken as students marched out the various Sanders Theater exits. Ted Lambros was close to tears and felt he had to say something to the master. But it took him a few seconds to gather his courage. By this time, the nimble academic had donned his tan raincoat and fedora and had reached the tall arched gateway.
Ted approached him diffidently. As he did he was amazed that, on terra firma, this man of such great stature was actually of normal height.
“Sir, if you’ll permit me,” he began, “that was the most inspiring lecture I’ve ever heard. I mean, I’m just a freshman, but I’m going to major in classics, and I’ll bet you’ve made a thousand converts in there …, uh, sir.”
He knew he was rambling gauchely, but Finley was accustomed to such reverential clumsiness. And in any case he was pleased.
“A freshman and already decided on the classics?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Lambros, sir. Theodore Lambros, ’58.”
“Ah,” said Finley, “‘Theo-doros,’ gift of God, and ‘lampros’ — a truly Pindaric name. One thinks of the famous verses in Phythian 8 — Lampron phengos epestin and ron, ‘radiant light that shines on men.’ Do come and see us for Wednesday tea at Eliot House, Mr. Lambros.”
Before Ted could even thank him, Finley turned on his — heels and marched off into the October wind, reciting Pindar all the way.
Jason woke at the sound of someone in great distress.
He glanced quickly at his night table. It was just after 2:00 A.M. From across the suite, he heard muffled sobbing and frightened cries of, “No, no!”
He leapt out of bed and rushed across to D. D.’s door, the source of all those tormented noises.
Knocking softly, Jason asked, “David, are you okay?”
The sobbing stopped abruptly and there was only silence. Jason knocked again and rephrased his question.
“Are you all right in there?”
Through the closed door came the curt response, “Go away, Gilbert. Leave me alone.” But it was in a strangely anguished tone of voice.
“Listen, D. D., if you don’t open up I’m going to break in.”
After a second he heard the scraping of a chair. A moment later the door opened a crack. And his roommate peeked out nervously. Jason could perceive that he had been at his desk studying.
“What do you want?” snapped D. D.
“I heard noises,” Jason replied. “I thought you were in some kind of pain.”
“I just fell asleep for a minute and had a sort of nightmare. It’s nothing.
And I’d be grateful if you’d let me study.” He closed the door again.
Jason still would not retreat.
“Hey, listen, D. D., you don’t have to be pre-med to know that people can go nuts from not sleeping. Haven’t you studied enough for one night?”
The door opened again.
“Gilbert, I couldn’t possibly go to bed if I thought any of my competition were still awake studying. Chem. Twenty is the survival of the fittest.”
“I still think a little rest would make you fitter, David,” Jason said softly.
“What was your nightmare, by the way?
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“It’s silly,” D. D. laughed nervously, “but I dreamed that they handed out the bluebooks — and I didn’t understand the questions. Stupid, ha? Anyway, you can go to bed now, Jason. I’m perfectly okay.”
The next morning, D. D. made no mention whatsoever of the trauma of the night before. In fact, he was exceptionally obnoxious, as if unconsciously informing Jason that what he had seen a few hours earlier was just a one-time aberration.
Still Jason felt duty-bound to say something to the dorm proctor, who was nominally supposed to be responsible for their welfare. Besides, Dennis Linden was a medical student and might understand the whole phenomenon that Jason had witnessed.
“Dennis,” cautioned Jason, “you’ve got to give me your word that this is strictly confidential.”
“Absolutely,” the soon-to-be-M.D. replied. “I’m glad you called this thing to my attention.”
“Seriously, I think D. D. will go bonkers if he doesn’t get all A’s. He’s got this wild obsession that he has to be first in The Class.”
Linden puffed his Chesterfield, blew rings into the air, and answered casually, “But, Gilbert, we both know that’s an impossibility.”
“What makes you so sure?” Jason inquired, puzzled.
“Listen, let me tell you something in confidence. Your roommate wasn’t even number one in his own high school, which sent half-a-dozen guys here with much higher averages and board scores. In fact, the Admissions Office only rated him a little over 10.5.”
“What?” Jason asked.
“Look, as I said, this stuff is really classified. But Harvard calculates the future standing of each student they accept —.”
“In advance?” Jason interrupted.
The proctor nodded and continued. “And what’s more, they’re almost never wrong.”
“You mean to tell me that you know what grades I’m going to get this January?” Jason asked with stupefaction.
“Not only that,” the future doctor answered, “we know pretty much just where you’ll graduate.”
“Why not tell me now, so I won’t bother studying too hard,” Jason said, only barely joking.
“Now come on, Gilbert, what I said is absolutely off the record, And I only told you so you could be ready to support your roommate when he wakes up to discover that he isn’t Einstein.”
Jason suddenly erupted with angry resentment.
“Hey, listen, Dennis, I’m not fit to act as a psychiatrist. Can’t we do something to help this guy now?”
The proctor took another puff and answered, “Jason, young Davidson — who, between the two of us, I find a little twerp —i s here at Harvard precisely to learn his limitations. That is, if I may say so, one of the things that we do best. Let this ride till midterm. If the guy’s unable to deal with the fact that he’s not on top of the mountain, then maybe we’ll arrange for him to talk to someone in the Health Department. Anyway, I’m glad that you called this to my attention. Don’t hesitate to come again if he starts acting weird.”
“He’s always acted weird,” Jason responded with a half-smile.
“Gilbert,” said the proctor, “you’ve got no idea what whackos they accept at Harvard. D. D. is a damn Gibraltar compared to some of the nutcases I’ve seen.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
October 17, 1954
I never thought I was a good student and I didn’t mind getting C’s for all my hour exams. But I did think of myself as a pretty good soccer player. And that illusion’s just been dispelled.
The damn freshman team is so packed with all kinds of international big gunners that I could barely get a chance to put my toe in.
Still, there is a little solace in this truly Harvard lesson in humility. As I sit there on the bench awaiting my dispensation of three or four minutes’ play during the final moments (if we’re leading by enough), I can console myself with the reminder that the guy who plays ahead of me is no ordinary jock.
Maybe his corner kicks are so lofty because he is descended from the Almighty.
Still, if I have to be a second stringer it might as well be to the likes of Karim Aga Khan, who is, as Professor Finley put it, “the great, great, great, great, and ad infinitum grandson of God.”
And he’s not the only dignitary who has relegated me to being practically a spectator. Our center forward is another divinity — a genuine Persian prince. And we’ve got ringers from places as exotic as South America, the Philippines — and even public high schools. All of whom have contributed to my sedentary status.
But at least we’re undefeated. There’s some comfort to be found in that. And if I get to play another seven minutes, I’ll have earned my freshman numerals.
As if the flower of my confidence has not been sufficiently wilted by the heat of these guys’ talent on the field, I grit my teeth as I report that Bruce Macdonald, the best player of them all, is perhaps the greatest genius in the whole damn Class.
He graduated number one at Exeter, was captain and high scorer of their soccer team, ditto for lacrosse in springtime. And just to keep him busy in the evenings, he’s so terrific with a violin that, as a freshman, he’s been chosen concertmaster of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra!
Thank God I arrived here with a well-developed feeling of inferiority. Because if I had come as cocky as most guys were on the first day we were kicking soccer balls, I would have thrown myself into the Charles.
***
The rabbi stood at the podium and announced:
“After the concluding hymn, the congregation is cordially invited to the Vestry Room for wine, fruit, and honeycake. Now let us turn to page one hundred two and join in the singing of ‘Adon Olam, Lord of the Universe.’”
In the organ loft above, Danny Rossi picked up his cue and struck the opening chords with a gusto that delighted the worshippers.
Lord of the Universe, who reigned
Ere earth and heaven’s fashioning,
When to create a world he deigned
Then was his name proclaimed King.
After the rabbi’s benediction, they filed out as Danny played the recessional. The moment he finished, he grabbed his jacket and hurried downstairs.
He entered the Vestry Room unobtrusively and headed for the abundantly laden tables. As he was filling a paper plate with slices of cake, he heard the rabbi’s voice.
“How good of you to stay on, Danny. It’s certainly beyond the call of duty. I know how terribly busy you are.”
“Oh, I enjoy being involved in everything, Rabbi,” he replied. “I mean, it’s all very interesting for me.”
Danny was being quite sincere. Although he did not mention that what he most appreciated about the Jewish festivals was the plentiful food, which usually enabled him to skip lunch.
This particular Saturday would be especially hectic for him, since the youth group of the Congregational church in Quincy, which he also served, was holding its Fall Hop. And he had persuaded the minister to hire “his” trio (quickly calling the Union for a young drummer and bassist). It would be tiring, but that fifty-buck fee would be a great consolation.
It seemed pointless to go all the way back to Cambridge to pass the time between sacred and secular gigs, especially since Harvard would be caught up in Saturday football mania and it would be too noisy to work anyway. So Danny took the MTA to Copley Square and spent the afternoon studying in the Boston Public Library.
There was a plumpish brunette sitting at the end of his table, with several notebooks emblazoned BOSTON UNIVERSITY. This gave the timid Casanova a clue of how to engage her in conversation.
“Do you go to B.U.?”
“Yeah.”
“I go to Harvard myself.”
“That figures,” she said dismissively.
With a sigh of anticipated defeat, Danny returned to Hindemith’s Craft of Musical Composition.
When he emerged, a chilly darkness had descended upon the city. As he strolled through Boston’s version of Venice’s Piazza San Marco, he pondered a vital theological dilemma.
Would the Congregationalists serve food?
Better not take too big a leap of faith, he told himself. Hedge your bets. So he grabbed a quick tuna on rye before beginning the journey south to Quincy.
The best part of the dance was that the drummer and the bass player turned out to be young college students like himself. The worst part was that he had to spend the entire evening at the piano, trying not to ogle the well-developed high school girls in their tight sweaters gyrating to the beat his hungry fingers produced on the keyboard.
When the last couples finally straggled off the floor, an exhausted Danny looked at his watch. God, he thought, eleven-thirty and it’ll take me at least an hour to get back to Harvard. And I’ve got to be back here before nine.
For an instant he was tempted to sleep upstairs on an isolated pew. No, don’t risk your job. Better haul yourself back home.
When he finally entered Harvard Yard, nearly every window was dark. Yet, as he approached Holworthy, he was stunned to find his roommate, Kingman Wu, perched on the stone steps.
“Hi, Danny.”
“King, what the hell are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”
“Bernie bounced me,” his friend replied forlornly. “He’s practicing his fencing and claims he’s got to be alone to concentrate.”
“At this hour? The guy’s a maniac.”
“I know,” said Kingman miserably. “But he’s got a sword, so what the heck could I do?”
Perhaps the state beyond exhaustion dissipates all fear, for Danny felt strangely brave enough to deal with this emergency.
“Come on, King, maybe the two of us can bring him to his senses.”
As they headed in, Wu muttered, “You’re a real pal, Danny. I only wish you were six feet tall.”
“So do I,” Danny said wistfully.
Fortunately, the mad musketeer had gone to sleep. And a weary Danny Rossi followed almost instantly thereafter.
***
“God, there’s this Jewboy going out for squash who’s unbelievable.”
Dickie Newall was giving his roommates a detailed account of tryouts for the sport at which he’d excelled from the moment he was old enough to hold a racket.
“Is he going to beat you out for number one?” asked Wig.
“Are you kidding?” Newall groaned. “He could cream half the varsity. His drop shots are absolutely uncanny. And what really gets my goat is that the guy’s real neat. I mean, not just for a Jew — for a person.”
At which point Andrew inquired, “What makes you think Jews aren’t people?”
“Aw, come on, Eliot, you know what I mean. They’re usually these dark, brainy, aggressive guys. But this one doesn’t even wear glasses.”
“You know,” Andrew commented, “my father always had a special admiration for the Jews. In fact, they’re the only doctors he’ll see for anything.”
“But how many of them does he see socially?” Newall volleyed back.
“That’s different. But I don’t think he avoids them as a policy. It’s just the circles that we move in.”
“You mean it’s mere coincidence that none of these great physicians get put up for any of his clubs?”
“All right,” Andrew conceded. “But I’ve never heard him make a racial slur of any sort. Even about Catholics.”
“But he doesn’t mix with those guys either, does he? Not even our new mackerel-snapping senator from Massachusetts.”
“Well, he has done some business deals with Old Joe Kennedy.”
“Not over dinner at the Founders’ Club, I’ll bet,” Wig interposed.
“Hey, look,” Andrew replied, “I didn’t say my dad’s a saint. But at least he taught me not to use the kind of language Newall enjoys so much.”
“But, Andy, you put up with my colorful epithets for years.”
“Yeah,” Wig agreed. “What’s suddenly made you such a Goody Two-Shoes?”
“Listen, guys,” Andrew responded. “In prep school we had no Jews or Negroes at all. So who cared if you went on about the ‘lower orders.’ But Harvard’s full of all types, so I think we should learn to live with them.”
His roommates glanced at one another quizzically.
And then Newall complained, “Knock off this preaching, huh? I mean, if I’d said this guy was short or fat, you wouldn’t have given me any heat. When I refer to someone as a Hebie or a coon, it’s just a friendly way of typing him, a sort of shorthand adjective. I mean, for your information, I’ve invited this guy Jason Gilbert to our blast after the football game on Saturday.”
Then he looked at Andrew with mischief in his eyes and added, “That’s if you don’t mind actually mixing with a Jewboy.”
***
Although it was only the first week of November, the air at six o’clock was glacial and as dark as any winter evening. As Jason was dressing after squash practice, he discovered, to his annoyance, that he’d forgotten to bring a tie. He’d now have to return to Straus to get one. Otherwise, that Irish Cerberus who stood checking necks at the Union doorway would gleefully bounce him. Damn. Damn.
He trudged back across the chilly, leafless Yard, climbed the stairs to A-32, and fumbled for his key.
The moment that he pushed the door ajar, Jason noticed something odd. The place was dark. He glanced at D. D.’s room. No light from there either. Maybe he was sick. Jason rapped softly and inquired, “Davidson, are you okay?”
There was no reply.
Then, breaking the ironclad house rules, Jason opened the door. First he noticed the ceiling, where the electric wires had been torn out. Then he glanced quickly at the floor. Where he saw his roommate in a heap, motionless — a belt around his neck.
Jason was vertiginous with fear.
Oh God, he thought, the bastard’s killed himself. He knelt and turned D. D. over. This gesture elicited the faintest semblance of a groan. Quick, Jason, he urged himself, fighting to keep his wits, call the cops. No. They might not come in time.
He swiftly removed the leather belt from his roommate’s lacerated throat. He then heaved him up onto his shoulders like a fireman, and rushed as quickly as he could to Harvard Square, where he commandeered a taxi, ordering the driver to tear-ass to the infirmary.
“He’ll be all right,” the on-duty physician assured Jason. “I don’t think Harvard sockets are wired well enough for suicide. Although, God knows, there are some kids who actually succeed in their ingenious ways. Why do you think he did it?”
“I don’t know,” said Jason, still somewhat deadened from the shock.
“The young man had a bit too much invested in his grades,” Dennis Linden pronounced. He had arrived on the scene in time to offer a professional analysis of the young freshman’s desperate action.
“Did his behavior give you any hints that this was coming? asked the Health Service doctor.
Jason shot a glance at Linden, who continued to pontificate, “Not really. You can never figure out which egg is going to crack. I mean, the freshman year’s so fraught with pressure.”
As the two doctors continued chatting, Jason fixed his gaze on his shoes.
Ten minutes later, Jason and the proctor walked together out of the infirmary; It was only then that he realized that he had no coat. Or gloves. Or anything. Panic had inured him to the cold. Now he was shivering.
“You need a lift, Jason?” Linden asked.
“No, thanks,” he answered sullenly.
“Come on, Gilbert, you’ll freeze to death walking back like that.”
“Okay,” he relented.
During the short ride up Mount Auburn Street, the proctor tried to justify himself.
“Look,” he rationalized, “this is what Harvard’s all about — it’s sink or swim.”
“Yeah,” Jason mumbled half-aloud, “but you’re supposed to be the lifeguard.”
At the next red light he climbed out of Linden’s car and slammed the door.
His anger again made him oblivious to the bitter cold.
He walked on toward the Square. At Elsie’s he consumed two Roast-Beef Specials to replace the dinner he had missed, then went over to Cronin’s, cruising by the wooden booths to find a friendly face so he could sit down and get drunk.
Jason was awakened rudely the next morning by a rapping on the door that made his headache even worse. It was only when he started groggily toward it that he noticed he was still in last night’s clothing. Anyway, his soul felt wrinkled. So they matched.
He opened the door.
A stocky, middle-aged woman, wearing a green floppy hat, was planted solidly outside.
“What did you do to him?” she demanded.
“Oh,” Jason said quietly, “you must be David’s mother.”
“A real genius you are,” she muttered. “I’m here to get his clothes.”
“Please,” Jason said, immediately ushering her in.
“It’s freezing on that landing, if you didn’t notice,” she remarked while entering the suite and glancing hawk-eyed into every corner.
“Foo, it’s a real pigsty. Who cleans up this place?”
“A student porter vacuums once a week and swabs the john,” said Jason.
“Well, no wonder my poor boy’s ill. Whose filthy clothes are these all over everywhere? They carry germs, you know.”
“They’re David’s,” Jason answered softly.
“So how come you threw my David’s clothes all over everywhere? Is that your rich boy’s idea of a little fun?”
“Mrs. Davidson,” Jason said patiently, “he dropped them there himself.” After which he quickly added, “Would you like to sit down? You must be very tired.”
“Tired? I’m exhausted. Do you know what that night train is like — especially for a woman my age? Anyway, I’ll stand while you explain why it’s not your fault.”
Jason sighed. “Look, Mrs. Davidson, I don’t know what they’ve told you down at the infirmary.”
“They said that he was very sick and has to be transferred to some god-awful … hospital,” she paused, and then she gasped, “a mental hospital.”
“I’m really sorry,” Jason answered gently, “but the pressure here can be ferocious. To get grades, I mean.”
“My David always got good grades. He studied day and night. Now suddenly he leaves my house and comes to live with you and he collapses like he had no yeast. Why did you disturb him?”
“Believe me, Mrs. Davidson,” Jason insisted, “I never bothered him. He —” Jason worked up the courage to complete his sentence “— sort of brought it on himself.”
Mrs. Davidson slowly absorbed this allegation.
“How?” she asked.
“For reasons that I simply cannot fathom, he just felt he had to be the best. I mean, the very best.”
“What’s wrong with that? I brought him up that way.”
Jason felt a surge of retrospective pity for his erstwhile roommate. Obviously his mother rode him like a racehorse in a never-ending homestretch. He wouldn’t have to be Humpty Dumpty to crack under that kind of strain.
Then suddenly, without warning, she flopped onto their couch and began to sob.
“What did I do? Didn’t I sacrifice my life for him? This isn’t fair.”
Jason touched her tentatively on the shoulder. “Look, Mrs. Davidson, if David’s going to a hospital he’ll need his clothes. Why don’t I help you pack?”
She gazed up at him with a look of helplessness. Thank you, young man. I’m sorry that I yelled, but I’m a bit upset, and I’ve been on the train all night.”
She opened her purse, took Out a handkerchief already moist, and dabbed her eyes.
“Hey, look,” Jason said softly. “Why don’t you rest here. I can boil some coffee. Meanwhile, I’ll pack his stuff, go get my car, and drive you to… wherever David is.”
“A place called Massachusetts Mental Health, in Waltham, she replied, choking on nearly every syllable.
In the bedroom, Jason grabbed a suitcase and tossed in garments he thought would be appropriate. Instinct told him that the hospital would not require ties and jackets.
“What about his books?” his mother called out.
“I don’t think he’ll need his school stuff right away, but I’ll hold on to it and bring him what he wants.”
“You’re very kind,” she said again. And blew her nose.
One suitcase packed, Jason cast a quick eye around the room to see if he’d missed anything essential. At that moment he caught sight of something lying on top of the desk. Even as he reached out, he had ominous forebodings of what it would be.
Yes, he was right. It was the bluebook from D. D.’s Chem. 20 midterm. And his roommate’s nightmare had turned out to be prophecy. He had received a mere B-minus. As casually as possible, he folded the exam and stuffed it in his back pocket.
“Wait here, Mrs. Davidson. My car’s a few blocks away. I’ll run and get it.”
“I must be keeping you from your classes,” she said meekly.
“That’s okay,” he answered. “I’m just happy I can do something for David. I mean — he’s a real nice guy.”
Mrs. Davidson looked into Jason Gilbert’s eyes and murmured, “You know, your parents should be extremely proud.”
“Thank you,” Jason Gilbert whispered. And ran off, a dull ache in his heart.
October 17, 1954
I never thought I was a good student and I didn’t mind getting C’s for all my hour exams. But I did think of myself as a pretty good soccer player. And that illusion’s just been dispelled.
The damn freshman team is so packed with all kinds of international big gunners that I could barely get a chance to put my toe in.
Still, there is a little solace in this truly Harvard lesson in humility. As I sit there on the bench awaiting my dispensation of three or four minutes’ play during the final moments (if we’re leading by enough), I can console myself with the reminder that the guy who plays ahead of me is no ordinary jock.
Maybe his corner kicks are so lofty because he is descended from the Almighty.
Still, if I have to be a second stringer it might as well be to the likes of Karim Aga Khan, who is, as Professor Finley put it, “the great, great, great, great, and ad infinitum grandson of God.”
And he’s not the only dignitary who has relegated me to being practically a spectator. Our center forward is another divinity — a genuine Persian prince. And we’ve got ringers from places as exotic as South America, the Philippines — and even public high schools. All of whom have contributed to my sedentary status.
But at least we’re undefeated. There’s some comfort to be found in that. And if I get to play another seven minutes, I’ll have earned my freshman numerals.
As if the flower of my confidence has not been sufficiently wilted by the heat of these guys’ talent on the field, I grit my teeth as I report that Bruce Macdonald, the best player of them all, is perhaps the greatest genius in the whole damn Class.
He graduated number one at Exeter, was captain and high scorer of their soccer team, ditto for lacrosse in springtime. And just to keep him busy in the evenings, he’s so terrific with a violin that, as a freshman, he’s been chosen concertmaster of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra!
Thank God I arrived here with a well-developed feeling of inferiority. Because if I had come as cocky as most guys were on the first day we were kicking soccer balls, I would have thrown myself into the Charles.
The rabbi stood at the podium and announced:
“After the concluding hymn, the congregation is cordially invited to the Vestry Room for wine, fruit, and honeycake. Now let us turn to page one hundred two and join in the singing of ‘Adon Olam, Lord of the Universe.’”
In the organ loft above, Danny Rossi picked up his cue and struck the opening chords with a gusto that delighted the worshippers.
Lord of the Universe, who reigned
Ere earth and heaven’s fashioning,
When to create a world he deigned
Then was his name proclaimed King.
After the rabbi’s benediction, they filed out as Danny played the recessional. The moment he finished, he grabbed his jacket and hurried downstairs.
He entered the Vestry Room unobtrusively and headed for the abundantly laden tables. As he was filling a paper plate with slices of cake, he heard the rabbi’s voice.
“How good of you to stay on, Danny. It’s certainly beyond the call of duty. I know how terribly busy you are.”
“Oh, I enjoy being involved in everything, Rabbi,” he replied. “I mean, it’s all very interesting for me.”
Danny was being quite sincere. Although he did not mention that what he most appreciated about the Jewish festivals was the plentiful food, which usually enabled him to skip lunch.
This particular Saturday would be especially hectic for him, since the youth group of the Congregational church in Quincy, which he also served, was holding its Fall Hop. And he had persuaded the minister to hire “his” trio (quickly calling the Union for a young drummer and bassist). It would be tiring, but that fifty-buck fee would be a great consolation.
It seemed pointless to go all the way back to Cambridge to pass the time between sacred and secular gigs, especially since Harvard would be caught up in Saturday football mania and it would be too noisy to work anyway. So Danny took the MTA to Copley Square and spent the afternoon studying in the Boston Public Library.
There was a plumpish brunette sitting at the end of his table, with several notebooks emblazoned BOSTON UNIVERSITY. This gave the timid Casanova a clue of how to engage her in conversation.
“Do you go to B.U.?”
“Yeah.”
“I go to Harvard myself.”
“That figures,” she said dismissively.
With a sigh of anticipated defeat, Danny returned to Hindemith’s Craft of Musical Composition.
When he emerged, a chilly darkness had descended upon the city. As he strolled through Boston’s version of Venice’s Piazza San Marco, he pondered a vital theological dilemma.
Would the Congregationalists serve food?
Better not take too big a leap of faith, he told himself. Hedge your bets. So he grabbed a quick tuna on rye before beginning the journey south to Quincy.
The best part of the dance was that the drummer and the bass player turned out to be young college students like himself. The worst part was that he had to spend the entire evening at the piano, trying not to ogle the well-developed high school girls in their tight sweaters gyrating to the beat his hungry fingers produced on the keyboard.
When the last couples finally straggled off the floor, an exhausted Danny looked at his watch. God, he thought, eleven-thirty and it’ll take me at least an hour to get back to Harvard. And I’ve got to be back here before nine.
For an instant he was tempted to sleep upstairs on an isolated pew. No, don’t risk your job. Better haul yourself back home.
When he finally entered Harvard Yard, nearly every window was dark. Yet, as he approached Holworthy, he was stunned to find his roommate, Kingman Wu, perched on the stone steps.
“Hi, Danny.”
“King, what the hell are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”
“Bernie bounced me,” his friend replied forlornly. “He’s practicing his fencing and claims he’s got to be alone to concentrate.”
“At this hour? The guy’s a maniac.”
“I know,” said Kingman miserably. “But he’s got a sword, so what the heck could I do?”
Perhaps the state beyond exhaustion dissipates all fear, for Danny felt strangely brave enough to deal with this emergency.
“Come on, King, maybe the two of us can bring him to his senses.”
As they headed in, Wu muttered, “You’re a real pal, Danny. I only wish you were six feet tall.”
“So do I,” Danny said wistfully.
Fortunately, the mad musketeer had gone to sleep. And a weary Danny Rossi followed almost instantly thereafter.
“God, there’s this Jewboy going out for squash who’s unbelievable.”
Dickie Newall was giving his roommates a detailed account of tryouts for the sport at which he’d excelled from the moment he was old enough to hold a racket.
“Is he going to beat you out for number one?” asked Wig.
“Are you kidding?” Newall groaned. “He could cream half the varsity. His drop shots are absolutely uncanny. And what really gets my goat is that the guy’s real neat. I mean, not just for a Jew — for a person.”
At which point Andrew inquired, “What makes you think Jews aren’t people?”
“Aw, come on, Eliot, you know what I mean. They’re usually these dark, brainy, aggressive guys. But this one doesn’t even wear glasses.”
“You know,” Andrew commented, “my father always had a special admiration for the Jews. In fact, they’re the only doctors he’ll see for anything.”
“But how many of them does he see socially?” Newall volleyed back.
“That’s different. But I don’t think he avoids them as a policy. It’s just the circles that we move in.”
“You mean it’s mere coincidence that none of these great physicians get put up for any of his clubs?”
“All right,” Andrew conceded. “But I’ve never heard him make a racial slur of any sort. Even about Catholics.”
“But he doesn’t mix with those guys either, does he? Not even our new mackerel-snapping senator from Massachusetts.”
“Well, he has done some business deals with Old Joe Kennedy.”
“Not over dinner at the Founders’ Club, I’ll bet,” Wig interposed.
“Hey, look,” Andrew replied, “I didn’t say my dad’s a saint. But at least he taught me not to use the kind of language Newall enjoys so much.”
“But, Andy, you put up with my colorful epithets for years.”
“Yeah,” Wig agreed. “What’s suddenly made you such a Goody Two-Shoes?”
“Listen, guys,” Andrew responded. “In prep school we had no Jews or Negroes at all. So who cared if you went on about the ‘lower orders.’ But Harvard’s full of all types, so I think we should learn to live with them.”
His roommates glanced at one another quizzically.
And then Newall complained, “Knock off this preaching, huh? I mean, if I’d said this guy was short or fat, you wouldn’t have given me any heat. When I refer to someone as a Hebie or a coon, it’s just a friendly way of typing him, a sort of shorthand adjective. I mean, for your information, I’ve invited this guy Jason Gilbert to our blast after the football game on Saturday.”
Then he looked at Andrew with mischief in his eyes and added, “That’s if you don’t mind actually mixing with a Jewboy.”
Although it was only the first week of November, the air at six o’clock was glacial and as dark as any winter evening. As Jason was dressing after squash practice, he discovered, to his annoyance, that he’d forgotten to bring a tie. He’d now have to return to Straus to get one. Otherwise, that Irish Cerberus who stood checking necks at the Union doorway would gleefully bounce him. Damn. Damn.
He trudged back across the chilly, leafless Yard, climbed the stairs to A-32, and fumbled for his key.
The moment that he pushed the door ajar, Jason noticed something odd. The place was dark. He glanced at D. D.’s room. No light from there either. Maybe he was sick. Jason rapped softly and inquired, “Davidson, are you okay?”
There was no reply.
Then, breaking the ironclad house rules, Jason opened the door. First he noticed the ceiling, where the electric wires had been torn out. Then he glanced quickly at the floor. Where he saw his roommate in a heap, motionless — a belt around his neck.
Jason was vertiginous with fear.
Oh God, he thought, the bastard’s killed himself. He knelt and turned D. D. over. This gesture elicited the faintest semblance of a groan. Quick, Jason, he urged himself, fighting to keep his wits, call the cops. No. They might not come in time.
He swiftly removed the leather belt from his roommate’s lacerated throat. He then heaved him up onto his shoulders like a fireman, and rushed as quickly as he could to Harvard Square, where he commandeered a taxi, ordering the driver to tear-ass to the infirmary.
“He’ll be all right,” the on-duty physician assured Jason. “I don’t think Harvard sockets are wired well enough for suicide. Although, God knows, there are some kids who actually succeed in their ingenious ways. Why do you think he did it?”
“I don’t know,” said Jason, still somewhat deadened from the shock.
“The young man had a bit too much invested in his grades,” Dennis Linden pronounced. He had arrived on the scene in time to offer a professional analysis of the young freshman’s desperate action.
“Did his behavior give you any hints that this was coming? asked the Health Service doctor.
Jason shot a glance at Linden, who continued to pontificate, “Not really. You can never figure out which egg is going to crack. I mean, the freshman year’s so fraught with pressure.”
As the two doctors continued chatting, Jason fixed his gaze on his shoes.
Ten minutes later, Jason and the proctor walked together out of the infirmary; It was only then that he realized that he had no coat. Or gloves. Or anything. Panic had inured him to the cold. Now he was shivering.
“You need a lift, Jason?” Linden asked.
“No, thanks,” he answered sullenly.
“Come on, Gilbert, you’ll freeze to death walking back like that.”
“Okay,” he relented.
During the short ride up Mount Auburn Street, the proctor tried to justify himself.
“Look,” he rationalized, “this is what Harvard’s all about — it’s sink or swim.”
“Yeah,” Jason mumbled half-aloud, “but you’re supposed to be the lifeguard.”
At the next red light he climbed out of Linden’s car and slammed the door.
His anger again made him oblivious to the bitter cold.
He walked on toward the Square. At Elsie’s he consumed two Roast-Beef Specials to replace the dinner he had missed, then went over to Cronin’s, cruising by the wooden booths to find a friendly face so he could sit down and get drunk.
Jason was awakened rudely the next morning by a rapping on the door that made his headache even worse. It was only when he started groggily toward it that he noticed he was still in last night’s clothing. Anyway, his soul felt wrinkled. So they matched.
He opened the door.
A stocky, middle-aged woman, wearing a green floppy hat, was planted solidly outside.
“What did you do to him?” she demanded.
“Oh,” Jason said quietly, “you must be David’s mother.”
“A real genius you are,” she muttered. “I’m here to get his clothes.”
“Please,” Jason said, immediately ushering her in.
“It’s freezing on that landing, if you didn’t notice,” she remarked while entering the suite and glancing hawk-eyed into every corner.
“Foo, it’s a real pigsty. Who cleans up this place?”
“A student porter vacuums once a week and swabs the john,” said Jason.
“Well, no wonder my poor boy’s ill. Whose filthy clothes are these all over everywhere? They carry germs, you know.”
“They’re David’s,” Jason answered softly.
“So how come you threw my David’s clothes all over everywhere? Is that your rich boy’s idea of a little fun?”
“Mrs. Davidson,” Jason said patiently, “he dropped them there himself.” After which he quickly added, “Would you like to sit down? You must be very tired.”
“Tired? I’m exhausted. Do you know what that night train is like — especially for a woman my age? Anyway, I’ll stand while you explain why it’s not your fault.”
Jason sighed. “Look, Mrs. Davidson, I don’t know what they’ve told you down at the infirmary.”
“They said that he was very sick and has to be transferred to some god-awful … hospital,” she paused, and then she gasped, “a mental hospital.”
“I’m really sorry,” Jason answered gently, “but the pressure here can be ferocious. To get grades, I mean.”
“My David always got good grades. He studied day and night. Now suddenly he leaves my house and comes to live with you and he collapses like he had no yeast. Why did you disturb him?”
“Believe me, Mrs. Davidson,” Jason insisted, “I never bothered him. He —” Jason worked up the courage to complete his sentence “— sort of brought it on himself.”
Mrs. Davidson slowly absorbed this allegation.
“How?” she asked.
“For reasons that I simply cannot fathom, he just felt he had to be the best. I mean, the very best.”
“What’s wrong with that? I brought him up that way.”
Jason felt a surge of retrospective pity for his erstwhile roommate. Obviously his mother rode him like a racehorse in a never-ending homestretch. He wouldn’t have to be Humpty Dumpty to crack under that kind of strain.
Then suddenly, without warning, she flopped onto their couch and began to sob.
“What did I do? Didn’t I sacrifice my life for him? This isn’t fair.”
Jason touched her tentatively on the shoulder. “Look, Mrs. Davidson, if David’s going to a hospital he’ll need his clothes. Why don’t I help you pack?”
She gazed up at him with a look of helplessness. Thank you, young man. I’m sorry that I yelled, but I’m a bit upset, and I’ve been on the train all night.”
She opened her purse, took Out a handkerchief already moist, and dabbed her eyes.
“Hey, look,” Jason said softly. “Why don’t you rest here. I can boil some coffee. Meanwhile, I’ll pack his stuff, go get my car, and drive you to… wherever David is.”
“A place called Massachusetts Mental Health, in Waltham, she replied, choking on nearly every syllable.
In the bedroom, Jason grabbed a suitcase and tossed in garments he thought would be appropriate. Instinct told him that the hospital would not require ties and jackets.
“What about his books?” his mother called out.
“I don’t think he’ll need his school stuff right away, but I’ll hold on to it and bring him what he wants.”
“You’re very kind,” she said again. And blew her nose.
One suitcase packed, Jason cast a quick eye around the room to see if he’d missed anything essential. At that moment he caught sight of something lying on top of the desk. Even as he reached out, he had ominous forebodings of what it would be.
Yes, he was right. It was the bluebook from D. D.’s Chem. 20 midterm. And his roommate’s nightmare had turned out to be prophecy. He had received a mere B-minus. As casually as possible, he folded the exam and stuffed it in his back pocket.
“Wait here, Mrs. Davidson. My car’s a few blocks away. I’ll run and get it.”
“I must be keeping you from your classes,” she said meekly.
“That’s okay,” he answered. “I’m just happy I can do something for David. I mean — he’s a real nice guy.”
Mrs. Davidson looked into Jason Gilbert’s eyes and murmured, “You know, your parents should be extremely proud.”
“Thank you,” Jason Gilbert whispered. And ran off, a dull ache in his heart.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 3, 1954
One of the great joys of living away from home and not at prep school is being able to stay up all night. Now and then it’s actually for something serious like finishing a paper that’s due the next day.
Mike Wigglesworth is an expert at this technique. He sits down at his typewriter at around seven in the evening with a few notes and a half-dozen Budweisers. He pecks out a first draft before midnight and then spends the wee small hours mixing in an appropriate quantity of bullshit. For the latter process he stokes up with coffee. Then he goes to breakfast, eats a dozen eggs and bacon (he’s a crew star, after all), and drops off his paper. Then he goes to sleep until the afternoon, when he gets up to go down to the Boathouse.
But last night all three of us had a respectable reason for staying up. To hear the outcome of the national elections. Not that any of us really gives a damn for politics. It’s just a nice excuse for getting gently plowed.
Typical of that provincial rag, this morning’s Crimson focused on the quantity of Harvard men who’d been elected. No fewer than thirty-five of the new congressmen went to our humble college, not to mention four of the new senators. Now, when the nation’s problems get too heavy for them, they can join Jack Kennedy in the Senate men’s room and all sing Harvard football songs.
As I sat at breakfast reading through the Crime, a sudden notion struck me. Maybe that unprepossessing guy at the next table eating Wheaties will someday be a senator. Or even President. The thing is that you never know who’s going to make it. Dad once told me that FDR was pretty kooky as an undergraduate. So much so, he was blackballed by the Final Club that took his cousin Teddy.
The Harvard freshmen are still sort of formless caterpillars. It really takes some time to find out who’ll become the rarest butterfly of all.
The only thing I’m certain of is that I’ll remain a caterpillar all my life.
From the Harvard Crimson of January 12, 1955:
GILBERT TO LEAD YARDLING SQUASH TEAM
Jason Gilbert ’58 of Straus Hall and Syosset, Long Island, has been elected Captain of the Freshman Squash Team. Gilbert, who attended Hawkins-Atwell, where he captained both the squash and tennis teams, is undefeated at the number-one slot thus far this season. He is also seeded seventh in the Eastern States Junior Tennis rankings.
***
“Gilbert, you deserve a medal,” Dennis Linden remarked. “If you hadn’t thought so quickly, that little nerd D. D. might actually have killed himself.”
The proctor had called him in not merely to commend Jason for his paramedical heroics, but to share with him a fresh dilemma. In other words, to impart some dubiously good news.
“We’ve got another roommate for you,” Dennis announced. “I personally chose him at a meeting of the proctors — because I really feel you could be a stabilizing influence on him.”
“Hey, this isn’t fair,” Jason protested. “Do I have to be a nursemaid again? Can’t I just have someone normal?”
“Nobody at Harvard is normal,” Linden philosophically replied.
“All right, Dennis,” Jason answered, with a sigh of resignation. “What’s this guy’s problem?”
“Well,” the proctor started nonchalantly, “he’s a teeny bit … aggressive.”
“Well, that’s okay. I’ve taken boxing lessons.”
Linden coughed. “The problem is — he fights with swords.”
“What is he, some foreign student from the Middle Ages?”
“Very witty.” Linden smiled. “No, actually he’s a hotshot on the fencing team. His name’s been in the Crimson now and then — Bernie Ackerman. He’s terrific with a saber.”
“Oh great. Who’s he tried to kill so far?”
“Well, not exactly kill. He’s living in Holworthy with a very sensitive Chinese fellow. And every time they have the slightest argument, this Ackerman gets out his sword and waves it at the little guy. The kid is now so petrified, the Health Department had to give him pills to sleep. So, clearly, we’ve just got to separate them.”
“Why the hell can’t you give me the Chinaman?” Jason complained. “He sounds like a sweet guy.”
“No. He gets along okay with roommate number three — a music type. So the proctors figured we’d let well enough alone. Besides, I had the notion that a guy like you could teach that character a lesson.”
“Dennis, I’m here to take courses, not teach manners to Ivy League hoodlums.”
“Come on, Jason,” the proctor cajoled, “you’ll turn this guy into a pussycat. And you can count on getting something positive put on your record.”
“Dennis,” Jason said in valediction, “you’re all heart.”
November 3, 1954
One of the great joys of living away from home and not at prep school is being able to stay up all night. Now and then it’s actually for something serious like finishing a paper that’s due the next day.
Mike Wigglesworth is an expert at this technique. He sits down at his typewriter at around seven in the evening with a few notes and a half-dozen Budweisers. He pecks out a first draft before midnight and then spends the wee small hours mixing in an appropriate quantity of bullshit. For the latter process he stokes up with coffee. Then he goes to breakfast, eats a dozen eggs and bacon (he’s a crew star, after all), and drops off his paper. Then he goes to sleep until the afternoon, when he gets up to go down to the Boathouse.
But last night all three of us had a respectable reason for staying up. To hear the outcome of the national elections. Not that any of us really gives a damn for politics. It’s just a nice excuse for getting gently plowed.
Typical of that provincial rag, this morning’s Crimson focused on the quantity of Harvard men who’d been elected. No fewer than thirty-five of the new congressmen went to our humble college, not to mention four of the new senators. Now, when the nation’s problems get too heavy for them, they can join Jack Kennedy in the Senate men’s room and all sing Harvard football songs.
As I sat at breakfast reading through the Crime, a sudden notion struck me. Maybe that unprepossessing guy at the next table eating Wheaties will someday be a senator. Or even President. The thing is that you never know who’s going to make it. Dad once told me that FDR was pretty kooky as an undergraduate. So much so, he was blackballed by the Final Club that took his cousin Teddy.
The Harvard freshmen are still sort of formless caterpillars. It really takes some time to find out who’ll become the rarest butterfly of all.
The only thing I’m certain of is that I’ll remain a caterpillar all my life.
From the Harvard Crimson of January 12, 1955:
GILBERT TO LEAD YARDLING SQUASH TEAM
Jason Gilbert ’58 of Straus Hall and Syosset, Long Island, has been elected Captain of the Freshman Squash Team. Gilbert, who attended Hawkins-Atwell, where he captained both the squash and tennis teams, is undefeated at the number-one slot thus far this season. He is also seeded seventh in the Eastern States Junior Tennis rankings.
“Gilbert, you deserve a medal,” Dennis Linden remarked. “If you hadn’t thought so quickly, that little nerd D. D. might actually have killed himself.”
The proctor had called him in not merely to commend Jason for his paramedical heroics, but to share with him a fresh dilemma. In other words, to impart some dubiously good news.
“We’ve got another roommate for you,” Dennis announced. “I personally chose him at a meeting of the proctors — because I really feel you could be a stabilizing influence on him.”
“Hey, this isn’t fair,” Jason protested. “Do I have to be a nursemaid again? Can’t I just have someone normal?”
“Nobody at Harvard is normal,” Linden philosophically replied.
“All right, Dennis,” Jason answered, with a sigh of resignation. “What’s this guy’s problem?”
“Well,” the proctor started nonchalantly, “he’s a teeny bit … aggressive.”
“Well, that’s okay. I’ve taken boxing lessons.”
Linden coughed. “The problem is — he fights with swords.”
“What is he, some foreign student from the Middle Ages?”
“Very witty.” Linden smiled. “No, actually he’s a hotshot on the fencing team. His name’s been in the Crimson now and then — Bernie Ackerman. He’s terrific with a saber.”
“Oh great. Who’s he tried to kill so far?”
“Well, not exactly kill. He’s living in Holworthy with a very sensitive Chinese fellow. And every time they have the slightest argument, this Ackerman gets out his sword and waves it at the little guy. The kid is now so petrified, the Health Department had to give him pills to sleep. So, clearly, we’ve just got to separate them.”
“Why the hell can’t you give me the Chinaman?” Jason complained. “He sounds like a sweet guy.”
“No. He gets along okay with roommate number three — a music type. So the proctors figured we’d let well enough alone. Besides, I had the notion that a guy like you could teach that character a lesson.”
“Dennis, I’m here to take courses, not teach manners to Ivy League hoodlums.”
“Come on, Jason,” the proctor cajoled, “you’ll turn this guy into a pussycat. And you can count on getting something positive put on your record.”
“Dennis,” Jason said in valediction, “you’re all heart.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
January 16, 1955
Jason Gilbert had us all in stitches yesterday at our pre-midyear blast. We recruited some carefully selected lovelies from the local junior colleges with the best reputation for their students’ promiscuity. (Newall claims he scored as he drove one of them back to Pine Manor, but we only have his word for it. Really clever guys can bring back evidence.)
Old Gilbert has a way of taking charge of every party. First of all, he’s so damn handsome we have trouble keeping our own dates’ attention. And then when he starts telling stories, we’re all rolling on the floor. Apparently, he’s just gotten a new roommate (he won’t say what happened to the other one), and the guy’s a sort of maniac.
As soon as Jason tries to go to sleep, this nut pulls out a sword and jumps around the living room like Errol Flynn.
Anyway, by the first week the guy’d already slashed their sofa practically to shreds. What was even worse was the noise. It seems every time he scored, which was no problem since the couch could not fight back, he’d yell out, “Kill!” Which was driving Jason absolutely up the wall.
And so last night they had a showdown. Gilbert faced this character with just a tennis racket, and as quietly as possible asked what the hell he thought he was doing. The guy responded that he needed extra practice for the Yale meet.
Jason then said if he really needed practice, he’d be happy to provide it. Only they would have to fight until one of them was dead. Understandably, at first the guy thought Gilbert was just bluffing. But to lend his challenge credibility, Jason smashed what was left of the couch into splinters with his tennis racket. After which he turned to his opponent and explained that that was what he’d make of him if he should lose the match.
Unbelievably, the swordsman dropped his blade and made a fast retreat into the bedroom.
Not only did that put an end to all the mayhem, but the swashbuckler went out the next day and bought them anew couch.
Life in Gilbert’s suite was pretty quiet after that. In fact, completely quiet. Apparently the guy’s too scared even to talk to Jason now.
***
Like his famous forebear in antiquity, Socrates Lambros was uncompromising in his way of life. This meant that no excuse could absolve his son Ted from evening duties at The Marathon. Hence, Ted had not been permitted to join The Class on the September evening when President Pusey had preached so eloquently in defense of academic freedom.
And since he remained imprisoned from the moment he left classes, Ted never got to see a football game and sit in Soldier’s Field amid his fellow freshmen simultaneously yelling themselves hoarse and drinking themselves sick.
This was among the myriad reasons why he did not feel emotionally a full-fledged member of The Class of ’58. He longed to be assimilated with his brethren.
Hence, when the Freshman Smoker was announced, he begged his father for a dispensation to attend this one occasion in a Harvard man’s career that is avowedly devoted to frivolity.
Socrates was adamant, but Thalassa took her son’s side.
“The boy, he works all the time so hard. Let him have one free evening. Parakalo, Socrates.”
“Okay,” the patriarch at last relented.
And Demosthenes could not have eulogized a leader with more grateful eloquence than young Ted Lambros lavished on his father.
Thus, on the eve of February 17, Ted Lambros shaved, put on a new J. August shirt and his very best tweed jacket (secondhand, but almost new), and strode to Sanders Theater. He paid his dollar, which gave him not only entry to the show and all the beer he could consume thereafter, but also door prizes, which ranged from corncob pipes to sample packs of Pall Mall cigarettes.
Deo Gratias, he was really one of them at last.
At half past eight, an overly made-up master of ceremonies walked nervously on stage to start the evening’s entertainment. He was welcomed by a tidal wave of grunts and groans and unimaginable obscenities from the sophisticated Harvard men.
The first attraction was the Wellesley Widows, a dozen prim young singers from the nearby ladies’ college.
They had scarcely sung a note when from all corners of the theater came a hail of pennies and shouts of, “Get naked!”
The announcer counseled the women to make a hasty retreat. Subsequent performers met similar fates.
The stage show, such as it was, was merely grace before dinner. The real part of the Smoker was waiting, across the corridor in Memorial Hall, where three hundred kegs of beer had been trucked in to quench the freshmen’s thirst.
The men were chaperoned, of course. Four deans were present, as were all the proctors and ten members of the university police. The cops had been astute enough to wear their raincoats. And they really needed them.
In no time Mem Hall — scene of so many solemn university events — was ankle deep in beer. Fights broke out. The proctors who attempted to make peace were rudely punched and shoved onto the liquid floor.
Ted Lambros stood watching this melee in total disbelief. Was this really a gathering of the future leaders of the world?
Just then he was accosted.
“Hey, Lambros,” someone shouted, “you’re not even drunk.”
It was Ken O’Brien, who had gone to Cambridge Latin with him, and who was both soaked and sloshed.
Before Ted could respond, he felt a gush of wetness on his head. A baptism of beer. As the liquid oozed slowly down onto his best tweed jacket, Ted angrily lashed out at Ken, catching him squarely on the chin. But in doing so he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Or, as it had become, a lake of beer.
He couldn’t stand it any longer. Although O’Brien, whom he’d knocked onto his knees, kept calling almost amicably to please continue fighting, Ted splashed, sick at heart, out of Mem Hall. Never looking back.
***
The Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra holds an annual concerto contest to determine the most talented soloist in the community. The competition is held in the winter so that the victor, usually a senior or grad student, can highlight the orchestra’s spring concert.
But there are always eager beavers who try to get their names down early. And Don Lowenstein, the president, has to employ tactful diplomacy to discourage them from screwing up in public.
But his freshman visitor this afternoon, slight, bespectacled, and red-haired, would not be dissuaded.
“Look,” Lowenstein somewhat condescendingly explained, “our soloists mainly go on to be professionals. I’m sure you were a whiz in high school, but —”
“I’m a professional,” interrupted Danny Rossi ’58.
“Okay, okay, don’t get excited. It’s just this competition’s unbelievably intense.”
“I know,” Danny answered. “If I don’t measure up, that’ll be my problem.”
“Let’s settle this right now. Come downstairs and let me listen to you.”
When he returned nearly an hour later, Donald Lowenstein was in a mild state of shock. Sukie Wadsworth, the vice-president, was now in the office and looked up as he walked in and flopped behind his desk. “Sukie, I’ve just heard this year’s concerto winner. And let me tell you, this freshman Rossi is a genius.”
Just then the subject of his praise walked in.
“Thanks for your time,” Danny said. “I hope you think I’m good enough to join the competition.”
“Hello,” said the Radcliffe girl, taking the initiative. “I’m Sukie Wadsworth, the orchestra V.P.”
“Uh — nice to meet you.” He hoped she didn’t notice how he was staring at her from behind his lenses.
“I think it’s very exciting that we’ll have a freshman in the contest this year,” she added brightly.
“Well,” Danny said shyly, “I may just end up embarrassing myself.”
“I doubt it.” Sukie smiled, dazzling him further. “Don tells me that you’re very good.”
“Oh. Well — uh — I hope he’s not just being polite.”
There was a sudden awkward pause. And in that briefest of intervals, Danny resolved to make a heroic attempt at impressing this lovely creature.
Of course he’d fail, as usual. But then he tried to tell himself that the law of averages might be on his side.
“Uh, Sukie, would you like to hear me play?”
“I’d love to,” she replied enthusiastically, and took Danny by the hand as they went out to find a practice room.
He played a Bach partita and a lightning-fast Rachmaninoff. Inspired by the feminine proximity, his technique was even more impressive than before, but he didn’t glance at her for fear of losing concentration.
And yet he sensed her presence. Oh, how he sensed her presence.
At last he looked up. She was leaning over the piano, her low-necked blouse offering a view of great aesthetic interest.
“Was I any good?” he asked, slightly breathless.
A broad smile crossed her face.
“Let me tell you something, Rossi,” she began, moving close enough to place her hands on his shoulders. “You are without doubt the most fantastic guy I’ve ever had the pleasure of being in a room with.”
“Oh,” said Danny Rossi, looking up at her, nervous raindrops forming on his brow. “Say — uh — would you like to have a cup of coffee sometime?”
She laughed.
“Danny, would you like to make love right now?”
“Right here?”
She began to unbutton his shirt.
Danny had always hoped that women ultimately would discover that his brilliant execution of a keyboard passage could be just as stimulating as the execution of a gridiron pass. At last it had happened.
And football players never get to play encores.
January 16, 1955
Jason Gilbert had us all in stitches yesterday at our pre-midyear blast. We recruited some carefully selected lovelies from the local junior colleges with the best reputation for their students’ promiscuity. (Newall claims he scored as he drove one of them back to Pine Manor, but we only have his word for it. Really clever guys can bring back evidence.)
Old Gilbert has a way of taking charge of every party. First of all, he’s so damn handsome we have trouble keeping our own dates’ attention. And then when he starts telling stories, we’re all rolling on the floor. Apparently, he’s just gotten a new roommate (he won’t say what happened to the other one), and the guy’s a sort of maniac.
As soon as Jason tries to go to sleep, this nut pulls out a sword and jumps around the living room like Errol Flynn.
Anyway, by the first week the guy’d already slashed their sofa practically to shreds. What was even worse was the noise. It seems every time he scored, which was no problem since the couch could not fight back, he’d yell out, “Kill!” Which was driving Jason absolutely up the wall.
And so last night they had a showdown. Gilbert faced this character with just a tennis racket, and as quietly as possible asked what the hell he thought he was doing. The guy responded that he needed extra practice for the Yale meet.
Jason then said if he really needed practice, he’d be happy to provide it. Only they would have to fight until one of them was dead. Understandably, at first the guy thought Gilbert was just bluffing. But to lend his challenge credibility, Jason smashed what was left of the couch into splinters with his tennis racket. After which he turned to his opponent and explained that that was what he’d make of him if he should lose the match.
Unbelievably, the swordsman dropped his blade and made a fast retreat into the bedroom.
Not only did that put an end to all the mayhem, but the swashbuckler went out the next day and bought them anew couch.
Life in Gilbert’s suite was pretty quiet after that. In fact, completely quiet. Apparently the guy’s too scared even to talk to Jason now.
Like his famous forebear in antiquity, Socrates Lambros was uncompromising in his way of life. This meant that no excuse could absolve his son Ted from evening duties at The Marathon. Hence, Ted had not been permitted to join The Class on the September evening when President Pusey had preached so eloquently in defense of academic freedom.
And since he remained imprisoned from the moment he left classes, Ted never got to see a football game and sit in Soldier’s Field amid his fellow freshmen simultaneously yelling themselves hoarse and drinking themselves sick.
This was among the myriad reasons why he did not feel emotionally a full-fledged member of The Class of ’58. He longed to be assimilated with his brethren.
Hence, when the Freshman Smoker was announced, he begged his father for a dispensation to attend this one occasion in a Harvard man’s career that is avowedly devoted to frivolity.
Socrates was adamant, but Thalassa took her son’s side.
“The boy, he works all the time so hard. Let him have one free evening. Parakalo, Socrates.”
“Okay,” the patriarch at last relented.
And Demosthenes could not have eulogized a leader with more grateful eloquence than young Ted Lambros lavished on his father.
Thus, on the eve of February 17, Ted Lambros shaved, put on a new J. August shirt and his very best tweed jacket (secondhand, but almost new), and strode to Sanders Theater. He paid his dollar, which gave him not only entry to the show and all the beer he could consume thereafter, but also door prizes, which ranged from corncob pipes to sample packs of Pall Mall cigarettes.
Deo Gratias, he was really one of them at last.
At half past eight, an overly made-up master of ceremonies walked nervously on stage to start the evening’s entertainment. He was welcomed by a tidal wave of grunts and groans and unimaginable obscenities from the sophisticated Harvard men.
The first attraction was the Wellesley Widows, a dozen prim young singers from the nearby ladies’ college.
They had scarcely sung a note when from all corners of the theater came a hail of pennies and shouts of, “Get naked!”
The announcer counseled the women to make a hasty retreat. Subsequent performers met similar fates.
The stage show, such as it was, was merely grace before dinner. The real part of the Smoker was waiting, across the corridor in Memorial Hall, where three hundred kegs of beer had been trucked in to quench the freshmen’s thirst.
The men were chaperoned, of course. Four deans were present, as were all the proctors and ten members of the university police. The cops had been astute enough to wear their raincoats. And they really needed them.
In no time Mem Hall — scene of so many solemn university events — was ankle deep in beer. Fights broke out. The proctors who attempted to make peace were rudely punched and shoved onto the liquid floor.
Ted Lambros stood watching this melee in total disbelief. Was this really a gathering of the future leaders of the world?
Just then he was accosted.
“Hey, Lambros,” someone shouted, “you’re not even drunk.”
It was Ken O’Brien, who had gone to Cambridge Latin with him, and who was both soaked and sloshed.
Before Ted could respond, he felt a gush of wetness on his head. A baptism of beer. As the liquid oozed slowly down onto his best tweed jacket, Ted angrily lashed out at Ken, catching him squarely on the chin. But in doing so he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Or, as it had become, a lake of beer.
He couldn’t stand it any longer. Although O’Brien, whom he’d knocked onto his knees, kept calling almost amicably to please continue fighting, Ted splashed, sick at heart, out of Mem Hall. Never looking back.
The Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra holds an annual concerto contest to determine the most talented soloist in the community. The competition is held in the winter so that the victor, usually a senior or grad student, can highlight the orchestra’s spring concert.
But there are always eager beavers who try to get their names down early. And Don Lowenstein, the president, has to employ tactful diplomacy to discourage them from screwing up in public.
But his freshman visitor this afternoon, slight, bespectacled, and red-haired, would not be dissuaded.
“Look,” Lowenstein somewhat condescendingly explained, “our soloists mainly go on to be professionals. I’m sure you were a whiz in high school, but —”
“I’m a professional,” interrupted Danny Rossi ’58.
“Okay, okay, don’t get excited. It’s just this competition’s unbelievably intense.”
“I know,” Danny answered. “If I don’t measure up, that’ll be my problem.”
“Let’s settle this right now. Come downstairs and let me listen to you.”
When he returned nearly an hour later, Donald Lowenstein was in a mild state of shock. Sukie Wadsworth, the vice-president, was now in the office and looked up as he walked in and flopped behind his desk. “Sukie, I’ve just heard this year’s concerto winner. And let me tell you, this freshman Rossi is a genius.”
Just then the subject of his praise walked in.
“Thanks for your time,” Danny said. “I hope you think I’m good enough to join the competition.”
“Hello,” said the Radcliffe girl, taking the initiative. “I’m Sukie Wadsworth, the orchestra V.P.”
“Uh — nice to meet you.” He hoped she didn’t notice how he was staring at her from behind his lenses.
“I think it’s very exciting that we’ll have a freshman in the contest this year,” she added brightly.
“Well,” Danny said shyly, “I may just end up embarrassing myself.”
“I doubt it.” Sukie smiled, dazzling him further. “Don tells me that you’re very good.”
“Oh. Well — uh — I hope he’s not just being polite.”
There was a sudden awkward pause. And in that briefest of intervals, Danny resolved to make a heroic attempt at impressing this lovely creature.
Of course he’d fail, as usual. But then he tried to tell himself that the law of averages might be on his side.
“Uh, Sukie, would you like to hear me play?”
“I’d love to,” she replied enthusiastically, and took Danny by the hand as they went out to find a practice room.
He played a Bach partita and a lightning-fast Rachmaninoff. Inspired by the feminine proximity, his technique was even more impressive than before, but he didn’t glance at her for fear of losing concentration.
And yet he sensed her presence. Oh, how he sensed her presence.
At last he looked up. She was leaning over the piano, her low-necked blouse offering a view of great aesthetic interest.
“Was I any good?” he asked, slightly breathless.
A broad smile crossed her face.
“Let me tell you something, Rossi,” she began, moving close enough to place her hands on his shoulders. “You are without doubt the most fantastic guy I’ve ever had the pleasure of being in a room with.”
“Oh,” said Danny Rossi, looking up at her, nervous raindrops forming on his brow. “Say — uh — would you like to have a cup of coffee sometime?”
She laughed.
“Danny, would you like to make love right now?”
“Right here?”
She began to unbutton his shirt.
Danny had always hoped that women ultimately would discover that his brilliant execution of a keyboard passage could be just as stimulating as the execution of a gridiron pass. At last it had happened.
And football players never get to play encores.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
March 6, 1955
What makes Harvard — and, I have to admit, Yale — different from every other university in America is its so-called college system.
Around 1909, Cambridge was turning from a village into a real city, and though some students lived in dorms, Harvard men were scattered everywhere across town. The poorer guys rented cheap hovels along Mass. Avenue, while the overprivileged ones (like my father) lived in really posh apartments in the area then called the Gold Coast (near Mt. Auburn Street). This dispersion was symptomatic of a rigid social separation that perpetuated lots of prejudice.
President Lowell thought that it was wrong for undergraduates to live in these hermetic cliques. So he championed the idea of copying Oxford and dividing the university into smaller colleges that would be a mixture of all types.
The process works like this. First they admit all of us freshmen into dormitories in the Yard so that — in principle — we get to meet the different kinds of guys that make up one whole class. After a year of this enlightening experience we’re supposed to have found our new diverse and fascinating friends. At which point we’ll be ready to spend our next three years down by the river in those exciting little colleges that Harvard snobbishly calls simply “houses.”
Actually, for some guys this arrangement has some educational value. Jocks from Alabama find themselves applying to a house along with pre-med types, philosophers, and would-be novelists. And when it does work, this setup really can enrich a person’s life as much as any academic course.
But this is far less true where preppies are concerned. Variety is not the spice of our lives. We’re like bacteria (though slightly brighter). We flourish in our own special environment. So I’m sure the university was not surprised when Newall, Wigglesworth, and I decided to perpetuate our roommatehood for three more years.
Originally, we had wanted to have Jason Gilbert join with us as a foursome. He’s a really good guy and would help to keep things lively. Also, Newall figured we might profit from the surplus of his feminine admirers. But that was secondary.
Dick asked him on the bus back from the squash match against Yale (which we won). But Jason was reluctant. He had had such unbelievable bad luck with roommates that he’d made up his mind to apply to live alone next year. Though sophomores rarely get this privilege, Gilbert’s proctor promised to write a letter of support for him. And Jason suggested that we all select the same house as our first choice so that we could have our meals together and he’d be nearby for our multitudinous impromptu parties.
Now our only problem was where to apply.
Though there are seven houses, only three of them are really socially acceptable. For despite this bull about democracy, most of the masters want to give their house a distinctive tone, and thus try to select a preponderance of certain types, who reciprocally gravitate toward them.
A lot of guys choose Adams House (named after good old Johnny, Class of 1755, the second U.S. President), perhaps because it had once been Gold Coast apartments. Also, not inconsequentially, it has a chef who once worked in a fancy New York restaurant (a factor not to be ignored when you consider three full years of breakfast, lunch, and dinner).
Then there’s Lowell House, a Georgian masterpiece, convenient to the Final Clubs, whose master is more English than the queen. Withal, a very tweedy place.
But Harvard’s undisputed preppie paradise is … Eliot House. Needless to say, both. Wig and Newall want to make it their first choice. But I’m a bit uneasy at the prospect of inhabiting this rather awesome red-brick monument to my great-grandfather (his statue’s even in the courtyard).
Still, Wig and Newall were really hot to go where most of our friends already are ensconced. We had the makings of a real dilemma, till an unexpected visitor surprised us fairly late one evening.
Fortunately, no one was too drunk to hear the knocking at the door.
Newall stood up unsteadily to greet our nocturnal guest. I suddenly heard him cry out, “Jesus Christ!” and hurried to the door to hear our visitor reply, “Not quite, young man, I’m just His humble servant.”
It was none other than Professor Finley. I mean the man himself — in our own dorm!
He happened to be passing by on his late evening promenade, and thought he’d take the liberty of popping in to ask where we’d be applying for next year. And especially if Eliot was “privileged” to be among our choices.
We quickly assured him that it was, although he sensed that I myself had qualms about being Andrew Eliot in Eliot House, whose master was the Eliot Professor of Greek.
In fact, he’d come to reassure me.
He did not expect me to translate the Bible for the Indians, or become the President of Harvard. And yet he was certain that in my own way I’d make my mark somehow.
I don’t know if I was more stunned or just moved. I mean, this great professor thought that I might actually develop into — I don’t know — something.
The next morning I was still not really sure that John H. Finley actually had come in person to our room.
But, even if it was a dream, the three of us are going to go to Eliot. Because even the ghost of Finley — if it was only that — is good enough to spellbind anyone.
***
When Jason Gilbert picked up the Crimson outside his door each morning, he turned his immediate attention to the sports page to see if any of his exploits had been mentioned. After that, he read the front page to learn what was happening around the college. Finally, if he had time, he checked the world news, which was always briefly outlined in a corner.
For this reason he failed to notice a brief item reporting that, for the first time in memory, a freshman had won the annual concerto contest of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra.
On the evening of April 12, 1955, Daniel Rossi ’58 would be playing Liszt’s E-Flat Concerto.
Jason learned of this only three days later, when an envelope was slipped under his door.
Dear Gilbert,
If you hadn’t helped me with the Step Test, I probably would never have been able to practice enough to win.
Here, as promised, are two tickets. Bring a friend.
Jason smiled. That freshman-week experience was such a distant memory, he’d never given Danny’s words a second thought. But now he could invite Annie Russell, the most sought-after girl at Radcliffe. Jason had long been looking for a suitable occasion. And this was a great one.
On the night of April 12, all of Harvard’s talent watchers crowded into Sanders Theater to examine what had been predicted as a new comet entering their galaxy.
No one was more aware of the impending scrutiny than the soloist himself.
Danny stood in the wings, watching with mounting anxiety as the hail continued to fill with intimidating personalities. Not only were his Harvard professors present, but he recognized important figures from the city’s famous conservatories. My God, even John Finley was there.
During the exhilarating weeks of rehearsal he had looked forward with a kind of manic joy to this grand occasion — the moment to parade his pianistic talents before a thousand bigwigs. He had suddenly felt like a giant.
That is, until last night. For on the eve of what he had been sure would be his Harvard coronation, he could not get to sleep. He tossed. He turned. He fantasized catastrophe. Arid moaned as if it were inevitable.
I’ll be a laughingstock, he thought. I’ll faint when I walk out on stage. Or else I’ll trip. Or maybe play my entrance much too soon. Or too late. Or completely forget the music.
They’ll be rolling in the aisles. And not just Orange County ladies, but a thousand of the world’s most knowledgeable people. What a disaster. Why did I ever go out for this goddamn contest anyway?
He felt his forehead. It was hot and moist. Maybe I’m sick, he thought. He hoped. Maybe they’ll have to cancel my appearance. Oh please, God, make me have the flu. Or even something fairly serious.
To his increased distress, the next morning he felt reasonably healthy. And thus resigned himself to face the evening guillotine in Sanders Theater.
He stood backstage all alone, wishing he were somewhere else.
Don Lowenstein, who was conducting, came back to ask him if he was ready. Danny wanted to say no. But something autonomic made him nod.
He took a breath, said inwardly, “Oh shit,” and walked on stage, his eyes fixed on the floor. Just before sitting at the piano, he bowed slightly to the audience, acknowledging their polite applause. Mercifully, the spotlights blinded him and he could see no faces.
Then an uncanny thing occurred.
No sooner was he at the keyboard than his fear transformed into a new sensation. Excitement. He was burning to make music.
He signaled readiness to Don.
The motion of the opening baton put Danny in a strange, hypnotic trance. He dreamed that he was playing flawlessly. Far better than at any prior moment in his life.
The sounds of “Bravo!” flew at him from every corner of the hall. And applause that seemed without diminuendo.
The atmosphere surrounding Danny afterward reminded Jason of the finals of a tennis championship. They did everything but pick him up and carry him around the theater on their shoulders. Gray eminences of the music community were lined up like fans to shake his hand.
Yet, the moment Danny noticed Jason, he broke free and hurried to the edge of the stage to greet him.
“You were fantastic,” Jason warmly hailed him. “We were really glad to get the tickets. Oh, I’d like to introduce my date, Miss Annie Russell, ’57.”
“Hi.” Danny smiled. “Are you at The Cliffe?”
“Yes,” she answered, beaming, “And can I be the millionth person to say you were absolutely fabulous tonight.”
“Thanks,” said Danny. And then quickly added in apologetic tones, “Hey look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve gotta go shake more professors’ hands. Let’s get together for a meal sometime, huh, Jason? It was nice to meet you, Annie.”
He waved goodbye and sprinted off.
The next afternoon, buoyed by her vivacious attitude all evening, Jason telephoned Annie to invite her to the football game next Saturday.
“I’m really sorry,” she replied, “I’m going down to Connecticut.”
“Oh, a date at Yale?”
“No. Danny’s playing with the Hartford Symphony.”
Shit, thought Jason as he hung up, bursting with frustration. That’s a lesson for you.
Never help a Harvard classmate — even up a step.
***
On Tuesday, April 24, 1955, winter was still very much in the Cambridge air. Yet, official administrative statistics suggest that a metaphorical ray of sunlight shone into the lives of 71.6 percent of Harvard’s 322d freshman class. For this elated majority had been accepted by the house of their first choice.
To the trio in Wig G-21 it came as no surprise, since their admission had been heralded a month earlier by the visitation of a distinguished archangel. But they were delighted to learn that they had been assigned a suite that enjoyed a river view. Not many sophomores got such choice accommodations.
Nor did many sophomores get the privilege of living in a single room. But Jason Gilbert, Jr., was so honored (for services rendered). His private lodgings were situated across the Eliot courtyard from his three aristocratic friends.
He conveyed the good news to his father in their weekly phone conversation.
“That’s terrific, son. Why, even people who’ve only barely heard of Harvard know that Eliot House has the cream of undergraduate society.”
“But everybody here is supposed to be cream, Dad,” Jason answered good-humoredly.
“Yes, of course. But Eliot’s the crème de Ia crème, Jason. Your mother and I are really proud of you. I mean, we always are. By the way, have you been doing those new exercises for your backhand?”
“Yes, Dad. Absolutely.”
“Say, I read in Tennis World that all the big guns are going heavier on the road work — just like boxers in the morning.”
“Yeah,” said Jason, “but I really haven’t got time. My course work is incredible.”
“Of course, son. Don’t do anything to compromise your education. Speak to you next week.”
“So long, Dad. Love to Mom.”
--*--
Danny Rossi, on the other hand, was outraged. His first choice had been Adams House, because so many musical and literary types lived there. You could practically knock on your left and right and have enough participants for chamber music.
So certain had he been of acceptance into Adams that his alternate second and third selections were scribbled down without the slightest forethought. He had merely listed two other houses as they appeared in alphabetical order on the application, namely Dunster and Eliot.
And it was his third choice, Eliot, to which he was assigned.
How could they do this to him — someone who had already distinguished himself in the college community? Wouldn’t Adams House someday be proud to boast that Danny Rossi had once lived there?
Moreover, he didn’t relish the prospect of being stuck for three years in Eliot with a bunch of smug preppies.
The man to whom he chose to voice his complaint was Master Finley. Such was his respect for the great man after Hum 2 that he felt he could honestly convey his disappointment to the master of the house he didn’t want to be in.
But even more astonishing was his reaction when Finley candidly confessed. “I wanted you very badly, Daniel. I had to trade the master of Adams two football stalwarts and a published poet just to get him to relinquish you.”
“I guess I should be flattered, sir,” said Danny, quite off balance at the news. “It’s just that —”
“I know,” the master said, anticipating Danny’s misgivings, “but despite our reputation, I want Eliot to be outstanding in all the disciplines. Have you visited the house before?”
“No, sir,” Danny admitted.
A moment later Finley was conducting Danny up a winding staircase in the courtyard tower. The young man was out of breath, but the dynamic Finley had sprinted up the steps. And now opened a door.
The first thing Danny saw was an astonishingly beautiful view of the Charles River through a large circular window. Only seconds later did he realize that there was a grand piano placed before it.
“What do you think?” asked Finley. “All the great minds of the past found inspiration in elevated places. Think of your own Italian genius Petrarch ascending Mont Ventoux. Amost platonic gesture.”
“This is unbelievable,” said Danny.
“A man could write a symphony up here, could he not, Daniel?”
“I’ll bet.”
“Which is why we wanted you at Eliot House. Remember, all of Harvard welcomes genius, but here we cultivate it.”
The living legend held his hand out toward the young musician and remarked, “I look forward to your coming here next fall.”
“Thank you,” said Danny, quite overwhelmed. “Thank you for bringing me to Eliot.”
--*--
Yet, for certain members of The Class of ’58, April 24 was just like any other day.
Ted Lambros was one of those unhappy few. For, being a commuter, he had not applied to any house and hence was completely unaffected by the news conveyed to all those living in the Yard.
He went to class as usual, spent the whole afternoon grinding in Lamont Library, and at five headed for The Marathon.
Still, he could not help being aware that the more privileged of his classmates were rejoicing at the prospect of spending the next three years along the river as members of a unique housing arrangement.
Having garnered an A-minus and three B’s at midterms, he had been reasonably confident of obtaining a scholarship — large enough, in fact, to permit him to live at the college.
But to his chagrin, he had received a letter from the Financial Aid Office, which took great pleasure in informing him that he had been granted a stipend of eight hundred dollars for next year.
This would normally seem like cause for at least some modest rejoicing. But Harvard had just recently announced a rise in its basic tuition to precisely that amount.
Ted felt frustrated as hell. Like a runner sprinting madly on a treadmill.
He still did not really belong. Yet.
***
There had not merely been members of the academic community at Danny Rossi’s Sanders Theater concert. Unknown to the soloist, Professor Piston had invited Charles Munch, the distinguished conductor of the Boston Symphony. The maestro wrote Danny an encomiastic letter, in his own hand, commending his performance and inviting him to spend the summer working for the famous Tanglewood Music Festival.
The tasks are not exalted, but I feel that you would benefit from the proximity to all the great artists who come visit us. And I would personally welcome you to sit in on our orchestra rehearsals, since I know you aspire to a professional career.
This invitation also solved a touchy family dilemma. For, in her weekly letters, Gisela earnestly assured her son that if he came back home that summer she was certain that his father would destigmatize him. And they could build a new relationship.
And yet, although he longed to see his mother —and to share his great success with Dr. Landau — Danny simply could not risk another confrontation with Arthur Ross! D. D. S.
--*--
Then suddenly, almost abruptly, freshman year was at an end.
The month of May began with Reading Period for exams. These special days were theoretically for extra, independent study. But for a lot of Harvard men (like Andrew Eliot and company), it meant sitting down to do a whole semester’s work, beginning with the very first assignments in their courses.
The athletic season culminated with the many confrontations against Yale. Not all the clashes went in Harvard’s favor. But Jason Gilbert led the tennis team to victory. And took particular delight in watching the Yale coach’s face as he unmercifully destroyed their number-one man, and returned with Dickie Newall in the doubles for another round of sweet revenge.
Now even Jason had to settle down and do some heavy studying. He drastically reduced his social life, restricting it to weekends only.
Meanwhile, in Harvard Square the sales of cigarettes and NōDōz pep pills rose dramatically. Lamont was packed around the clock. Its modern ventilation system spewed back all the scents of unchanged shirts, cold sweat, and naked fear. Yet no one noticed.
Examinations actually were a relief. For The Class of ’58 learned to its great delight that the old proverb about Harvard was quite true: The hardest part was getting in. You had to be a genius not to graduate.
And yet, as freshman dorms were emptied — to make room for the ancient graduates of twenty-five years previous who would be living in them once again during Commencement Week — some members of The Class were leaving, never to return.
A tiny number had actually accomplished the impossible and flunked out. Some honestly conceded that they could not bear the prospect of more pressure from such unbelievably ambitious peers. And thus, capitulating to preserve their sanity, elected to transfer to universities near home.
Some went down fighting. And lost their minds in doing so. David Davidson (still in the hospital) was not the last. In fact, at Easter there had been a suicide compassionately misrepresented by the Crimson as an auto accident (although Bob Rutherford of San Antonio had actually been parked in his garage when death occurred).
And yet, as certain rugged members of The Class would argue, was this not something of a lesson to both the victims and the survivors? Would life at the very top be any easier than the self-inflicted torture chamber that was Harvard?
But the more sensitive of them recognized that they still had another three years to survive.
March 6, 1955
What makes Harvard — and, I have to admit, Yale — different from every other university in America is its so-called college system.
Around 1909, Cambridge was turning from a village into a real city, and though some students lived in dorms, Harvard men were scattered everywhere across town. The poorer guys rented cheap hovels along Mass. Avenue, while the overprivileged ones (like my father) lived in really posh apartments in the area then called the Gold Coast (near Mt. Auburn Street). This dispersion was symptomatic of a rigid social separation that perpetuated lots of prejudice.
President Lowell thought that it was wrong for undergraduates to live in these hermetic cliques. So he championed the idea of copying Oxford and dividing the university into smaller colleges that would be a mixture of all types.
The process works like this. First they admit all of us freshmen into dormitories in the Yard so that — in principle — we get to meet the different kinds of guys that make up one whole class. After a year of this enlightening experience we’re supposed to have found our new diverse and fascinating friends. At which point we’ll be ready to spend our next three years down by the river in those exciting little colleges that Harvard snobbishly calls simply “houses.”
Actually, for some guys this arrangement has some educational value. Jocks from Alabama find themselves applying to a house along with pre-med types, philosophers, and would-be novelists. And when it does work, this setup really can enrich a person’s life as much as any academic course.
But this is far less true where preppies are concerned. Variety is not the spice of our lives. We’re like bacteria (though slightly brighter). We flourish in our own special environment. So I’m sure the university was not surprised when Newall, Wigglesworth, and I decided to perpetuate our roommatehood for three more years.
Originally, we had wanted to have Jason Gilbert join with us as a foursome. He’s a really good guy and would help to keep things lively. Also, Newall figured we might profit from the surplus of his feminine admirers. But that was secondary.
Dick asked him on the bus back from the squash match against Yale (which we won). But Jason was reluctant. He had had such unbelievable bad luck with roommates that he’d made up his mind to apply to live alone next year. Though sophomores rarely get this privilege, Gilbert’s proctor promised to write a letter of support for him. And Jason suggested that we all select the same house as our first choice so that we could have our meals together and he’d be nearby for our multitudinous impromptu parties.
Now our only problem was where to apply.
Though there are seven houses, only three of them are really socially acceptable. For despite this bull about democracy, most of the masters want to give their house a distinctive tone, and thus try to select a preponderance of certain types, who reciprocally gravitate toward them.
A lot of guys choose Adams House (named after good old Johnny, Class of 1755, the second U.S. President), perhaps because it had once been Gold Coast apartments. Also, not inconsequentially, it has a chef who once worked in a fancy New York restaurant (a factor not to be ignored when you consider three full years of breakfast, lunch, and dinner).
Then there’s Lowell House, a Georgian masterpiece, convenient to the Final Clubs, whose master is more English than the queen. Withal, a very tweedy place.
But Harvard’s undisputed preppie paradise is … Eliot House. Needless to say, both. Wig and Newall want to make it their first choice. But I’m a bit uneasy at the prospect of inhabiting this rather awesome red-brick monument to my great-grandfather (his statue’s even in the courtyard).
Still, Wig and Newall were really hot to go where most of our friends already are ensconced. We had the makings of a real dilemma, till an unexpected visitor surprised us fairly late one evening.
Fortunately, no one was too drunk to hear the knocking at the door.
Newall stood up unsteadily to greet our nocturnal guest. I suddenly heard him cry out, “Jesus Christ!” and hurried to the door to hear our visitor reply, “Not quite, young man, I’m just His humble servant.”
It was none other than Professor Finley. I mean the man himself — in our own dorm!
He happened to be passing by on his late evening promenade, and thought he’d take the liberty of popping in to ask where we’d be applying for next year. And especially if Eliot was “privileged” to be among our choices.
We quickly assured him that it was, although he sensed that I myself had qualms about being Andrew Eliot in Eliot House, whose master was the Eliot Professor of Greek.
In fact, he’d come to reassure me.
He did not expect me to translate the Bible for the Indians, or become the President of Harvard. And yet he was certain that in my own way I’d make my mark somehow.
I don’t know if I was more stunned or just moved. I mean, this great professor thought that I might actually develop into — I don’t know — something.
The next morning I was still not really sure that John H. Finley actually had come in person to our room.
But, even if it was a dream, the three of us are going to go to Eliot. Because even the ghost of Finley — if it was only that — is good enough to spellbind anyone.
When Jason Gilbert picked up the Crimson outside his door each morning, he turned his immediate attention to the sports page to see if any of his exploits had been mentioned. After that, he read the front page to learn what was happening around the college. Finally, if he had time, he checked the world news, which was always briefly outlined in a corner.
For this reason he failed to notice a brief item reporting that, for the first time in memory, a freshman had won the annual concerto contest of the Harvard-Radcliffe Orchestra.
On the evening of April 12, 1955, Daniel Rossi ’58 would be playing Liszt’s E-Flat Concerto.
Jason learned of this only three days later, when an envelope was slipped under his door.
Dear Gilbert,
If you hadn’t helped me with the Step Test, I probably would never have been able to practice enough to win.
Here, as promised, are two tickets. Bring a friend.
Jason smiled. That freshman-week experience was such a distant memory, he’d never given Danny’s words a second thought. But now he could invite Annie Russell, the most sought-after girl at Radcliffe. Jason had long been looking for a suitable occasion. And this was a great one.
On the night of April 12, all of Harvard’s talent watchers crowded into Sanders Theater to examine what had been predicted as a new comet entering their galaxy.
No one was more aware of the impending scrutiny than the soloist himself.
Danny stood in the wings, watching with mounting anxiety as the hail continued to fill with intimidating personalities. Not only were his Harvard professors present, but he recognized important figures from the city’s famous conservatories. My God, even John Finley was there.
During the exhilarating weeks of rehearsal he had looked forward with a kind of manic joy to this grand occasion — the moment to parade his pianistic talents before a thousand bigwigs. He had suddenly felt like a giant.
That is, until last night. For on the eve of what he had been sure would be his Harvard coronation, he could not get to sleep. He tossed. He turned. He fantasized catastrophe. Arid moaned as if it were inevitable.
I’ll be a laughingstock, he thought. I’ll faint when I walk out on stage. Or else I’ll trip. Or maybe play my entrance much too soon. Or too late. Or completely forget the music.
They’ll be rolling in the aisles. And not just Orange County ladies, but a thousand of the world’s most knowledgeable people. What a disaster. Why did I ever go out for this goddamn contest anyway?
He felt his forehead. It was hot and moist. Maybe I’m sick, he thought. He hoped. Maybe they’ll have to cancel my appearance. Oh please, God, make me have the flu. Or even something fairly serious.
To his increased distress, the next morning he felt reasonably healthy. And thus resigned himself to face the evening guillotine in Sanders Theater.
He stood backstage all alone, wishing he were somewhere else.
Don Lowenstein, who was conducting, came back to ask him if he was ready. Danny wanted to say no. But something autonomic made him nod.
He took a breath, said inwardly, “Oh shit,” and walked on stage, his eyes fixed on the floor. Just before sitting at the piano, he bowed slightly to the audience, acknowledging their polite applause. Mercifully, the spotlights blinded him and he could see no faces.
Then an uncanny thing occurred.
No sooner was he at the keyboard than his fear transformed into a new sensation. Excitement. He was burning to make music.
He signaled readiness to Don.
The motion of the opening baton put Danny in a strange, hypnotic trance. He dreamed that he was playing flawlessly. Far better than at any prior moment in his life.
The sounds of “Bravo!” flew at him from every corner of the hall. And applause that seemed without diminuendo.
The atmosphere surrounding Danny afterward reminded Jason of the finals of a tennis championship. They did everything but pick him up and carry him around the theater on their shoulders. Gray eminences of the music community were lined up like fans to shake his hand.
Yet, the moment Danny noticed Jason, he broke free and hurried to the edge of the stage to greet him.
“You were fantastic,” Jason warmly hailed him. “We were really glad to get the tickets. Oh, I’d like to introduce my date, Miss Annie Russell, ’57.”
“Hi.” Danny smiled. “Are you at The Cliffe?”
“Yes,” she answered, beaming, “And can I be the millionth person to say you were absolutely fabulous tonight.”
“Thanks,” said Danny. And then quickly added in apologetic tones, “Hey look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve gotta go shake more professors’ hands. Let’s get together for a meal sometime, huh, Jason? It was nice to meet you, Annie.”
He waved goodbye and sprinted off.
The next afternoon, buoyed by her vivacious attitude all evening, Jason telephoned Annie to invite her to the football game next Saturday.
“I’m really sorry,” she replied, “I’m going down to Connecticut.”
“Oh, a date at Yale?”
“No. Danny’s playing with the Hartford Symphony.”
Shit, thought Jason as he hung up, bursting with frustration. That’s a lesson for you.
Never help a Harvard classmate — even up a step.
On Tuesday, April 24, 1955, winter was still very much in the Cambridge air. Yet, official administrative statistics suggest that a metaphorical ray of sunlight shone into the lives of 71.6 percent of Harvard’s 322d freshman class. For this elated majority had been accepted by the house of their first choice.
To the trio in Wig G-21 it came as no surprise, since their admission had been heralded a month earlier by the visitation of a distinguished archangel. But they were delighted to learn that they had been assigned a suite that enjoyed a river view. Not many sophomores got such choice accommodations.
Nor did many sophomores get the privilege of living in a single room. But Jason Gilbert, Jr., was so honored (for services rendered). His private lodgings were situated across the Eliot courtyard from his three aristocratic friends.
He conveyed the good news to his father in their weekly phone conversation.
“That’s terrific, son. Why, even people who’ve only barely heard of Harvard know that Eliot House has the cream of undergraduate society.”
“But everybody here is supposed to be cream, Dad,” Jason answered good-humoredly.
“Yes, of course. But Eliot’s the crème de Ia crème, Jason. Your mother and I are really proud of you. I mean, we always are. By the way, have you been doing those new exercises for your backhand?”
“Yes, Dad. Absolutely.”
“Say, I read in Tennis World that all the big guns are going heavier on the road work — just like boxers in the morning.”
“Yeah,” said Jason, “but I really haven’t got time. My course work is incredible.”
“Of course, son. Don’t do anything to compromise your education. Speak to you next week.”
“So long, Dad. Love to Mom.”
Danny Rossi, on the other hand, was outraged. His first choice had been Adams House, because so many musical and literary types lived there. You could practically knock on your left and right and have enough participants for chamber music.
So certain had he been of acceptance into Adams that his alternate second and third selections were scribbled down without the slightest forethought. He had merely listed two other houses as they appeared in alphabetical order on the application, namely Dunster and Eliot.
And it was his third choice, Eliot, to which he was assigned.
How could they do this to him — someone who had already distinguished himself in the college community? Wouldn’t Adams House someday be proud to boast that Danny Rossi had once lived there?
Moreover, he didn’t relish the prospect of being stuck for three years in Eliot with a bunch of smug preppies.
The man to whom he chose to voice his complaint was Master Finley. Such was his respect for the great man after Hum 2 that he felt he could honestly convey his disappointment to the master of the house he didn’t want to be in.
But even more astonishing was his reaction when Finley candidly confessed. “I wanted you very badly, Daniel. I had to trade the master of Adams two football stalwarts and a published poet just to get him to relinquish you.”
“I guess I should be flattered, sir,” said Danny, quite off balance at the news. “It’s just that —”
“I know,” the master said, anticipating Danny’s misgivings, “but despite our reputation, I want Eliot to be outstanding in all the disciplines. Have you visited the house before?”
“No, sir,” Danny admitted.
A moment later Finley was conducting Danny up a winding staircase in the courtyard tower. The young man was out of breath, but the dynamic Finley had sprinted up the steps. And now opened a door.
The first thing Danny saw was an astonishingly beautiful view of the Charles River through a large circular window. Only seconds later did he realize that there was a grand piano placed before it.
“What do you think?” asked Finley. “All the great minds of the past found inspiration in elevated places. Think of your own Italian genius Petrarch ascending Mont Ventoux. Amost platonic gesture.”
“This is unbelievable,” said Danny.
“A man could write a symphony up here, could he not, Daniel?”
“I’ll bet.”
“Which is why we wanted you at Eliot House. Remember, all of Harvard welcomes genius, but here we cultivate it.”
The living legend held his hand out toward the young musician and remarked, “I look forward to your coming here next fall.”
“Thank you,” said Danny, quite overwhelmed. “Thank you for bringing me to Eliot.”
Yet, for certain members of The Class of ’58, April 24 was just like any other day.
Ted Lambros was one of those unhappy few. For, being a commuter, he had not applied to any house and hence was completely unaffected by the news conveyed to all those living in the Yard.
He went to class as usual, spent the whole afternoon grinding in Lamont Library, and at five headed for The Marathon.
Still, he could not help being aware that the more privileged of his classmates were rejoicing at the prospect of spending the next three years along the river as members of a unique housing arrangement.
Having garnered an A-minus and three B’s at midterms, he had been reasonably confident of obtaining a scholarship — large enough, in fact, to permit him to live at the college.
But to his chagrin, he had received a letter from the Financial Aid Office, which took great pleasure in informing him that he had been granted a stipend of eight hundred dollars for next year.
This would normally seem like cause for at least some modest rejoicing. But Harvard had just recently announced a rise in its basic tuition to precisely that amount.
Ted felt frustrated as hell. Like a runner sprinting madly on a treadmill.
He still did not really belong. Yet.
There had not merely been members of the academic community at Danny Rossi’s Sanders Theater concert. Unknown to the soloist, Professor Piston had invited Charles Munch, the distinguished conductor of the Boston Symphony. The maestro wrote Danny an encomiastic letter, in his own hand, commending his performance and inviting him to spend the summer working for the famous Tanglewood Music Festival.
The tasks are not exalted, but I feel that you would benefit from the proximity to all the great artists who come visit us. And I would personally welcome you to sit in on our orchestra rehearsals, since I know you aspire to a professional career.
This invitation also solved a touchy family dilemma. For, in her weekly letters, Gisela earnestly assured her son that if he came back home that summer she was certain that his father would destigmatize him. And they could build a new relationship.
And yet, although he longed to see his mother —and to share his great success with Dr. Landau — Danny simply could not risk another confrontation with Arthur Ross! D. D. S.
Then suddenly, almost abruptly, freshman year was at an end.
The month of May began with Reading Period for exams. These special days were theoretically for extra, independent study. But for a lot of Harvard men (like Andrew Eliot and company), it meant sitting down to do a whole semester’s work, beginning with the very first assignments in their courses.
The athletic season culminated with the many confrontations against Yale. Not all the clashes went in Harvard’s favor. But Jason Gilbert led the tennis team to victory. And took particular delight in watching the Yale coach’s face as he unmercifully destroyed their number-one man, and returned with Dickie Newall in the doubles for another round of sweet revenge.
Now even Jason had to settle down and do some heavy studying. He drastically reduced his social life, restricting it to weekends only.
Meanwhile, in Harvard Square the sales of cigarettes and NōDōz pep pills rose dramatically. Lamont was packed around the clock. Its modern ventilation system spewed back all the scents of unchanged shirts, cold sweat, and naked fear. Yet no one noticed.
Examinations actually were a relief. For The Class of ’58 learned to its great delight that the old proverb about Harvard was quite true: The hardest part was getting in. You had to be a genius not to graduate.
And yet, as freshman dorms were emptied — to make room for the ancient graduates of twenty-five years previous who would be living in them once again during Commencement Week — some members of The Class were leaving, never to return.
A tiny number had actually accomplished the impossible and flunked out. Some honestly conceded that they could not bear the prospect of more pressure from such unbelievably ambitious peers. And thus, capitulating to preserve their sanity, elected to transfer to universities near home.
Some went down fighting. And lost their minds in doing so. David Davidson (still in the hospital) was not the last. In fact, at Easter there had been a suicide compassionately misrepresented by the Crimson as an auto accident (although Bob Rutherford of San Antonio had actually been parked in his garage when death occurred).
And yet, as certain rugged members of The Class would argue, was this not something of a lesson to both the victims and the survivors? Would life at the very top be any easier than the self-inflicted torture chamber that was Harvard?
But the more sensitive of them recognized that they still had another three years to survive.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
October 1, 1955
Last August when we were all up at the family house in Maine — where I spent most of the time getting to know my new stepmother and her kids — Father and I had our annual lakeside chat. First be congratulated me for squeaking by in all my courses. Indeed, the prospect of my actually staying in one school for four entire years now seemed to him a pleasant possibility.
Further in an educational vein, he expressed his determination that I should not suffer from the handicap of having been born rich. His message was that although he would gladly pay my tuition fees and board, he was stopping my pocket money for my own good.
Therefore, if I wished — as he hoped I did — to join a Final Club, to go cheer Harvard at football games, to take young eligible ladies to Locke-Ober’s, etc., I would have to seek gainful employment. All of this was, of course, to teach me Emersonian self-reliance. For which I thanked him politely.
Upon my return to Cambridge for sophomore year, I went straight to the Student Employment Center and found that the really lucrative jobs had already gone to scholarship students who needed the dough more than I. Thus, I could not have the enlightening experience of washing plates or dishing out mashed potatoes.
Just when things looked bleakest, however, I ran into Master Finley in the courtyard. When I told him why I was back so early, he commended my father’s desire to inculcate good Yankee values. Surprisingly, as if he had nothing better to do, he marched me straight to the Eliot House library, where he persuaded Ned Devlin, the head librarian, to sign me on as one of his assistants.
Anyway, I’ve got this really good deal. Three nights a week I get seventy-five cents an hour for just sitting at a desk from seven till midnight watching guys read books.
Actually, Master Finley must have known what he was doing, because the job is so undemanding that, for lack of something better to do, I study.
Once in a great while, a guy interrupts me to take out a book — so I rarely have to look up from the page — except if somebody’s talking too loud and I have to shut him up.
But last night was different. Something actually happened in the Eliot House library.
At about nine o’clock I lifted my eyes just to survey the scene. The place was dotted with studying preppies in their usual uniform, button-down shirts and chinos.
But at a table in the far corner I noticed something strange on the back of a well-built guy. It was, I thought, my own jacket. Or, more accurately, my own former jacket. Normally I wouldn’t know the difference, but this was a tweed job with leather buttons that my folks had brought me from Harrods in London. There weren’t many of those around.
Not that this in itself should be surprising. After all, I had sold it last spring to that famous used-clothes merchant, Joe Keezer. He’s a Harvard institution, and most of my friends, when in need of extra cash for such necessities as ears, liquor, and club dues, have flogged their fashionable rags to old Joe.
But I don’t know a single guy who ever bought from him. I mean, it doesn’t work that way. So, strictly in my professional capacity as librarian, I was confronted with a problem. For possibly, indeed quite probably, there was an infiltrator in the library disguised as a preppie.
The guy was good-looking — dark and handsome. But he was a little too kempt. I mean, although the room was kind of stuffy, not only did he keep the jacket on, but I could see he didn’t even open up his collar. Also, he seemed to be cramming like a demon. He was buried in his book, moving only now and then to check a dictionary.
Now, all of this is not against the law. And yet it’s not the norm for anyone I knew in Eliot House. And so I figured I had better keep my eyes on this possible interloper.
At eleven-forty-five, I usually start extinguishing lights to give the guys a hint that I am closing shop. By chance last night the library was already empty — except for this stranger in my former jacket. This gave me a chance to solve the mystery.
I casually approached his table, pointed toward the large lamp in the middle, and asked if he minded if I shut it off. He looked up, startled, and said, kind of apologetically, that he hadn’t realized it was closing time.
When I answered that by house rules he officially had fourteen minutes more, he got the message. He stood up and asked me how I’d guessed he wasn’t from Eliot. Was it something in his face?
I answered candidly that it was only something in his jacket.
This embarrassed him. As he started to examine it, I explained that it was a former possession of mine. Now I felt shitty for mentioning it, and quickly assured the guy that he could use the library anytime I was there.
I mean, he was at Harvard, wasn’t he?
Yeah. It turns out he’s a sophomore commuter. Named Ted Lambros.
***
On October 17, there was a small riot in Eliot House. More specifically, a demonstration against classical music. Still more specifically, a demonstration against Danny Rossi. To be extremely precise, the actual aggression was not against the man but his piano.
It all started when a couple of clubbies began an early cocktail party. Danny usually practiced at Paine Hall, except when he had exams or a paper due. Then he used the secondhand upright in his room.
He was at it hot and heavy that afternoon when some of the jolly tipplers decided that Chopin was not suitable background music for getting smashed. It was simply a matter of taste. And, of course, in Eliot House, taste was the supreme law. It was therefore decided that Rossi had to be silenced.
At first they tried diplomacy. Dickie Newall was dispatched to tap politely on Rossi’s portal and respectfully request that Danny “quit playing that shit.”
The pianist replied that house rules allowed him to practice a musical instrument in the afternoon. And he would stick to his rights. To which Newall responded that he didn’t give a flying fig for rules, and that Rossi was disturbing a serious symposium. Danny then asked him to go away. Which he did.
When Newall returned to report the failure of his mission, his co-imbibers decided that physical action was necessary.
Four of Eliot’s staunchest and drunkest legionnaires marched resolutely across the courtyard and up to Rossi’s room. They knocked politely on the door. He opened it slightly. Without another word, the commandos entered, surrounded the offending instrument, lugged it to the open window, and — hurled it out.
Danny’s piano fell three floors to the courtyard, smashing and disintegrating on the pavement below. Fortunately, no one was passing by at the time.
Rossi feared he’d be the next to be defenestrated. But Dickie Newall simply remarked, “Thanks for your cooperation, Dan.” And the band of merry men departed.
In a matter of seconds there was a crowd around the dismembered instrument. Danny was the first to arrive and reacted as though someone in his family had been murdered.
(“Christ,” Newall reported, “I’ve never seen a guy get so upset about a piece of wood.”)
The perpetrators of the assault were immediately convoked in the senior tutor’s office, where Dr. Porter threatened them with expulsion and ordered them to pay for a new piano as well as for the broken window. Moreover, they were commanded to march over and apologize.
But Rossi was still in a fury. He told them they were a bunch of uncivilized animals who didn’t deserve to be at Harvard. Since Dr. Porter was right there, they grudgingly agreed with him. As they departed, the clubbies vowed revenge on the “little Italian wimp” who had caused them so much embarrassment.
That night at dinner, Andrew Eliot (who had been warming the varsity soccer bench during that afternoon’s debacle) saw Danny sitting all by himself at a corner table, picking at his food and looking really miserable. He walked over and sat down across the table.
“Hey, Rossi, I’m sorry to hear about your piano.”
Danny lifted his head. “Who the hell do they think they are?” he suddenly exploded.
“You want the truth?” Andrew asked. “They think they’re God’s gift to sophistication. But actually they’re just a bunch of empty-headed preppies who wouldn’t even be here if their parents hadn’t sent them to expensive schools. A guy like you makes them feel insecure.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, Rossi. You’re what this place is all about. You’ve got one thing they can’t buy, and it galls the hell out of them. They’re jealous because you’ve got real talent.”
Danny was quiet for a moment. Then looked at Andrew and said softly, “You know, Eliot, you’re a really good guy.”
***
Ted could not concentrate on Helen of Troy. Not that Professor Whitman’s remarks about her appearance in Book Three of the Iliad were not fascinating. But Ted was distracted by something even more divine than the face that launched a thousand ships.
For more than a year now he had been staring at this girl. They had both started Ancient Greek together the previous fall, and Ted could still remember his first sight of her, as the soft morning sun shone through the windows of Sever Hall irradiating her amber hair and delicate features. She seemed like an image carved on an ivory brooch. The tasteful, unostentatious manner of her dress made him think of the nymph in Horace’s ode — simplex munditiis — embellished in simplicity.
He could recall the day — now thirteen months ago — when he had first noticed Sara Harrison. Professor Stewart had asked for someone to conjugate paideuo in the imperfect and first aorist, and she had volunteered. She had been sitting timidly by the window in the very last row — quite the opposite of Ted, who always sat front and center. Though she had been reciting correctly, her voice was so soft that Stewart had to ask her politely to speak louder. It was at this precise moment that Ted Lambros had turned his head and seen the girl.
From then on, he altered his seating position to the far right of the first row so that he could both gaze at Sara and still be conspicuously placed to gain academic points. He had a copy of the Radcliffe Register in his desk at home, and like a secret drunk he periodically indulged himself by taking it out and gazing at her picture. He also studied the meager information printed with it. She was from Greenwich, Connecticut, and had attended Miss Porter’s. She lived in Cabot Hall — in the unlikely event that he should ever get the courage to call her.
In fact, he wasn’t brave enough even to attempt small talk with her after class. He had gone through two terms like this, concentrating equally on the intricacies of the Greek verb and the delicacies of Sara’s face. But whereas he was aggressively bold when it came to answering grammatical questions, he was pathologically shy about saying anything to the angelic Sara Harrison.
But then, something unprecedented occurred. Sara was unable to answer a question.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitman, I just can’t get the hang of Homer’s hexameter.”
“You’ll catch on with a little practice,” the professor replied kindly. “Mr. Lambros, would you scan the line please.”
That is how it all began. For after class, Sara came up to Ted.
“Gosh, you scan so easily. Is there some secret to it?”
He barely had the courage to reply.
“I’d be glad to help you if you’d like.”
“Oh, thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”
“How about a cup of coffee at The Bick?”
“Great,” said Sara.
And they walked out of Sever Hall side by side.
Ted found her problem at once. She had neglected to take account of the digamma, a Greek letter that existed in Homer’s alphabet but which had since been dropped and was not printed in the text.
“You just have to imagine where a word might have an invisible w in front of it. Like oinos, which would become woinos, and would remind you more of ‘wine,’ which is what it actually means.”
“You know, Ted, you’re a terrific teacher.”
“It helps to be Greek,” he said with uncharacteristic shyness.
Two days later, Professor Whitman again called on Sara Harrison to scan a Homeric hexameter. She did it perfectly, and after doing so smiled gratefully across the room at her proud tutor.
“Thanks a million, Ted,” she whispered- as they walked from class. “How can I repay you?”
“Well, you could join me for another cup of coffee.”
“With pleasure,” she replied. And her smile made him slightly weak at the knees.
From then on, their meetings after class became a ritual to which Ted looked forward like a pious monk anticipating matins. Of course the talk was general — mostly about their classes and especially Greek. Ted was too shy to make the slightest move that might change their relationship and lose this platonic ecstasy.
Still, they were helping each other with Whitman’s course. Ted was understandably stronger on the linguistic side, but Sara knew the secondary literature. She had read Milman Parry’s “L’epithète traditionnelle dans Homère” (which did not exist in English), and could give Ted a fuller comprehension of Homer’s formulaic style.
They both got A’s and moved triumphantly to Creek Lyric Poetry with Professor Havelock. But the subject matter only intensified Ted’s emotional state.
It began with the passionate verses of Sappho, which they took turns reading and translating as they sat across the scratched laminated table.
“ ‘There are those that say that the most beautiful thing on the dark earth is a multitude of horsemen’ ”
“ ‘Others say it is an armada of ships.’ ”
“ ‘But I say it is the one you love.’ ”
And so on all the way through Sappho Fragment 16.
“That’s fantastic, isn’t it, Ted?” exclaimed Sara. “I mean, the way a woman expresses her emotion by saying that it surpasses all things that are important in the world of men. It must have been pretty revolutionary stuff in those days.”
“What amazes me is how she can display her feelings without any embarrassment. That’s tough for anybody — man or woman.” He wondered if she sensed that he was also speaking of himself.
“More coffee?” he asked.
She nodded and rose. “It’s my round.”
As she started toward the counter, Ted thought fleetingly of asking her to have dinner some night. And then immediately lost heart. Besides, he was indentured to The Marathon from five till ten-thirty every day of the week. And he was certain she had a boyfriend. A girl like that could have her pick of anyone.
To welcome the arrival of spring, Professor Levine gave Ted’s Latin class an unscheduled reading of the glorious hymn Pervigilium Veneris. Though celebrating a new springtime for all lovers, it ends on a touching elegiac note. The poet laments:
Illa cantat, nos tacemus: quando ver venit meum?
Quando fiam uti chelidon ut tacere desinam?
Songbirds sing, must I be silent? When I pray will my spring come?
When will I be like the swallow, singing forth no longer dumb?
October 1, 1955
Last August when we were all up at the family house in Maine — where I spent most of the time getting to know my new stepmother and her kids — Father and I had our annual lakeside chat. First be congratulated me for squeaking by in all my courses. Indeed, the prospect of my actually staying in one school for four entire years now seemed to him a pleasant possibility.
Further in an educational vein, he expressed his determination that I should not suffer from the handicap of having been born rich. His message was that although he would gladly pay my tuition fees and board, he was stopping my pocket money for my own good.
Therefore, if I wished — as he hoped I did — to join a Final Club, to go cheer Harvard at football games, to take young eligible ladies to Locke-Ober’s, etc., I would have to seek gainful employment. All of this was, of course, to teach me Emersonian self-reliance. For which I thanked him politely.
Upon my return to Cambridge for sophomore year, I went straight to the Student Employment Center and found that the really lucrative jobs had already gone to scholarship students who needed the dough more than I. Thus, I could not have the enlightening experience of washing plates or dishing out mashed potatoes.
Just when things looked bleakest, however, I ran into Master Finley in the courtyard. When I told him why I was back so early, he commended my father’s desire to inculcate good Yankee values. Surprisingly, as if he had nothing better to do, he marched me straight to the Eliot House library, where he persuaded Ned Devlin, the head librarian, to sign me on as one of his assistants.
Anyway, I’ve got this really good deal. Three nights a week I get seventy-five cents an hour for just sitting at a desk from seven till midnight watching guys read books.
Actually, Master Finley must have known what he was doing, because the job is so undemanding that, for lack of something better to do, I study.
Once in a great while, a guy interrupts me to take out a book — so I rarely have to look up from the page — except if somebody’s talking too loud and I have to shut him up.
But last night was different. Something actually happened in the Eliot House library.
At about nine o’clock I lifted my eyes just to survey the scene. The place was dotted with studying preppies in their usual uniform, button-down shirts and chinos.
But at a table in the far corner I noticed something strange on the back of a well-built guy. It was, I thought, my own jacket. Or, more accurately, my own former jacket. Normally I wouldn’t know the difference, but this was a tweed job with leather buttons that my folks had brought me from Harrods in London. There weren’t many of those around.
Not that this in itself should be surprising. After all, I had sold it last spring to that famous used-clothes merchant, Joe Keezer. He’s a Harvard institution, and most of my friends, when in need of extra cash for such necessities as ears, liquor, and club dues, have flogged their fashionable rags to old Joe.
But I don’t know a single guy who ever bought from him. I mean, it doesn’t work that way. So, strictly in my professional capacity as librarian, I was confronted with a problem. For possibly, indeed quite probably, there was an infiltrator in the library disguised as a preppie.
The guy was good-looking — dark and handsome. But he was a little too kempt. I mean, although the room was kind of stuffy, not only did he keep the jacket on, but I could see he didn’t even open up his collar. Also, he seemed to be cramming like a demon. He was buried in his book, moving only now and then to check a dictionary.
Now, all of this is not against the law. And yet it’s not the norm for anyone I knew in Eliot House. And so I figured I had better keep my eyes on this possible interloper.
At eleven-forty-five, I usually start extinguishing lights to give the guys a hint that I am closing shop. By chance last night the library was already empty — except for this stranger in my former jacket. This gave me a chance to solve the mystery.
I casually approached his table, pointed toward the large lamp in the middle, and asked if he minded if I shut it off. He looked up, startled, and said, kind of apologetically, that he hadn’t realized it was closing time.
When I answered that by house rules he officially had fourteen minutes more, he got the message. He stood up and asked me how I’d guessed he wasn’t from Eliot. Was it something in his face?
I answered candidly that it was only something in his jacket.
This embarrassed him. As he started to examine it, I explained that it was a former possession of mine. Now I felt shitty for mentioning it, and quickly assured the guy that he could use the library anytime I was there.
I mean, he was at Harvard, wasn’t he?
Yeah. It turns out he’s a sophomore commuter. Named Ted Lambros.
On October 17, there was a small riot in Eliot House. More specifically, a demonstration against classical music. Still more specifically, a demonstration against Danny Rossi. To be extremely precise, the actual aggression was not against the man but his piano.
It all started when a couple of clubbies began an early cocktail party. Danny usually practiced at Paine Hall, except when he had exams or a paper due. Then he used the secondhand upright in his room.
He was at it hot and heavy that afternoon when some of the jolly tipplers decided that Chopin was not suitable background music for getting smashed. It was simply a matter of taste. And, of course, in Eliot House, taste was the supreme law. It was therefore decided that Rossi had to be silenced.
At first they tried diplomacy. Dickie Newall was dispatched to tap politely on Rossi’s portal and respectfully request that Danny “quit playing that shit.”
The pianist replied that house rules allowed him to practice a musical instrument in the afternoon. And he would stick to his rights. To which Newall responded that he didn’t give a flying fig for rules, and that Rossi was disturbing a serious symposium. Danny then asked him to go away. Which he did.
When Newall returned to report the failure of his mission, his co-imbibers decided that physical action was necessary.
Four of Eliot’s staunchest and drunkest legionnaires marched resolutely across the courtyard and up to Rossi’s room. They knocked politely on the door. He opened it slightly. Without another word, the commandos entered, surrounded the offending instrument, lugged it to the open window, and — hurled it out.
Danny’s piano fell three floors to the courtyard, smashing and disintegrating on the pavement below. Fortunately, no one was passing by at the time.
Rossi feared he’d be the next to be defenestrated. But Dickie Newall simply remarked, “Thanks for your cooperation, Dan.” And the band of merry men departed.
In a matter of seconds there was a crowd around the dismembered instrument. Danny was the first to arrive and reacted as though someone in his family had been murdered.
(“Christ,” Newall reported, “I’ve never seen a guy get so upset about a piece of wood.”)
The perpetrators of the assault were immediately convoked in the senior tutor’s office, where Dr. Porter threatened them with expulsion and ordered them to pay for a new piano as well as for the broken window. Moreover, they were commanded to march over and apologize.
But Rossi was still in a fury. He told them they were a bunch of uncivilized animals who didn’t deserve to be at Harvard. Since Dr. Porter was right there, they grudgingly agreed with him. As they departed, the clubbies vowed revenge on the “little Italian wimp” who had caused them so much embarrassment.
That night at dinner, Andrew Eliot (who had been warming the varsity soccer bench during that afternoon’s debacle) saw Danny sitting all by himself at a corner table, picking at his food and looking really miserable. He walked over and sat down across the table.
“Hey, Rossi, I’m sorry to hear about your piano.”
Danny lifted his head. “Who the hell do they think they are?” he suddenly exploded.
“You want the truth?” Andrew asked. “They think they’re God’s gift to sophistication. But actually they’re just a bunch of empty-headed preppies who wouldn’t even be here if their parents hadn’t sent them to expensive schools. A guy like you makes them feel insecure.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, Rossi. You’re what this place is all about. You’ve got one thing they can’t buy, and it galls the hell out of them. They’re jealous because you’ve got real talent.”
Danny was quiet for a moment. Then looked at Andrew and said softly, “You know, Eliot, you’re a really good guy.”
Ted could not concentrate on Helen of Troy. Not that Professor Whitman’s remarks about her appearance in Book Three of the Iliad were not fascinating. But Ted was distracted by something even more divine than the face that launched a thousand ships.
For more than a year now he had been staring at this girl. They had both started Ancient Greek together the previous fall, and Ted could still remember his first sight of her, as the soft morning sun shone through the windows of Sever Hall irradiating her amber hair and delicate features. She seemed like an image carved on an ivory brooch. The tasteful, unostentatious manner of her dress made him think of the nymph in Horace’s ode — simplex munditiis — embellished in simplicity.
He could recall the day — now thirteen months ago — when he had first noticed Sara Harrison. Professor Stewart had asked for someone to conjugate paideuo in the imperfect and first aorist, and she had volunteered. She had been sitting timidly by the window in the very last row — quite the opposite of Ted, who always sat front and center. Though she had been reciting correctly, her voice was so soft that Stewart had to ask her politely to speak louder. It was at this precise moment that Ted Lambros had turned his head and seen the girl.
From then on, he altered his seating position to the far right of the first row so that he could both gaze at Sara and still be conspicuously placed to gain academic points. He had a copy of the Radcliffe Register in his desk at home, and like a secret drunk he periodically indulged himself by taking it out and gazing at her picture. He also studied the meager information printed with it. She was from Greenwich, Connecticut, and had attended Miss Porter’s. She lived in Cabot Hall — in the unlikely event that he should ever get the courage to call her.
In fact, he wasn’t brave enough even to attempt small talk with her after class. He had gone through two terms like this, concentrating equally on the intricacies of the Greek verb and the delicacies of Sara’s face. But whereas he was aggressively bold when it came to answering grammatical questions, he was pathologically shy about saying anything to the angelic Sara Harrison.
But then, something unprecedented occurred. Sara was unable to answer a question.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitman, I just can’t get the hang of Homer’s hexameter.”
“You’ll catch on with a little practice,” the professor replied kindly. “Mr. Lambros, would you scan the line please.”
That is how it all began. For after class, Sara came up to Ted.
“Gosh, you scan so easily. Is there some secret to it?”
He barely had the courage to reply.
“I’d be glad to help you if you’d like.”
“Oh, thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”
“How about a cup of coffee at The Bick?”
“Great,” said Sara.
And they walked out of Sever Hall side by side.
Ted found her problem at once. She had neglected to take account of the digamma, a Greek letter that existed in Homer’s alphabet but which had since been dropped and was not printed in the text.
“You just have to imagine where a word might have an invisible w in front of it. Like oinos, which would become woinos, and would remind you more of ‘wine,’ which is what it actually means.”
“You know, Ted, you’re a terrific teacher.”
“It helps to be Greek,” he said with uncharacteristic shyness.
Two days later, Professor Whitman again called on Sara Harrison to scan a Homeric hexameter. She did it perfectly, and after doing so smiled gratefully across the room at her proud tutor.
“Thanks a million, Ted,” she whispered- as they walked from class. “How can I repay you?”
“Well, you could join me for another cup of coffee.”
“With pleasure,” she replied. And her smile made him slightly weak at the knees.
From then on, their meetings after class became a ritual to which Ted looked forward like a pious monk anticipating matins. Of course the talk was general — mostly about their classes and especially Greek. Ted was too shy to make the slightest move that might change their relationship and lose this platonic ecstasy.
Still, they were helping each other with Whitman’s course. Ted was understandably stronger on the linguistic side, but Sara knew the secondary literature. She had read Milman Parry’s “L’epithète traditionnelle dans Homère” (which did not exist in English), and could give Ted a fuller comprehension of Homer’s formulaic style.
They both got A’s and moved triumphantly to Creek Lyric Poetry with Professor Havelock. But the subject matter only intensified Ted’s emotional state.
It began with the passionate verses of Sappho, which they took turns reading and translating as they sat across the scratched laminated table.
“ ‘There are those that say that the most beautiful thing on the dark earth is a multitude of horsemen’ ”
“ ‘Others say it is an armada of ships.’ ”
“ ‘But I say it is the one you love.’ ”
And so on all the way through Sappho Fragment 16.
“That’s fantastic, isn’t it, Ted?” exclaimed Sara. “I mean, the way a woman expresses her emotion by saying that it surpasses all things that are important in the world of men. It must have been pretty revolutionary stuff in those days.”
“What amazes me is how she can display her feelings without any embarrassment. That’s tough for anybody — man or woman.” He wondered if she sensed that he was also speaking of himself.
“More coffee?” he asked.
She nodded and rose. “It’s my round.”
As she started toward the counter, Ted thought fleetingly of asking her to have dinner some night. And then immediately lost heart. Besides, he was indentured to The Marathon from five till ten-thirty every day of the week. And he was certain she had a boyfriend. A girl like that could have her pick of anyone.
To welcome the arrival of spring, Professor Levine gave Ted’s Latin class an unscheduled reading of the glorious hymn Pervigilium Veneris. Though celebrating a new springtime for all lovers, it ends on a touching elegiac note. The poet laments:
Illa cantat, nos tacemus: quando ver venit meum?
Quando fiam uti chelidon ut tacere desinam?
Songbirds sing, must I be silent? When I pray will my spring come?
When will I be like the swallow, singing forth no longer dumb?
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 4, 1955
Long before I came to Harvard I dreamed of being a chorus girl.
Not only is it a lot of laughs, but it’s also a great way to meet women.
For over a century now the Hasty Pudding Club has been producing an annual all-male musical comedy. The authors are usually the best wits in the college (that’s how Alan J. Lerner ’40 trained to write My Fair Lady).
But the show’s legendary status is not due to the quality of the script, but rather the quantity of the chorus line. For this unique corps de ballet is peopled by brawny preppie jocks in drag, kicking up their hairy muscular legs.
After its Cambridge run, this mindless and fairly gross extravaganza makes a brief tour of cities selected for the hospitality of their alumni and, most important, the nubility of their daughters.
I remember years ago, when my dad first took me to one of these productions, thinking the thundering hoof beats of the can can guys would quite literally bring down the house. They made that whole wooden building on Holyoke Street tremble.
This year’s production (the 108th) is called A Ball for Lady Godiva — which should give you some idea of the refined level of its humor.
Anyway, the first afternoon of tryouts looked like an elephants’ convention. I mean, some of the football players made a crewman like Wigglesworth seem sylphlike by comparison. There was no question that all these mastodons were dying to be one of Lady Godiva’s chambermaids — which is how they were going to dress this year’s Rockettes.
I knew the competition would be rough, so I worked out with weights (toe raises and squats) to beef up my leg muscles in hopes of getting them to look incongruous enough to make the grade.
We each got about a minute to sing something, but I think the whole issue was decided in the split second when we were asked to roll up our trousers.
They called us alphabetically, and, with knees knocking, I walked up on stage to sing a snatch of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” in my very lowest baritone.
I sweated for two days waiting for them to post the cast list this afternoon.
It contained two surprises.
Neither Wig nor I got to be chambermaids. Mike — to his eternal glory — captured the coveted role of Fifi, Lady Godiva’s debutante daughter.
And J — O shame! — was cast as Prince Macaroni, one of the suitors for his hand.
“Great,” Mike enthused, “I’m actually rooming with one of my costars.”
I was not amused. I was thinking that I’d failed again.
I wasn’t even man enough to be a girl.
***
It was the usual Friday night at The Marathon. Every table was packed with chattering Harvard men and their dates. Socrates urged his staff to hurry along since there was a vast crowd of people standing outside waiting their turn. Up front near the cashier’s desk there seemed to be some argument going on. Socrates called across to his elder son in Greek, “Theo, go and help your sister.”
Ted hastened to the rescue. As he approached, he could hear Daphne protesting, “Look, I am terribly sorry but you must have misunderstood. We never take reservations on the weekends.”
But the tall, supercilious preppie in the Chesterfield coat seemed quite adamant that he had booked a table for 8:00 P.M. and was not about to stand outside on Mass. Avenue with (in so many words) the hoi polloi. Daphne was relieved to see her brother arrive.
“What’s going on, sis?” Ted asked.
“This gentleman insists he had a reservation, Teddy. And you know our policy about weekends.”
“Yes,” Ted responded, and turned immediately to the protesting client to explain, “we would never —”
He stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed who was standing next to the irate, distinguished-looking man.
“Hi, Ted,” said Sara Harrison, who was manifestly embarrassed at her escort’s rudeness. “I think Alan’s made a mistake. I’m terribly sorry.”
Her date glared at her.
“I don’t make such errors,” he stated emphatically, and immediately turned back to Ted. “l cafled yesterday evening and spoke to some woman. Her English wasn’t very good so I was quite explicit.”
“That must have been Mama,” Daphne offered.
“Well, Mama should have written it down,” insisted the punctilious Alan.
“She did,” said Ted, who now had a large reservations book in his hand. “Are you Mr. Davenport?”
“I am,” said Alan. “Do you see my reservation for eight o’clock?”
“Yes. It’s listed for last night, Thursday — when we do accept reservations. Look.” He offered the document.
“How can I read that, man? It’s in Greek,” he protested.
“Then ask Miss Harrison to read it to you.”
“Don’t involve my date in your mess-up, waiter.”
“Please, Alan, he’s a friend of mine. We’re both in classics. And he’s right.” Sara pointed to the approximation of “Davenport” scribbled by Mrs. Lambros for eight o’clock the previous night. “You must have forgotten to tell her it was for the next day.”
“Sara, what on earth is the matter with you?” Alan snapped. “Are you taking some illiterate woman’s word against mine?”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Ted, reining in his temper as best he could. “I’m sure my mother is no less literate than yours. She just happens to prefer writing in her native tongue.”
Sara tried to end the increasingly bitter dispute.
“Come on, Alan,” she said softly, “let’s go for a pizza. That’s all I wanted in the first place.”
“No, Sara, there’s a matter of principle involved here.”
“Mr. Davenport,” Ted said quietly, “if you’ll stop blustering I’ll give you the next available table. But if you persist in this obnoxious behavior, I’ll throw you the hell out.”
“I beg your pardon, garçon,” Alan responded. “I happen to be a third-year law student, and since I am in no way inebriated, you have no right to eject me. If you try, I’ll sue the pants off you.”
“Excuse me,” Ted replied. “You may have learned a lot of fancy concepts at Harvard Law, but I doubt if you studied the Cambridge city ordinances that allow a proprietor to kick out somebody — inebriated or not — if he’s making a disturbance.”
By now Alan had sensed that this was turning into a jungle duel, with Sara as the prize.
“I dare you to throw me out,” he snapped.
For a second nobody moved. Clearly, the two antagonists were squaring off for a battle.
Daphne sensed that her brother was about to imperil their whole livelihood and whispered, “Please, Teddie, don’t.”
“Would you care to step outside, Alan?” said a voice.
Alan was startled. For it was Sara who had spoken these words. He glared down at her.
“No,” he retorted angrily. “I’m going to stay here and have dinner.”
“Then you’ll eat it alone,” she replied, and marched out.
As Daphne Lambros thanked God many times under her breath, Ted stormed into the kitchen, where he began to pound his fists against the wall.
In an instant his father arrived. “Ti diabolo echeis, Theo? What’s this ridiculous behavior? The house is full, the customers are complaining. Do you want to ruin me?”
“I want to die,” Ted shouted, continuing to attack the wall.
“Theo, my son, my eldest, we have a living to earn. I beg you to go back and take care of tables twelve through twenty.”
Just then Daphne stuck her head through the kitchen door.
“The natives are getting restless,” she said. “What’s the matter with Teddie?”
“Nothing!” Socrates growled. “Get back to the cash register, Daphne!”
“But, Papa,” she replied timorously, “there’s a girl who wants to speak to Theo —the one who sort of refereed the fight.”
“Omigod!” Ted gasped and took one step toward the men’s room.
“Where the hell are you going now?” Socrates barked.
“To comb my hair,” said Ted as he disappeared.
Sara Harrison was standing shyly in a corner, shivering slightly in her coat, even though the place was overheated.
Ted walked up to her. “Hi,” he said with the casual expression he had frantically rehearsed in front of the mirror.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” she began.
“That’s okay.”
“No, let me explain,” she insisted. “He was an insufferable bore. He was like that from the minute he picked me up.”
“Then why do you date a guy like that?”
“Date? That creature was a fix-up. His-mother-knows-my-mother sort of thing.”
“Oh,” said Ted.
“I mean filial duty has its limits. If my mother ever tries that again, I’ll say I’m taking holy vows. He was the pits, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” Ted Lambros smiled.
Then there was an awkward pause.
“Uh — I’m sorry,” Sara repeated, “I guess I’m keeping you from your work.”
“They can all starve, for all I care. I’d rather talk to you.”
Omigod, he thought to himself. How did that slip out?
“Me too,” she said shyly.
From the vortex of the busy restaurant his father called out in Greek, “Theo, get back to work or I’ll put my curse on you!”
“I think you’d better go, Ted,” Sara murmured.
“Can I ask just one question first?”
“Sure.”
“Where’s Alan now?”
“In hell, I suppose,” Sara replied. “At least that’s where I told him to go.”
“That means you haven’t got a date tonight,” Ted grinned.
“Theo!” his father bellowed. “I will curse you and your children’s children.”
Ignoring the increased paternal threat, Ted continued, “Sara, if you can wait another hour, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
Her reply was a single syllable: “Fine.”
The cognoscenti knew that the Newtowne Grill, beyond Porter Square, served the best pizza in Cambridge. This is where, at eleven o’clock, Ted brought Sara (in the family’s beat-up Chevy Biscayne) for their first dinner date. He had finished his chores at The Marathon with extraordinary speed, for there were wings on his heart.
They sat at a table by the window, where a red neon sign flashed periodically on their faces, giving the whole atmosphere the feeling of a dream — which Ted still half-believed it was. While waiting for their pizza they each sipped a beer.
“I can’t understand why a girl like you would even dream of accepting a blind date,” said Ted.
“Well, it’s better than sitting home studying on a Saturday night, isn’t it?”
“But you must be besieged with offers. I mean, I always imagined you were booked up through 1958.”
“That’s one of the great Harvard myths, Ted. Half of Radcliffe sits around feeling miserable on Saturday night because everybody at Harvard just assumes somebody else has asked them out. Meanwhile, all the girls at Wellesley have roaring social lives.”
Ted was amazed. “I wish to hell I had known. I mean, you never mentioned …”
“Well, it’s not the sort of thing you bring up over Creek verbs and English muffins,” she replied, “although I sometimes wished I had.”
Ted was nearly bowled over.
“Do you know, Sara,” he confessed, “I’ve been dying to ask you out since the very first minute I saw you.”
She looked at him with sudden brightness in her eyes.
“Well, what the hell took you so long — am I that intimidating?” she asked.
“Not anymore.”
He parked the Chevy in front of Cabot Hall and walked her to the door. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Sara,” he said firmly, “I’ve waded through a year of English muffins for this.”
And he kissed her with the passion that he’d stored up in a million fantasies.
She responded with an equal fervor.
When at last he started home, he was so intoxicated that he barely felt his feet make contact with the ground. Then suddenly he stopped. Oh shit, he thought, I left the car in front of Cabot Hall! He dashed back to retrieve it, hoping Sara would not notice his idiotic error from her window.
But at that moment, Sara Harrison’s eyes were not focused on anything. She was simply sitting motionless on her bed, staring into space.
The final lyrics of Greek 2B were by an author not generally known for amorous verse — Plato.
“It’s ironic,” Professor Havelock remarked, “but the philosopher who banished poetry from his Ideal Republic was himself the author of perhaps the most perfect lyric ever written.” And he then read out in Greek one of the famous Aster epigrams.
Star of my life, to the stars your face is turned;
Would I were the heavens, looking back at you with ten thousand eyes.
Appropriately enough, the bells of Memorial Hall tolled the end of the class. As they walked out the door together, Ted whispered to Sara, “I wish I were the heavens.”
“Nothing doing,” she replied. “I want you right nearby.”
And they walked toward The Bick hand in band.
***
November is the cruelest month — at least for ten percent of the sophomore class. For it is then that the Final Clubs (so called because you can belong to only one) make their definitive selections. These eleven societies exist merely on the edge of Harvard life. But it is, one may say, the gilt edge.
A Final Club is an elite, if homogeneous, institution where rich preppies can go and have drinks with other rich preppies. These gentlemanly sodalities do not intrude on college life. Indeed, the majority of Harvard men barely know they exist.
But, needless to say, November was a busy month for Messrs. Eliot, Newall, and Wigglesworth. Their suite was a veritable mecca for tweedy pilgrims, flocking to implore them to join their order.
Like modern musketeers, the three decided they’d stick together. Though they got invited to punches for most of the clubs, it was pretty clear that they’d go to either the Porcellian, the AD, or the Fly.
In fact, if all got asked, they knew they’d join the Porc. If you’re going to bother with these things, it might as well be the undisputed number one, “the oldest men’s club in America.”
Having been included in the P.C.’s last-cut dinner, they assumed they were in.
Back at Eliot, they were still in their penguin suits, nursing a final digestif, when there was a sudden knock at the door.
Newall quipped that it might be some desperate emissary from another club — perhaps the AD, which took Franklin D. Roosevelt when the Porcellian blackballed him.
It turned out to be Jason Gilbert.
“Am I disturbing you guys?” he asked somberly.
“No, not at all,” Andrew responded. “Come in and join us for a brandy.”
“Thanks, but I never touch the stuff,” he replied.
His glance made them curiously self-conscious about their attire.
“The final dinner, huh?” he inquired. “Yeah,” Wig replied casually.
“The Porc?” he asked.
“Right the first time,” Newall sang out.
But neither Mike nor Dick sensed the tinge of bitterness in Jason’s voice.
“Was it a tough decision, guys?” he asked.
“Not really,” said Wig. “We had a couple of other options, but the P.C. seemed the most attractive.”
“Oh,” said Jason. “It must feel great to be wanted.”
“You ought to know,” Newall quipped. “Every lovely at The Cliffe burns incense to your picture.”
Jason didn’t smile. “That’s probably because they don’t realize I’m a leper.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Gilbert?” Andrew asked.
“I’m talking about the fact that while almost every guy I know got at least one invitation to the first punch of a club, I wasn’t even asked by the lowly BAT. I never realized I was such an asshole.”
“Come on, Jason,” Newall said reassuringly. “Final Clubs are a bunch of crap.”
“I’m sure they are,” he replied. “Which is why you guys are all thrilled to be joining one. I just thought that being tuned to the club mentality, you might have some notion as to what precisely they found so obnoxious about me.”
Newall, Wig, and Andrew looked uncomfortably at one another, wondering who would have to explain to Jason what they had assumed was obvious. Andrew could see that his roommates weren’t up to it. So he made a stab at the not-so-commendable facts of Harvard life.
“Hey, Jason,” he began. “Who are the guys that mostly get asked to the clubs?
Preppies from St. Paul’s, Mark’s, Groton. It’s kind of a common bond. You know, birds of a feather flocking together and so forth. You can see what I mean?”
“Sure,” Gilbert retorted ironically. “I just didn’t go to the right prep school, huh?”
“Yeah,” Wig quickly agreed. “Right on target.”
To which Jason replied, “Horseshit.”
There was a deathly silence in the room. Finally Newall grew annoyed that Jason had broken their mellow mood.
“For Christ’s sake, Gilbert, why the hell should a Final Club have to take Jews? I mean, would the Hillel Society want me?”
“That’s a religious organization, dammit! And they wouldn’t want me. I mean, I’m not even —”
He stopped, his sentence half-completed. For a moment, Andrew thought that Jason had been about to say he wasn’t Jewish. But that would be absurd. Could a Negro stand there and suggest he wasn’t black?
“Hey, listen, Newall,” Wigglesworth piped up, “the guy’s our friend. Don’t piss him off more than he is.”
“I’m not pissed off,” Jason said in a quiet fury. “Let’s just say I’m uncomfortably enlightened. Good night, birds, sorry to have interrupted your flocking together.”
He turned and left the room.
That called for another round of brandy and a philosophical observation from Michael Wigglesworth. “Why’s a neat guy like Jason that defensive about his background? I mean, there’s nothing so bad about being Jewish. Unless you really care about stupid things like Final Clubs.”
“Or being President of the United States,” added Andrew Eliot.
--*--
November 16, 1955
Dear Dad,
I didn’t get into a Final Club. I know in the scheme of things it’s not that important, and I really don’t care that much about having another place to go and drink.
Still, what really bothers me is that I wasn’t even considered. And most of all the reason why.
When I finally worked up the guts to ask some of my friends (at least I always thought they were my friends) for an explanation, they didn’t pussyfoot around. They just came straight out and told me that the Final Clubs never take Jews. Actually, they put it in such a genteel way that it hardly sounded like prejudice.
Dad, this is the second time I’ve been rejected for something simply because people regard me as Jewish.
How do you reconcile this with the fact that you’ve always told me we were Americans “just like everybody else”? I believed you — and I still want to. But somehow the world doesn’t seem to share your opinion.
Perhaps being Jewish is not something you can remove like a change of clothing.
Maybe that’s why we’re getting all of the prejudice and none of the pride.
There are lots of really gifted people here at Harvard who think being Jewish is some kind of special honor. That confuses me as well. Because now more than ever I’m not sure exactly what a Jew is. I just know lots of people think I’m one.
Dad, I’m terribly confused and so I’m turning for help to the person I respect most in the world. It’s important that I solve this mystery.
Because until I find out what I am, I’ll never find out who I am.
His father did not answer this disturbing letter. Instead, he canceled a full day of business meetings and took the train straight up to Boston.
When Jason walked out of squash practice he could hardly believe his eyes.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“Come on, son, let’s go to Durgin Park and have one of their super steaks.”
In a sense, the choice of restaurant said everything. For the world-famous chophouse near the abattoirs of Boston had no booths or private corners. With its inverted snobbery, it placed bankers and busmen at the same long tables with red checkered cloths. A kind of forced democracy of the carnivorous.
Perhaps the elder Gilbert was sincerely unaware that inti mate communication was impossible in such a setting. Perhaps he chose it merely out of an atavistic feeling of protectiveness. He’d feed his boy to somehow compensate for all the hurt he felt.
In any case, amid the clatter of heavy china plates and shouting, from the open kitchen, all that Jason came away with was the fact that Dad was there to back him up. And he’d always be. Life was full of disappointments. The only way to deal with minor setbacks was to fight back harder still.
“Someday, Jason,” he had said, “when you’re a senator, the boys who turned you down now will be mighty sorry. And believe me, son, this painful incident — and hey, I really hurt with you — won’t mean a thing.”
Jason accompanied his father to South Station for the midnight train. Before he climbed aboard, the elder Gilbert patted Jason on the shoulder and remarked, “Son, there’s no one in the world I love more than you. Always remember that.”
Jason walked back toward the subway feeling strangely empty.
***
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
Sara Harrison sat bolt upright, her face flushed.
“Come on, Ted. How many times in your life have you refused to make love to a girl?”
“I take the Fifth Amendment,” he protested.
“Ted, it’s dark here and you still look embarrassed as hell. I don’t care how many girls you’ve slept with before me. I just wish you’d let me join the club.”
“No, Sara. It just doesn’t seem right in the back of a Chevrolet.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do, dammit. I mean, I want our first time to be somewhere a little more romantic. You know, like the banks of the Charles.”
“Are you crazy, Ted? It’s freezing! What about the Kirkland Motel? I’ve heard their policy is pretty lax.”
Ted sat up and shook his head. “No go,” he sighed despondently. “The guy that owns it is a family friend.”
“Which brings us back to this lovely Chevrolet.”
“Please, Sara, I want this to be different. Look — next Saturday we can drive to New Hampshire.”
“New Hampshire? Have you lost your mind? You mean from now on we’ll have to drive a hundred miles every time we want to make love?”
“No no no,” he protested. “Just till I can find a decent place. God, if ever I wished I lived in a House, it’s now. At least those guys can have women in their rooms in the afternoons.”
“Well, you don’t, and I’m stuck in a Radcliffe dorm that only lets men visit once in a blue moon …”
“Well, when’s the next blue moon?”
“Not till the last Sunday of next month.”
“Okay. We’ll wait till then.”
“And what are we supposed to do in the meantime — take cold showers?”
“I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry, Sara.”
“I don’t see why you’re not.”
In truth Ted could not explain the qualms he felt about the prospect of “going all the way” with her. He had grown up with the notion that love and sex were for two completely different kinds of women. While he and his buddies took swaggering pride in their exploits with girls who “went down,” none of them would ever have dreamed of marrying anyone who was not a virgin.
And though he dared not admit it even to himself, something subconscious in him wondered why a “nice” girl like Sara Harrison was so eager to make bye. And so he welcomed the delay till Visitors’ Sunday at her dorm. It would give him more time to reconcile the antitheses of sensuality and love.
Still there was a nagging question in the back of his mind and he searched for ways to broach it delicately.
Sara sensed that he was anxious about something.
“Hey, what’s eating you?”
“I don’t know. It’s just — I wish I’d been the first.”
“But you are, Ted. You’re the first man I’ve ever really loved.”
***
“Andrew — are you busy tonight?” Ted asked nervously. “I mean, could you spare me five minutes after the library closes?”
“Sure, Lambros. Want to go downstairs to the Grill for a couple of cheeseburgers?”
“Uh? Well, actually, I’d prefer someplace a little more private.”
“We could take the food up to my room.”
“That would he great. I’ve got something special to drink.”
“Ah, Lambros, that sounds really interesting.”
At a quarter past midnight, Andrew Eliot placed two cheeseburgers on the coffee table in his suite, and Ted produced a bottle from his bookbag.
“Have you ever tasted retsina?” he asked. “It’s the Greek national drink. I’ve brought you some as a kind of gift.”
“What for?”
Ted lowered his head and mumbled, “Actually, it’s sort of a bribe. I need a favor from, you, Andy, a really big favor.”
From the embarrassed look on his friend’s face, Andrew was sure he was about to be hit for a loan.
“I really don’t know how to say this,” Ted began, as Andrew poured the retsina.
“But whether you say yes or no, swear you’ll never tell a soul about this.”
“Sure sure, of course. Now spill — you’re giving me a heart attack from the tension.”
“Andy,” Ted started shyly, “I’m in love …”
He stopped again.
“Uh, congratulations,” Andrew responded, uncertain of what else to say.
“Thanks, but you see, that’s the problem.”
“I don’t get it, Lambros. What’s the problem?”
“Promise you won’t make any moral judgments?”
“Frankly, I don’t think I have any morals that I know of.”
“Listen, could I borrow your room a couple of afternoons a week?”
“That’s it? That’s what’s giving you a brain hemorrhage? When do you need it?”
“Well,” he replied, “house parietal rules let you have girls in the room between four and seven. Do you and your roommates need this place in the afternoons?”
“No sweat. Wigglesworth’s got crew and then eats at the Varsity Club, Ditto for Newall with tennis. I work out in the JAB. So that leaves you a clear field for whatever you’ve got in mind.”
Ted was suddenly beaming.
“God, Eliot, how can I ever thank you?”
“Well, the occasional bottle of retsina isn’t a bad idea. There’s only one thing — I’ll have to know this girl’s name so I can sign her in as my guest. It’ll be a little tricky at first, but the super’s a good guy.”
They established a system that would enable Ted and his inamorata (“an absolute goddess” named Sara Harrison) to enjoy the hospitality of Eliot House. All he had to do was give Andrew a few hours’ warning.
Ted was effusive with gratitude and floated out of the room as if on a cloud.
Andrew was left wondering, as that clever Yalie Cole Porter put it, “What is this thing called love?”
He sure as hell didn’t know.
***
The spring belonged to Jason Gilbert.
He finished his initial season of varsity squash undefeated. And Went straight on to unseat the current captain for the number-one singles slot on the tennis team. Here, too, he did not lose a match. He then crowned his sophomore achievements by winning both the IC4A and Eastern College titles.
These ultimate exploits made him the first member of The Class to have his picture on the sports page of the more widely circulated version of the Crimson, i.e., The New York Times.
If he had suffered any psychic damage from the unhappy experience with the Final Clubs, it was in no way apparent — at least to his athletic opponents.
In every American college there is always a figure known as the BMOC — “Big Man on Campus.” Harvard prided itself on not recognizing this as a valid designation.
Semantics notwithstanding, at this moment in the drama of undergraduate life, the undisputed hero — or in Shakespeare’s words “the observed of all observers” — was indisputably Jason Gilbert, Jr.
Danny Rossi’s esteem in the tiny music community could not counteract the chagrin he felt after the humiliating destruction of his piano. He hated Eliot House, and even at times began to resent Master Finley for bringing him to this den of obnoxious pseudo-sophisticates.
His disdain was reciprocated by most of the house members. And he ate almost every meal alone — except when Andrew Eliot would catch sight of him, sit down, and try to cheer him up.
Ted Lambros’s growing involvement with Sara demonstrated the validity of the platonic notion that love draws the mind to higher planes. He got straight A’s in all his classics courses. Moreover, he no longer felt himself a total alien from campus life. Perhaps because he was spending so many afternoons a week at Eliot House.
Andrew could only sit on the sidelines and marvel at how his classmates were developing. Petals were opening, blossoms emerging. Sophomore year was a glorious awakening for the entire Class.
It had been a time of hope. Of confidence. Of boundless optimism. Almost every member of The Class left Cambridge thinking, We’ve only half-begun.
When, in truth, it was half-over.
***
Danny Rossi’s second summer at Tanglewood had been even more memorable than his first. Whereas in 1955 his most exalted task was, as he himself put it with self-deprecating humor, “polishing Maestro Munch’s baton,” in 1956 he actually got to wave it in front of the orchestra.
The white-haired Frenchman had developed a grandfatherly affection for the eager little Californian. And, to the consternation of the other students at the Festival School, gave Danny every opportunity to make “real” music.
When Artur Rubinstein came up to play the Emperor Concerto, for example, Munch volunteered Danny to turn the virtuoso’s pages during rehearsal.
At the first break, Rubinstein, legendary for his prodigious musical, memory, bemusedly demanded to know why the conductor had stuck so familiar a score in front of his face. To which Munch replied with a sly grin that it was for the page turner’s benefit. So that Danny Rossi could study the master up close. “The boy is on fire,” he added.
“Weren’t we all at that age?” Rubinstein smiled.
Moments later he invited Danny to his dressing room, to hear his interpretation of the concerto.
Danny began hesitantly. But by the time he had reached the allegro of the third movement, he was too involved to be diffident. His fingers were flying. In fact, he stunned himself by the uncanny ease with which he played at such a frantic tempo.
At the end he looked up, breathless and sweating.
“Too fast, huh?”
The virtuoso nodded, but with admiration in his eyes. “Yes,” he acknowledged.
“But extremely good nonetheless.”
“Maybe I was just nervous, but this keyboard made it feel like I was rolling down a hill. It sort of sped me up.”
“Do you know why, my boy?” Rubinstein asked. “Since I am not gifted with great size, the Steinway people kindly manufactured this piano with the keys one-eighth smaller. Look again.”
Danny marveled at Artur Rubinstein’s personal piano. For on it he, who was also not “gifted with great size,” could stretch a full thirteenth with ease.
Then the master generously remarked, “Listen, we all know that I don’t need any pages turned. So why not stay here and play to your heart’s content?”
On another occasion, at an outdoor run-through of Mozart’s Overture to The Marriage of Figaro, Munch suddenly gave a histrionic sigh of weariness and said, “This Massachusetts weather is too hot and humid for a Frenchman. I need five minutes in the shade.”
He then motioned to Danny. “Come here, young man,” he said, extending his baton.
“I think you know the piece enough to wave this stick in front of these musicians. Take over for a minute and be sure they behave.”
With this he left Danny feeling very naked and alone on the podium before the entire Boston Symphony.
Of course the orchestra had several assistant conductors and répétiteurs precisely for occasions such as this. And they stood on the sidelines burning with a lot more than summer heat.
He was really high that night. And as soon as he got back to his boarding house, Danny phoned Dr. Landau.
“That’s wonderful,” the teacher commented with pride. “Your parents must be delighted.”
“Yeah,” Danny answered half-evasively. “I — uh — would you mind calling Mom and telling her about it?”
“Daniel,” Dr. Landau answered gravely, “this melodrama with your father has gone on too long. Look, this is a perfect opportunity to make a gesture of conciliation.”
“Dr. Landau, please try to understand. I just can’t bring myself to …” His voice trailed off.
November 4, 1955
Long before I came to Harvard I dreamed of being a chorus girl.
Not only is it a lot of laughs, but it’s also a great way to meet women.
For over a century now the Hasty Pudding Club has been producing an annual all-male musical comedy. The authors are usually the best wits in the college (that’s how Alan J. Lerner ’40 trained to write My Fair Lady).
But the show’s legendary status is not due to the quality of the script, but rather the quantity of the chorus line. For this unique corps de ballet is peopled by brawny preppie jocks in drag, kicking up their hairy muscular legs.
After its Cambridge run, this mindless and fairly gross extravaganza makes a brief tour of cities selected for the hospitality of their alumni and, most important, the nubility of their daughters.
I remember years ago, when my dad first took me to one of these productions, thinking the thundering hoof beats of the can can guys would quite literally bring down the house. They made that whole wooden building on Holyoke Street tremble.
This year’s production (the 108th) is called A Ball for Lady Godiva — which should give you some idea of the refined level of its humor.
Anyway, the first afternoon of tryouts looked like an elephants’ convention. I mean, some of the football players made a crewman like Wigglesworth seem sylphlike by comparison. There was no question that all these mastodons were dying to be one of Lady Godiva’s chambermaids — which is how they were going to dress this year’s Rockettes.
I knew the competition would be rough, so I worked out with weights (toe raises and squats) to beef up my leg muscles in hopes of getting them to look incongruous enough to make the grade.
We each got about a minute to sing something, but I think the whole issue was decided in the split second when we were asked to roll up our trousers.
They called us alphabetically, and, with knees knocking, I walked up on stage to sing a snatch of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” in my very lowest baritone.
I sweated for two days waiting for them to post the cast list this afternoon.
It contained two surprises.
Neither Wig nor I got to be chambermaids. Mike — to his eternal glory — captured the coveted role of Fifi, Lady Godiva’s debutante daughter.
And J — O shame! — was cast as Prince Macaroni, one of the suitors for his hand.
“Great,” Mike enthused, “I’m actually rooming with one of my costars.”
I was not amused. I was thinking that I’d failed again.
I wasn’t even man enough to be a girl.
It was the usual Friday night at The Marathon. Every table was packed with chattering Harvard men and their dates. Socrates urged his staff to hurry along since there was a vast crowd of people standing outside waiting their turn. Up front near the cashier’s desk there seemed to be some argument going on. Socrates called across to his elder son in Greek, “Theo, go and help your sister.”
Ted hastened to the rescue. As he approached, he could hear Daphne protesting, “Look, I am terribly sorry but you must have misunderstood. We never take reservations on the weekends.”
But the tall, supercilious preppie in the Chesterfield coat seemed quite adamant that he had booked a table for 8:00 P.M. and was not about to stand outside on Mass. Avenue with (in so many words) the hoi polloi. Daphne was relieved to see her brother arrive.
“What’s going on, sis?” Ted asked.
“This gentleman insists he had a reservation, Teddy. And you know our policy about weekends.”
“Yes,” Ted responded, and turned immediately to the protesting client to explain, “we would never —”
He stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed who was standing next to the irate, distinguished-looking man.
“Hi, Ted,” said Sara Harrison, who was manifestly embarrassed at her escort’s rudeness. “I think Alan’s made a mistake. I’m terribly sorry.”
Her date glared at her.
“I don’t make such errors,” he stated emphatically, and immediately turned back to Ted. “l cafled yesterday evening and spoke to some woman. Her English wasn’t very good so I was quite explicit.”
“That must have been Mama,” Daphne offered.
“Well, Mama should have written it down,” insisted the punctilious Alan.
“She did,” said Ted, who now had a large reservations book in his hand. “Are you Mr. Davenport?”
“I am,” said Alan. “Do you see my reservation for eight o’clock?”
“Yes. It’s listed for last night, Thursday — when we do accept reservations. Look.” He offered the document.
“How can I read that, man? It’s in Greek,” he protested.
“Then ask Miss Harrison to read it to you.”
“Don’t involve my date in your mess-up, waiter.”
“Please, Alan, he’s a friend of mine. We’re both in classics. And he’s right.” Sara pointed to the approximation of “Davenport” scribbled by Mrs. Lambros for eight o’clock the previous night. “You must have forgotten to tell her it was for the next day.”
“Sara, what on earth is the matter with you?” Alan snapped. “Are you taking some illiterate woman’s word against mine?”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Ted, reining in his temper as best he could. “I’m sure my mother is no less literate than yours. She just happens to prefer writing in her native tongue.”
Sara tried to end the increasingly bitter dispute.
“Come on, Alan,” she said softly, “let’s go for a pizza. That’s all I wanted in the first place.”
“No, Sara, there’s a matter of principle involved here.”
“Mr. Davenport,” Ted said quietly, “if you’ll stop blustering I’ll give you the next available table. But if you persist in this obnoxious behavior, I’ll throw you the hell out.”
“I beg your pardon, garçon,” Alan responded. “I happen to be a third-year law student, and since I am in no way inebriated, you have no right to eject me. If you try, I’ll sue the pants off you.”
“Excuse me,” Ted replied. “You may have learned a lot of fancy concepts at Harvard Law, but I doubt if you studied the Cambridge city ordinances that allow a proprietor to kick out somebody — inebriated or not — if he’s making a disturbance.”
By now Alan had sensed that this was turning into a jungle duel, with Sara as the prize.
“I dare you to throw me out,” he snapped.
For a second nobody moved. Clearly, the two antagonists were squaring off for a battle.
Daphne sensed that her brother was about to imperil their whole livelihood and whispered, “Please, Teddie, don’t.”
“Would you care to step outside, Alan?” said a voice.
Alan was startled. For it was Sara who had spoken these words. He glared down at her.
“No,” he retorted angrily. “I’m going to stay here and have dinner.”
“Then you’ll eat it alone,” she replied, and marched out.
As Daphne Lambros thanked God many times under her breath, Ted stormed into the kitchen, where he began to pound his fists against the wall.
In an instant his father arrived. “Ti diabolo echeis, Theo? What’s this ridiculous behavior? The house is full, the customers are complaining. Do you want to ruin me?”
“I want to die,” Ted shouted, continuing to attack the wall.
“Theo, my son, my eldest, we have a living to earn. I beg you to go back and take care of tables twelve through twenty.”
Just then Daphne stuck her head through the kitchen door.
“The natives are getting restless,” she said. “What’s the matter with Teddie?”
“Nothing!” Socrates growled. “Get back to the cash register, Daphne!”
“But, Papa,” she replied timorously, “there’s a girl who wants to speak to Theo —the one who sort of refereed the fight.”
“Omigod!” Ted gasped and took one step toward the men’s room.
“Where the hell are you going now?” Socrates barked.
“To comb my hair,” said Ted as he disappeared.
Sara Harrison was standing shyly in a corner, shivering slightly in her coat, even though the place was overheated.
Ted walked up to her. “Hi,” he said with the casual expression he had frantically rehearsed in front of the mirror.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” she began.
“That’s okay.”
“No, let me explain,” she insisted. “He was an insufferable bore. He was like that from the minute he picked me up.”
“Then why do you date a guy like that?”
“Date? That creature was a fix-up. His-mother-knows-my-mother sort of thing.”
“Oh,” said Ted.
“I mean filial duty has its limits. If my mother ever tries that again, I’ll say I’m taking holy vows. He was the pits, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” Ted Lambros smiled.
Then there was an awkward pause.
“Uh — I’m sorry,” Sara repeated, “I guess I’m keeping you from your work.”
“They can all starve, for all I care. I’d rather talk to you.”
Omigod, he thought to himself. How did that slip out?
“Me too,” she said shyly.
From the vortex of the busy restaurant his father called out in Greek, “Theo, get back to work or I’ll put my curse on you!”
“I think you’d better go, Ted,” Sara murmured.
“Can I ask just one question first?”
“Sure.”
“Where’s Alan now?”
“In hell, I suppose,” Sara replied. “At least that’s where I told him to go.”
“That means you haven’t got a date tonight,” Ted grinned.
“Theo!” his father bellowed. “I will curse you and your children’s children.”
Ignoring the increased paternal threat, Ted continued, “Sara, if you can wait another hour, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
Her reply was a single syllable: “Fine.”
The cognoscenti knew that the Newtowne Grill, beyond Porter Square, served the best pizza in Cambridge. This is where, at eleven o’clock, Ted brought Sara (in the family’s beat-up Chevy Biscayne) for their first dinner date. He had finished his chores at The Marathon with extraordinary speed, for there were wings on his heart.
They sat at a table by the window, where a red neon sign flashed periodically on their faces, giving the whole atmosphere the feeling of a dream — which Ted still half-believed it was. While waiting for their pizza they each sipped a beer.
“I can’t understand why a girl like you would even dream of accepting a blind date,” said Ted.
“Well, it’s better than sitting home studying on a Saturday night, isn’t it?”
“But you must be besieged with offers. I mean, I always imagined you were booked up through 1958.”
“That’s one of the great Harvard myths, Ted. Half of Radcliffe sits around feeling miserable on Saturday night because everybody at Harvard just assumes somebody else has asked them out. Meanwhile, all the girls at Wellesley have roaring social lives.”
Ted was amazed. “I wish to hell I had known. I mean, you never mentioned …”
“Well, it’s not the sort of thing you bring up over Creek verbs and English muffins,” she replied, “although I sometimes wished I had.”
Ted was nearly bowled over.
“Do you know, Sara,” he confessed, “I’ve been dying to ask you out since the very first minute I saw you.”
She looked at him with sudden brightness in her eyes.
“Well, what the hell took you so long — am I that intimidating?” she asked.
“Not anymore.”
He parked the Chevy in front of Cabot Hall and walked her to the door. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Sara,” he said firmly, “I’ve waded through a year of English muffins for this.”
And he kissed her with the passion that he’d stored up in a million fantasies.
She responded with an equal fervor.
When at last he started home, he was so intoxicated that he barely felt his feet make contact with the ground. Then suddenly he stopped. Oh shit, he thought, I left the car in front of Cabot Hall! He dashed back to retrieve it, hoping Sara would not notice his idiotic error from her window.
But at that moment, Sara Harrison’s eyes were not focused on anything. She was simply sitting motionless on her bed, staring into space.
The final lyrics of Greek 2B were by an author not generally known for amorous verse — Plato.
“It’s ironic,” Professor Havelock remarked, “but the philosopher who banished poetry from his Ideal Republic was himself the author of perhaps the most perfect lyric ever written.” And he then read out in Greek one of the famous Aster epigrams.
Star of my life, to the stars your face is turned;
Would I were the heavens, looking back at you with ten thousand eyes.
Appropriately enough, the bells of Memorial Hall tolled the end of the class. As they walked out the door together, Ted whispered to Sara, “I wish I were the heavens.”
“Nothing doing,” she replied. “I want you right nearby.”
And they walked toward The Bick hand in band.
November is the cruelest month — at least for ten percent of the sophomore class. For it is then that the Final Clubs (so called because you can belong to only one) make their definitive selections. These eleven societies exist merely on the edge of Harvard life. But it is, one may say, the gilt edge.
A Final Club is an elite, if homogeneous, institution where rich preppies can go and have drinks with other rich preppies. These gentlemanly sodalities do not intrude on college life. Indeed, the majority of Harvard men barely know they exist.
But, needless to say, November was a busy month for Messrs. Eliot, Newall, and Wigglesworth. Their suite was a veritable mecca for tweedy pilgrims, flocking to implore them to join their order.
Like modern musketeers, the three decided they’d stick together. Though they got invited to punches for most of the clubs, it was pretty clear that they’d go to either the Porcellian, the AD, or the Fly.
In fact, if all got asked, they knew they’d join the Porc. If you’re going to bother with these things, it might as well be the undisputed number one, “the oldest men’s club in America.”
Having been included in the P.C.’s last-cut dinner, they assumed they were in.
Back at Eliot, they were still in their penguin suits, nursing a final digestif, when there was a sudden knock at the door.
Newall quipped that it might be some desperate emissary from another club — perhaps the AD, which took Franklin D. Roosevelt when the Porcellian blackballed him.
It turned out to be Jason Gilbert.
“Am I disturbing you guys?” he asked somberly.
“No, not at all,” Andrew responded. “Come in and join us for a brandy.”
“Thanks, but I never touch the stuff,” he replied.
His glance made them curiously self-conscious about their attire.
“The final dinner, huh?” he inquired. “Yeah,” Wig replied casually.
“The Porc?” he asked.
“Right the first time,” Newall sang out.
But neither Mike nor Dick sensed the tinge of bitterness in Jason’s voice.
“Was it a tough decision, guys?” he asked.
“Not really,” said Wig. “We had a couple of other options, but the P.C. seemed the most attractive.”
“Oh,” said Jason. “It must feel great to be wanted.”
“You ought to know,” Newall quipped. “Every lovely at The Cliffe burns incense to your picture.”
Jason didn’t smile. “That’s probably because they don’t realize I’m a leper.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Gilbert?” Andrew asked.
“I’m talking about the fact that while almost every guy I know got at least one invitation to the first punch of a club, I wasn’t even asked by the lowly BAT. I never realized I was such an asshole.”
“Come on, Jason,” Newall said reassuringly. “Final Clubs are a bunch of crap.”
“I’m sure they are,” he replied. “Which is why you guys are all thrilled to be joining one. I just thought that being tuned to the club mentality, you might have some notion as to what precisely they found so obnoxious about me.”
Newall, Wig, and Andrew looked uncomfortably at one another, wondering who would have to explain to Jason what they had assumed was obvious. Andrew could see that his roommates weren’t up to it. So he made a stab at the not-so-commendable facts of Harvard life.
“Hey, Jason,” he began. “Who are the guys that mostly get asked to the clubs?
Preppies from St. Paul’s, Mark’s, Groton. It’s kind of a common bond. You know, birds of a feather flocking together and so forth. You can see what I mean?”
“Sure,” Gilbert retorted ironically. “I just didn’t go to the right prep school, huh?”
“Yeah,” Wig quickly agreed. “Right on target.”
To which Jason replied, “Horseshit.”
There was a deathly silence in the room. Finally Newall grew annoyed that Jason had broken their mellow mood.
“For Christ’s sake, Gilbert, why the hell should a Final Club have to take Jews? I mean, would the Hillel Society want me?”
“That’s a religious organization, dammit! And they wouldn’t want me. I mean, I’m not even —”
He stopped, his sentence half-completed. For a moment, Andrew thought that Jason had been about to say he wasn’t Jewish. But that would be absurd. Could a Negro stand there and suggest he wasn’t black?
“Hey, listen, Newall,” Wigglesworth piped up, “the guy’s our friend. Don’t piss him off more than he is.”
“I’m not pissed off,” Jason said in a quiet fury. “Let’s just say I’m uncomfortably enlightened. Good night, birds, sorry to have interrupted your flocking together.”
He turned and left the room.
That called for another round of brandy and a philosophical observation from Michael Wigglesworth. “Why’s a neat guy like Jason that defensive about his background? I mean, there’s nothing so bad about being Jewish. Unless you really care about stupid things like Final Clubs.”
“Or being President of the United States,” added Andrew Eliot.
November 16, 1955
Dear Dad,
I didn’t get into a Final Club. I know in the scheme of things it’s not that important, and I really don’t care that much about having another place to go and drink.
Still, what really bothers me is that I wasn’t even considered. And most of all the reason why.
When I finally worked up the guts to ask some of my friends (at least I always thought they were my friends) for an explanation, they didn’t pussyfoot around. They just came straight out and told me that the Final Clubs never take Jews. Actually, they put it in such a genteel way that it hardly sounded like prejudice.
Dad, this is the second time I’ve been rejected for something simply because people regard me as Jewish.
How do you reconcile this with the fact that you’ve always told me we were Americans “just like everybody else”? I believed you — and I still want to. But somehow the world doesn’t seem to share your opinion.
Perhaps being Jewish is not something you can remove like a change of clothing.
Maybe that’s why we’re getting all of the prejudice and none of the pride.
There are lots of really gifted people here at Harvard who think being Jewish is some kind of special honor. That confuses me as well. Because now more than ever I’m not sure exactly what a Jew is. I just know lots of people think I’m one.
Dad, I’m terribly confused and so I’m turning for help to the person I respect most in the world. It’s important that I solve this mystery.
Because until I find out what I am, I’ll never find out who I am.
His father did not answer this disturbing letter. Instead, he canceled a full day of business meetings and took the train straight up to Boston.
When Jason walked out of squash practice he could hardly believe his eyes.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“Come on, son, let’s go to Durgin Park and have one of their super steaks.”
In a sense, the choice of restaurant said everything. For the world-famous chophouse near the abattoirs of Boston had no booths or private corners. With its inverted snobbery, it placed bankers and busmen at the same long tables with red checkered cloths. A kind of forced democracy of the carnivorous.
Perhaps the elder Gilbert was sincerely unaware that inti mate communication was impossible in such a setting. Perhaps he chose it merely out of an atavistic feeling of protectiveness. He’d feed his boy to somehow compensate for all the hurt he felt.
In any case, amid the clatter of heavy china plates and shouting, from the open kitchen, all that Jason came away with was the fact that Dad was there to back him up. And he’d always be. Life was full of disappointments. The only way to deal with minor setbacks was to fight back harder still.
“Someday, Jason,” he had said, “when you’re a senator, the boys who turned you down now will be mighty sorry. And believe me, son, this painful incident — and hey, I really hurt with you — won’t mean a thing.”
Jason accompanied his father to South Station for the midnight train. Before he climbed aboard, the elder Gilbert patted Jason on the shoulder and remarked, “Son, there’s no one in the world I love more than you. Always remember that.”
Jason walked back toward the subway feeling strangely empty.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!”
Sara Harrison sat bolt upright, her face flushed.
“Come on, Ted. How many times in your life have you refused to make love to a girl?”
“I take the Fifth Amendment,” he protested.
“Ted, it’s dark here and you still look embarrassed as hell. I don’t care how many girls you’ve slept with before me. I just wish you’d let me join the club.”
“No, Sara. It just doesn’t seem right in the back of a Chevrolet.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do, dammit. I mean, I want our first time to be somewhere a little more romantic. You know, like the banks of the Charles.”
“Are you crazy, Ted? It’s freezing! What about the Kirkland Motel? I’ve heard their policy is pretty lax.”
Ted sat up and shook his head. “No go,” he sighed despondently. “The guy that owns it is a family friend.”
“Which brings us back to this lovely Chevrolet.”
“Please, Sara, I want this to be different. Look — next Saturday we can drive to New Hampshire.”
“New Hampshire? Have you lost your mind? You mean from now on we’ll have to drive a hundred miles every time we want to make love?”
“No no no,” he protested. “Just till I can find a decent place. God, if ever I wished I lived in a House, it’s now. At least those guys can have women in their rooms in the afternoons.”
“Well, you don’t, and I’m stuck in a Radcliffe dorm that only lets men visit once in a blue moon …”
“Well, when’s the next blue moon?”
“Not till the last Sunday of next month.”
“Okay. We’ll wait till then.”
“And what are we supposed to do in the meantime — take cold showers?”
“I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry, Sara.”
“I don’t see why you’re not.”
In truth Ted could not explain the qualms he felt about the prospect of “going all the way” with her. He had grown up with the notion that love and sex were for two completely different kinds of women. While he and his buddies took swaggering pride in their exploits with girls who “went down,” none of them would ever have dreamed of marrying anyone who was not a virgin.
And though he dared not admit it even to himself, something subconscious in him wondered why a “nice” girl like Sara Harrison was so eager to make bye. And so he welcomed the delay till Visitors’ Sunday at her dorm. It would give him more time to reconcile the antitheses of sensuality and love.
Still there was a nagging question in the back of his mind and he searched for ways to broach it delicately.
Sara sensed that he was anxious about something.
“Hey, what’s eating you?”
“I don’t know. It’s just — I wish I’d been the first.”
“But you are, Ted. You’re the first man I’ve ever really loved.”
“Andrew — are you busy tonight?” Ted asked nervously. “I mean, could you spare me five minutes after the library closes?”
“Sure, Lambros. Want to go downstairs to the Grill for a couple of cheeseburgers?”
“Uh? Well, actually, I’d prefer someplace a little more private.”
“We could take the food up to my room.”
“That would he great. I’ve got something special to drink.”
“Ah, Lambros, that sounds really interesting.”
At a quarter past midnight, Andrew Eliot placed two cheeseburgers on the coffee table in his suite, and Ted produced a bottle from his bookbag.
“Have you ever tasted retsina?” he asked. “It’s the Greek national drink. I’ve brought you some as a kind of gift.”
“What for?”
Ted lowered his head and mumbled, “Actually, it’s sort of a bribe. I need a favor from, you, Andy, a really big favor.”
From the embarrassed look on his friend’s face, Andrew was sure he was about to be hit for a loan.
“I really don’t know how to say this,” Ted began, as Andrew poured the retsina.
“But whether you say yes or no, swear you’ll never tell a soul about this.”
“Sure sure, of course. Now spill — you’re giving me a heart attack from the tension.”
“Andy,” Ted started shyly, “I’m in love …”
He stopped again.
“Uh, congratulations,” Andrew responded, uncertain of what else to say.
“Thanks, but you see, that’s the problem.”
“I don’t get it, Lambros. What’s the problem?”
“Promise you won’t make any moral judgments?”
“Frankly, I don’t think I have any morals that I know of.”
“Listen, could I borrow your room a couple of afternoons a week?”
“That’s it? That’s what’s giving you a brain hemorrhage? When do you need it?”
“Well,” he replied, “house parietal rules let you have girls in the room between four and seven. Do you and your roommates need this place in the afternoons?”
“No sweat. Wigglesworth’s got crew and then eats at the Varsity Club, Ditto for Newall with tennis. I work out in the JAB. So that leaves you a clear field for whatever you’ve got in mind.”
Ted was suddenly beaming.
“God, Eliot, how can I ever thank you?”
“Well, the occasional bottle of retsina isn’t a bad idea. There’s only one thing — I’ll have to know this girl’s name so I can sign her in as my guest. It’ll be a little tricky at first, but the super’s a good guy.”
They established a system that would enable Ted and his inamorata (“an absolute goddess” named Sara Harrison) to enjoy the hospitality of Eliot House. All he had to do was give Andrew a few hours’ warning.
Ted was effusive with gratitude and floated out of the room as if on a cloud.
Andrew was left wondering, as that clever Yalie Cole Porter put it, “What is this thing called love?”
He sure as hell didn’t know.
The spring belonged to Jason Gilbert.
He finished his initial season of varsity squash undefeated. And Went straight on to unseat the current captain for the number-one singles slot on the tennis team. Here, too, he did not lose a match. He then crowned his sophomore achievements by winning both the IC4A and Eastern College titles.
These ultimate exploits made him the first member of The Class to have his picture on the sports page of the more widely circulated version of the Crimson, i.e., The New York Times.
If he had suffered any psychic damage from the unhappy experience with the Final Clubs, it was in no way apparent — at least to his athletic opponents.
In every American college there is always a figure known as the BMOC — “Big Man on Campus.” Harvard prided itself on not recognizing this as a valid designation.
Semantics notwithstanding, at this moment in the drama of undergraduate life, the undisputed hero — or in Shakespeare’s words “the observed of all observers” — was indisputably Jason Gilbert, Jr.
Danny Rossi’s esteem in the tiny music community could not counteract the chagrin he felt after the humiliating destruction of his piano. He hated Eliot House, and even at times began to resent Master Finley for bringing him to this den of obnoxious pseudo-sophisticates.
His disdain was reciprocated by most of the house members. And he ate almost every meal alone — except when Andrew Eliot would catch sight of him, sit down, and try to cheer him up.
Ted Lambros’s growing involvement with Sara demonstrated the validity of the platonic notion that love draws the mind to higher planes. He got straight A’s in all his classics courses. Moreover, he no longer felt himself a total alien from campus life. Perhaps because he was spending so many afternoons a week at Eliot House.
Andrew could only sit on the sidelines and marvel at how his classmates were developing. Petals were opening, blossoms emerging. Sophomore year was a glorious awakening for the entire Class.
It had been a time of hope. Of confidence. Of boundless optimism. Almost every member of The Class left Cambridge thinking, We’ve only half-begun.
When, in truth, it was half-over.
Danny Rossi’s second summer at Tanglewood had been even more memorable than his first. Whereas in 1955 his most exalted task was, as he himself put it with self-deprecating humor, “polishing Maestro Munch’s baton,” in 1956 he actually got to wave it in front of the orchestra.
The white-haired Frenchman had developed a grandfatherly affection for the eager little Californian. And, to the consternation of the other students at the Festival School, gave Danny every opportunity to make “real” music.
When Artur Rubinstein came up to play the Emperor Concerto, for example, Munch volunteered Danny to turn the virtuoso’s pages during rehearsal.
At the first break, Rubinstein, legendary for his prodigious musical, memory, bemusedly demanded to know why the conductor had stuck so familiar a score in front of his face. To which Munch replied with a sly grin that it was for the page turner’s benefit. So that Danny Rossi could study the master up close. “The boy is on fire,” he added.
“Weren’t we all at that age?” Rubinstein smiled.
Moments later he invited Danny to his dressing room, to hear his interpretation of the concerto.
Danny began hesitantly. But by the time he had reached the allegro of the third movement, he was too involved to be diffident. His fingers were flying. In fact, he stunned himself by the uncanny ease with which he played at such a frantic tempo.
At the end he looked up, breathless and sweating.
“Too fast, huh?”
The virtuoso nodded, but with admiration in his eyes. “Yes,” he acknowledged.
“But extremely good nonetheless.”
“Maybe I was just nervous, but this keyboard made it feel like I was rolling down a hill. It sort of sped me up.”
“Do you know why, my boy?” Rubinstein asked. “Since I am not gifted with great size, the Steinway people kindly manufactured this piano with the keys one-eighth smaller. Look again.”
Danny marveled at Artur Rubinstein’s personal piano. For on it he, who was also not “gifted with great size,” could stretch a full thirteenth with ease.
Then the master generously remarked, “Listen, we all know that I don’t need any pages turned. So why not stay here and play to your heart’s content?”
On another occasion, at an outdoor run-through of Mozart’s Overture to The Marriage of Figaro, Munch suddenly gave a histrionic sigh of weariness and said, “This Massachusetts weather is too hot and humid for a Frenchman. I need five minutes in the shade.”
He then motioned to Danny. “Come here, young man,” he said, extending his baton.
“I think you know the piece enough to wave this stick in front of these musicians. Take over for a minute and be sure they behave.”
With this he left Danny feeling very naked and alone on the podium before the entire Boston Symphony.
Of course the orchestra had several assistant conductors and répétiteurs precisely for occasions such as this. And they stood on the sidelines burning with a lot more than summer heat.
He was really high that night. And as soon as he got back to his boarding house, Danny phoned Dr. Landau.
“That’s wonderful,” the teacher commented with pride. “Your parents must be delighted.”
“Yeah,” Danny answered half-evasively. “I — uh — would you mind calling Mom and telling her about it?”
“Daniel,” Dr. Landau answered gravely, “this melodrama with your father has gone on too long. Look, this is a perfect opportunity to make a gesture of conciliation.”
“Dr. Landau, please try to understand. I just can’t bring myself to …” His voice trailed off.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
September 29, 1956
Sex.
I had given it a lot of thought all summer as I sweated my guts out at the construction job my father had so considerately arranged to enhance my acquaintance with physical labor. While my roommates, Newall and Wig, were off cruising the better beaches in Europe, the only thing I got to lay all summer was a lot of bricks.
I returned to Harvard for junior year determined to succeed where I had never failed — because I’d never even had the guts to try.
I was going to lose my virginity.
Mike and Dick came home with these incredible tales of trysting the nights away with nymphs of every nationality and cup size.
And yet peer pressure prevented me from asking either of them for advice — or more specifically for a phone number. I’d become the laughingstock of the Porcellian — not to mention Eliot House, the crew and probably even the biddies who served in the dining hall.
In desperation I thought of trying the notorious bars around Scollay Square, but I couldn’t work up the courage to go on my own. And besides, the whole idea was kind of sordid.
Who could help me?
The answer became apocalyptically clear the first evening I returned to my library job. For there, grinding away at his usual table, was Ted Lambros.
***
This time it was Andrew who begged Ted to come to his room for an urgent conversation.
Ted was puzzled, since he had never seen his friend so agitated.
“What’s up, Eliot?”
“Uh. How was your vacation, Ted?”
“Not bad, except I only got to see Sara for a couple of weekends. Otherwise it was just business as usual at The Marathon. Anyway, what’s your problem?”
Andrew wondered how the hell he could broach it.
“Hey, Lambros, can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“Who’re you talking to, Eliot? We have a sacred tenant-landlord relationship.”
Andrew opened another beer and took a long swig.
“Uh — you know I’ve been going to boarding schools since I was eight. The only girls we ever got to see were the ones they trucked in for tea dances and stuff. You know, prissy little ice maidens …”
“Yeah,” Ted replied. “I know the type.”
“Your high school was coed?”
“Sure, that’s one advantage of not having bucks.”
“So you must have been pretty young when you — uh — started going out with girls?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, treating the whole subject with an insouciant levity that suggested he was unaware of Andrew’s mounting anxiety.
“How old were you when you had your first — you know — experience?”
“Oh, about average,” Ted replied. “Maybe a little old, actually. I was almost sixteen.”
“Pro or amateur?”
“Oh, come on, Eliot, you don’t pay for that sort of thing. It was a hot pants little sophomore named Gloria. What about you?
“What about me?”
“How old were you when you lost it?”
“Ted,” Andrew muttered uneasily, “this may kind of shock you …”
“Don’t tell me, Eliot — you did it at eleven with your nanny!”
“I only wish. That’s what practically happened to Newall. No, what I wanted to tell you is — shit, this is so embarrassing — I still have it.”
The instant he confessed, Andrew was frightened that his friend might laugh. But instead, after a moment of reflection, Ted looked at him with genuine sympathy. “Hey, you got problems or something?”
“No — unless you call total fear a problem. I mean, I’ve had a lot of dates in the past few years, and I think some of them would have … cooperated. But I’ve been too scared to make the move. Because, frankly, Lambros, I’m not sure I have the technique. I mean, I’ve read all the books — Love Without Fear, The Ideal Marriage. But I’ve obsessed about it for so long that I’m scared of clutching at the crucial moment — if you know what I mean.”
Ted put a paternal hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “My boy, I think you need what the football team calls a ‘practice scrimmage.’ ”
“Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Hey, no sweat, Andy. There are plenty of chicks from my high school still around Cambridge. They’d be tickled to go out with a Harvard man — especially a sophisticated guy from Eliot House.”
“But, Ted,” he responded with frenzy in his voice, “they can’t be utter pigs. I mean, I’ve gotta be seen with them. You know, in the dining room, or on some kind of date.”
“No, no. You don’t have to wine ’em and dine ’em. You just invite ’em to your room and let nature take its course. And don’t worry, the one I have in mind for you is really great-looking.”
“Hey, not too good-looking. I want to start my career sort of at the bottom and work up. If you know what I mean.”
Ted Lambros laughed.
“Andy, Andy, stop being a goddamn puritan. Everything in life doesn’t have to be done the hard way. Look, why not meet me in front of Brigham’s at twelve-fifteen tomorrow? The little blonde ice-cream scooper is a real firecracker.”
He stood up and yawned. “Listen, it’s getting real late and I’ve got a nine o’clock. See you tomorrow.”
Andrew Eliot sat there shell-shocked. He had not expected things to move so fast. There were a million questions he still wanted to ask.
Outside Brigham’s the next day, he greeted Ted with annoyance.
“What the hell kept you? I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“Hey, I’m right on time. I had a class till noon. What’s the matter with you? C’mon, let’s get the show on the road.”
“Wait, wait, wait, Lambros. I’ve got to know what to do.”
Ted answered softly, “Listen, Eliot, just walk inside with me, order a cone, and when no one else is around I’ll introduce you to Lorraine.”
“Who’s Lorraine?”
“She’s your passport to paradise, baby. She’s a really good kid and just loves Harvard guys.”
“But, Ted, what exactly do I say?”
“Just give her one of your charming smiles and ask if she’d like to have a drink this afternoon. And Lorraine being Lorraine, she’ll say yes.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she’s never said ‘no’ to anything in her life.”
She came over the moment they reached the counter. Ted had not been lying — the girl was a real looker. As they chatted amicably, she leaned forward and Andrew could not keep from gazing down her carelessly unbuttoned uniform.
Wow, he thought, can this really be happening to me? God, I wish I’d spent more time rereading those manuals last night.
“So, what house are you in?” Lorraine inquired. “Uh — Eliot,” he replied without elaboration. Then he felt Ted’s elbow in his ribs and added, “Uh — would you like to come over this afternoon?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Parietals start at four, don’t they? I’ll just meet you at the gate. ’Scuse me now, I got customers getting impatient.”
“Well?” asked Ted when they were outside again. “Are you all set now?”
Set? He was about to pass out.
“Lambros,” he pleaded, “couldn’t you give me just a few tips? I mean about making the first move.”
Ted stopped as they were both in the middle of Harvard Square in a sea of noontime students.
“Andy,” he said indulgently, “say something casual like, ‘Lorraine, why don’t we go to the bedroom and fool around?’ ”
“Isn’t that a little crude?”
“Jesus, Eliot, she’s not Doris Day! I mean, she really loves to make it with Harvard guys.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly,” he repeated. And then as a final gesture he reached into his pocket and put something into Andrew’s hand.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a cultural first,” he replied, smiling. “You just got a Trojan from a Greek.”
September 29, 1956
Sex.
I had given it a lot of thought all summer as I sweated my guts out at the construction job my father had so considerately arranged to enhance my acquaintance with physical labor. While my roommates, Newall and Wig, were off cruising the better beaches in Europe, the only thing I got to lay all summer was a lot of bricks.
I returned to Harvard for junior year determined to succeed where I had never failed — because I’d never even had the guts to try.
I was going to lose my virginity.
Mike and Dick came home with these incredible tales of trysting the nights away with nymphs of every nationality and cup size.
And yet peer pressure prevented me from asking either of them for advice — or more specifically for a phone number. I’d become the laughingstock of the Porcellian — not to mention Eliot House, the crew and probably even the biddies who served in the dining hall.
In desperation I thought of trying the notorious bars around Scollay Square, but I couldn’t work up the courage to go on my own. And besides, the whole idea was kind of sordid.
Who could help me?
The answer became apocalyptically clear the first evening I returned to my library job. For there, grinding away at his usual table, was Ted Lambros.
This time it was Andrew who begged Ted to come to his room for an urgent conversation.
Ted was puzzled, since he had never seen his friend so agitated.
“What’s up, Eliot?”
“Uh. How was your vacation, Ted?”
“Not bad, except I only got to see Sara for a couple of weekends. Otherwise it was just business as usual at The Marathon. Anyway, what’s your problem?”
Andrew wondered how the hell he could broach it.
“Hey, Lambros, can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“Who’re you talking to, Eliot? We have a sacred tenant-landlord relationship.”
Andrew opened another beer and took a long swig.
“Uh — you know I’ve been going to boarding schools since I was eight. The only girls we ever got to see were the ones they trucked in for tea dances and stuff. You know, prissy little ice maidens …”
“Yeah,” Ted replied. “I know the type.”
“Your high school was coed?”
“Sure, that’s one advantage of not having bucks.”
“So you must have been pretty young when you — uh — started going out with girls?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, treating the whole subject with an insouciant levity that suggested he was unaware of Andrew’s mounting anxiety.
“How old were you when you had your first — you know — experience?”
“Oh, about average,” Ted replied. “Maybe a little old, actually. I was almost sixteen.”
“Pro or amateur?”
“Oh, come on, Eliot, you don’t pay for that sort of thing. It was a hot pants little sophomore named Gloria. What about you?
“What about me?”
“How old were you when you lost it?”
“Ted,” Andrew muttered uneasily, “this may kind of shock you …”
“Don’t tell me, Eliot — you did it at eleven with your nanny!”
“I only wish. That’s what practically happened to Newall. No, what I wanted to tell you is — shit, this is so embarrassing — I still have it.”
The instant he confessed, Andrew was frightened that his friend might laugh. But instead, after a moment of reflection, Ted looked at him with genuine sympathy. “Hey, you got problems or something?”
“No — unless you call total fear a problem. I mean, I’ve had a lot of dates in the past few years, and I think some of them would have … cooperated. But I’ve been too scared to make the move. Because, frankly, Lambros, I’m not sure I have the technique. I mean, I’ve read all the books — Love Without Fear, The Ideal Marriage. But I’ve obsessed about it for so long that I’m scared of clutching at the crucial moment — if you know what I mean.”
Ted put a paternal hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “My boy, I think you need what the football team calls a ‘practice scrimmage.’ ”
“Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Hey, no sweat, Andy. There are plenty of chicks from my high school still around Cambridge. They’d be tickled to go out with a Harvard man — especially a sophisticated guy from Eliot House.”
“But, Ted,” he responded with frenzy in his voice, “they can’t be utter pigs. I mean, I’ve gotta be seen with them. You know, in the dining room, or on some kind of date.”
“No, no. You don’t have to wine ’em and dine ’em. You just invite ’em to your room and let nature take its course. And don’t worry, the one I have in mind for you is really great-looking.”
“Hey, not too good-looking. I want to start my career sort of at the bottom and work up. If you know what I mean.”
Ted Lambros laughed.
“Andy, Andy, stop being a goddamn puritan. Everything in life doesn’t have to be done the hard way. Look, why not meet me in front of Brigham’s at twelve-fifteen tomorrow? The little blonde ice-cream scooper is a real firecracker.”
He stood up and yawned. “Listen, it’s getting real late and I’ve got a nine o’clock. See you tomorrow.”
Andrew Eliot sat there shell-shocked. He had not expected things to move so fast. There were a million questions he still wanted to ask.
Outside Brigham’s the next day, he greeted Ted with annoyance.
“What the hell kept you? I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“Hey, I’m right on time. I had a class till noon. What’s the matter with you? C’mon, let’s get the show on the road.”
“Wait, wait, wait, Lambros. I’ve got to know what to do.”
Ted answered softly, “Listen, Eliot, just walk inside with me, order a cone, and when no one else is around I’ll introduce you to Lorraine.”
“Who’s Lorraine?”
“She’s your passport to paradise, baby. She’s a really good kid and just loves Harvard guys.”
“But, Ted, what exactly do I say?”
“Just give her one of your charming smiles and ask if she’d like to have a drink this afternoon. And Lorraine being Lorraine, she’ll say yes.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she’s never said ‘no’ to anything in her life.”
She came over the moment they reached the counter. Ted had not been lying — the girl was a real looker. As they chatted amicably, she leaned forward and Andrew could not keep from gazing down her carelessly unbuttoned uniform.
Wow, he thought, can this really be happening to me? God, I wish I’d spent more time rereading those manuals last night.
“So, what house are you in?” Lorraine inquired. “Uh — Eliot,” he replied without elaboration. Then he felt Ted’s elbow in his ribs and added, “Uh — would you like to come over this afternoon?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Parietals start at four, don’t they? I’ll just meet you at the gate. ’Scuse me now, I got customers getting impatient.”
“Well?” asked Ted when they were outside again. “Are you all set now?”
Set? He was about to pass out.
“Lambros,” he pleaded, “couldn’t you give me just a few tips? I mean about making the first move.”
Ted stopped as they were both in the middle of Harvard Square in a sea of noontime students.
“Andy,” he said indulgently, “say something casual like, ‘Lorraine, why don’t we go to the bedroom and fool around?’ ”
“Isn’t that a little crude?”
“Jesus, Eliot, she’s not Doris Day! I mean, she really loves to make it with Harvard guys.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly,” he repeated. And then as a final gesture he reached into his pocket and put something into Andrew’s hand.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a cultural first,” he replied, smiling. “You just got a Trojan from a Greek.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
September 30, 1956
Had a really terrific day.
I’ll never forget Ted Lambros for the favor he did me.
As a matter of fact, I’ll never forget Lorraine, either.
***
Danny Rossi returned to Cambridge in September with a revised view of the world — and himself. Artur Rubinstein had praised his pianistic skills. He’d conducted a real symphony — if only for a minute.
Though he had hardly become a Casanova, his few brief encounters (two, to be precise) had led him to discover a new erogenous zone: the keyboard. He would now not be intimidated even by Brigitte Bardot — as long as there was a Steinway in the room.
To become a triple threat musician, all that remained was for him to start composing seriously. As promised, Walter Piston took him in his seminar and Danny began to write in earnest.
But he was growing ever more impatient to be free of all the trappings of “studenthood.” He had had enough of being known as some famous person’s pupil, protégé, or favorite. He now bridled at such distinctions. He was prepared to be a great man on his own.
The Composition Seminar disappointed him. For it seemed to consist only of exercises in the style of various past masters. When Danny complained of his frustration at the “limiting” assignments, Professor Piston tried to clarify the logic of the method.
“All great writers, whether they make prose or music, start by imitation. That’s what gives a man a sense of style. And only after that can he begin to forge his own. Be patient, Danny. After all, young Mozart wrote at first like pseudo-Haydn, and even Beethoven began by imitating Mozart. Don’t be so impulsive, you’re in august company.”
Danny heard the cautionary words but really didn’t listen. Events at Tanglewood that summer had turned his head. While dutifully fulfilling all of Piston’s course demands, he started to seek outlets for expressing his own musical personality.
And then the opportunity found him. His phone rang late one afternoon as he was finishing an essay at his desk.
“Is this Danny Rossi?” asked a slightly nervous female voice.
“Yes.”
“I’m Maria Pastore, president of the Radcliffe Dance Club. And — I hope you don’t think this is presumptuous — the group would like to put on an original ballet this spring. Naturally your name was the first one we all thought of. Please tell me if this is imposing and I won’t go on …”
“No, no,” Danny encouraged, “I’m very interested.”
“You are?” Maria said delightedly.
Sure,” Danny answered. “Who would be the choreographer?”
“Uh, well,” Maria responded shyly, “sort of me. I mean, I’m not a total neophyte. I’ve studied with Martha Graham and —”
“Please,” Danny said with exaggerated magnanimity, “we’re all just undergraduates. Why don’t we have dinner at Eliot and talk it over?”
“Gee, that would be terrific. Should I meet you near the superintendent’s office at, say, five-thirty or so?”
“No,” Danny answered. “Why not come around five? We can talk things over in my room before we eat.”
And inwardly he thought, If this Maria turns out to be a dog, I just won’t take her to the dining hall.
“Your room?” Her voice was slightly nervous once again. “Uh — yes,” he answered suavely. “I mean, I’ve got a piano here and everything. If not, we can meet sometime in Paine Hall. But I should definitely be near a keyboard.”
“Oh no, that’s okay,” Maria Pastore quickly responded, her tone belying her words, “your room would be fine. So I’ll see you Wednesday at five. I’m really excited about this. Thanks.”
She hung up. And Danny thought, I wonder how excited I’ll be.
At precisely 5:00 P.M. on Wednesday, November 14, there was a knock on Danny Rossi’s door.
“Come in,” he called out as he straightened his tie and then — took a sniff. He had somewhat overdone it with the shaving lotion. The room fairly reeked of Old Spice.
He rushed to the window and raised it a few inches. Then he opened the door.
“Hello,” said Maria Pastore.
She was so tall that at first Danny did not even see her face. But what he did perceive was interesting enough for his gaze to linger before moving upward.
She was extremely pretty, too. Long black hair framed her wide, soulful Mediterranean eyes. No question about it, they’d be eating dinner at Eliot that night. And many jaws would drop in admiration.
“Thanks for giving me a chance to talk to you,” Maria bubbled with enthusiasm.
“It’s my pleasure,” Danny Rossi replied gallantly. “Your idea interests me.”
“I haven’t actually explained it to you yet,” she answered shyly.
“Oh,” said Danny Rossi. “I mean, the notion of composing a ballet is really attractive. Uh — could I take your coat?”
“No, thanks,” Maria responded diffidently, “it’s kind of cold in here.”
“Oh yeah,” said Danny, hurrying to close the window. “I like fresh air. You know, it sort of keeps your head clear.
He motioned for her to sit down. She did so, and throughout their conversation remained bundled up. Danny sensed that it was not merely because of the wintry temperature.
She’s shy, he thought. But at least I’ll get to see what she’s been covering when we get to the dining hall.
“Drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you. It’s really not good for dancers.”
“I meant just a little drop of sherry.” (He believed the undergraduate maxim, “Whisky makes them frisky, but sherry makes them merry.”)
“I really don’t like alcohol,” Maria said in a tone that was almost apologetic.
“Coke?” asked Danny.
“Fine.”
As he listened intently to her ideas for a short ballet, Danny wondered whether Maria could sense that he was taking off her clothes as he was gazing at her. But in fact she was so nervous that she barely noticed anything.
It took her half an hour to present her concepts.
She had gone through the Idylls of Theocritus, the Eclogues of Virgil, and made some general notes from Robert Graves’s Greek Mythology, gathering enough material for a potential ballet scenario that she would call Arcadia (“for example, Apollo and Daphne could be an exciting sequence”). The principal dancers could be shepherds and shepherdesses, and for comic relief there could be a recurring motif of grotesque little satyrs running on and off stage chasing nymphs.
Danny thought the idea was terrific. This was going to be one hell of a stimulating project.
The next day at lunch, some guys he didn’t know passed by his table to remark on the extraordinary pulchritude of his dinner date the previous night. Danny smiled with masculine bravado.
Yeah, he thought, the Eliot House dining hall has never seen the likes of her. When certain cruder types came straight out and inquired, “Are you scoring with her, Rossi?’ he avoided the whole issue with genteel protectiveness of Miss Pastore’s honor.
But the truth was as he walked her all the way back to Radcliffe he had concluded that he probably would never even get to kiss her. She was much too tall. And though the plans they made would bring her to his room on many future afternoons, he stood no chance of making progress.
For she was five foot ten of Snow White — who, of course, was just platonic friends with all the dwarfs.
September 30, 1956
Had a really terrific day.
I’ll never forget Ted Lambros for the favor he did me.
As a matter of fact, I’ll never forget Lorraine, either.
Danny Rossi returned to Cambridge in September with a revised view of the world — and himself. Artur Rubinstein had praised his pianistic skills. He’d conducted a real symphony — if only for a minute.
Though he had hardly become a Casanova, his few brief encounters (two, to be precise) had led him to discover a new erogenous zone: the keyboard. He would now not be intimidated even by Brigitte Bardot — as long as there was a Steinway in the room.
To become a triple threat musician, all that remained was for him to start composing seriously. As promised, Walter Piston took him in his seminar and Danny began to write in earnest.
But he was growing ever more impatient to be free of all the trappings of “studenthood.” He had had enough of being known as some famous person’s pupil, protégé, or favorite. He now bridled at such distinctions. He was prepared to be a great man on his own.
The Composition Seminar disappointed him. For it seemed to consist only of exercises in the style of various past masters. When Danny complained of his frustration at the “limiting” assignments, Professor Piston tried to clarify the logic of the method.
“All great writers, whether they make prose or music, start by imitation. That’s what gives a man a sense of style. And only after that can he begin to forge his own. Be patient, Danny. After all, young Mozart wrote at first like pseudo-Haydn, and even Beethoven began by imitating Mozart. Don’t be so impulsive, you’re in august company.”
Danny heard the cautionary words but really didn’t listen. Events at Tanglewood that summer had turned his head. While dutifully fulfilling all of Piston’s course demands, he started to seek outlets for expressing his own musical personality.
And then the opportunity found him. His phone rang late one afternoon as he was finishing an essay at his desk.
“Is this Danny Rossi?” asked a slightly nervous female voice.
“Yes.”
“I’m Maria Pastore, president of the Radcliffe Dance Club. And — I hope you don’t think this is presumptuous — the group would like to put on an original ballet this spring. Naturally your name was the first one we all thought of. Please tell me if this is imposing and I won’t go on …”
“No, no,” Danny encouraged, “I’m very interested.”
“You are?” Maria said delightedly.
Sure,” Danny answered. “Who would be the choreographer?”
“Uh, well,” Maria responded shyly, “sort of me. I mean, I’m not a total neophyte. I’ve studied with Martha Graham and —”
“Please,” Danny said with exaggerated magnanimity, “we’re all just undergraduates. Why don’t we have dinner at Eliot and talk it over?”
“Gee, that would be terrific. Should I meet you near the superintendent’s office at, say, five-thirty or so?”
“No,” Danny answered. “Why not come around five? We can talk things over in my room before we eat.”
And inwardly he thought, If this Maria turns out to be a dog, I just won’t take her to the dining hall.
“Your room?” Her voice was slightly nervous once again. “Uh — yes,” he answered suavely. “I mean, I’ve got a piano here and everything. If not, we can meet sometime in Paine Hall. But I should definitely be near a keyboard.”
“Oh no, that’s okay,” Maria Pastore quickly responded, her tone belying her words, “your room would be fine. So I’ll see you Wednesday at five. I’m really excited about this. Thanks.”
She hung up. And Danny thought, I wonder how excited I’ll be.
At precisely 5:00 P.M. on Wednesday, November 14, there was a knock on Danny Rossi’s door.
“Come in,” he called out as he straightened his tie and then — took a sniff. He had somewhat overdone it with the shaving lotion. The room fairly reeked of Old Spice.
He rushed to the window and raised it a few inches. Then he opened the door.
“Hello,” said Maria Pastore.
She was so tall that at first Danny did not even see her face. But what he did perceive was interesting enough for his gaze to linger before moving upward.
She was extremely pretty, too. Long black hair framed her wide, soulful Mediterranean eyes. No question about it, they’d be eating dinner at Eliot that night. And many jaws would drop in admiration.
“Thanks for giving me a chance to talk to you,” Maria bubbled with enthusiasm.
“It’s my pleasure,” Danny Rossi replied gallantly. “Your idea interests me.”
“I haven’t actually explained it to you yet,” she answered shyly.
“Oh,” said Danny Rossi. “I mean, the notion of composing a ballet is really attractive. Uh — could I take your coat?”
“No, thanks,” Maria responded diffidently, “it’s kind of cold in here.”
“Oh yeah,” said Danny, hurrying to close the window. “I like fresh air. You know, it sort of keeps your head clear.
He motioned for her to sit down. She did so, and throughout their conversation remained bundled up. Danny sensed that it was not merely because of the wintry temperature.
She’s shy, he thought. But at least I’ll get to see what she’s been covering when we get to the dining hall.
“Drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you. It’s really not good for dancers.”
“I meant just a little drop of sherry.” (He believed the undergraduate maxim, “Whisky makes them frisky, but sherry makes them merry.”)
“I really don’t like alcohol,” Maria said in a tone that was almost apologetic.
“Coke?” asked Danny.
“Fine.”
As he listened intently to her ideas for a short ballet, Danny wondered whether Maria could sense that he was taking off her clothes as he was gazing at her. But in fact she was so nervous that she barely noticed anything.
It took her half an hour to present her concepts.
She had gone through the Idylls of Theocritus, the Eclogues of Virgil, and made some general notes from Robert Graves’s Greek Mythology, gathering enough material for a potential ballet scenario that she would call Arcadia (“for example, Apollo and Daphne could be an exciting sequence”). The principal dancers could be shepherds and shepherdesses, and for comic relief there could be a recurring motif of grotesque little satyrs running on and off stage chasing nymphs.
Danny thought the idea was terrific. This was going to be one hell of a stimulating project.
The next day at lunch, some guys he didn’t know passed by his table to remark on the extraordinary pulchritude of his dinner date the previous night. Danny smiled with masculine bravado.
Yeah, he thought, the Eliot House dining hall has never seen the likes of her. When certain cruder types came straight out and inquired, “Are you scoring with her, Rossi?’ he avoided the whole issue with genteel protectiveness of Miss Pastore’s honor.
But the truth was as he walked her all the way back to Radcliffe he had concluded that he probably would never even get to kiss her. She was much too tall. And though the plans they made would bring her to his room on many future afternoons, he stood no chance of making progress.
For she was five foot ten of Snow White — who, of course, was just platonic friends with all the dwarfs.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 12, 1956
There is a common misconception that preppies are perpetually cool. Calm. Unruffled. Never get ulcers. Never even sweat or get their hair messed up. Well, let me put the lie to that. A preppie hath eyes. He hath hands, organs, passions. If you prick him, he will bleed. And if you hurt him, he may even cry.
Thus it was with my longtime friend and roommate, Michael Wigglesworth, Boston Brahmin, tall and handsome, stroke on the crew and general good guy.
None of this, not even the genuine affection of his teammates and his buddies in the Porc or the admiration of his many friends in Eliot House, could keep his mind intact. When he went home to Fairfield for the weekend, his fiancée calmly informed him that, upon reflection, she’d decided to marry some older guy — who was nearly thirty.
Wig seemed to take all this with stoic equanimity. At least till he got back to school. Then one evening, as he was going through the dinner line, he cheerfully remarked to one of the serving biddies, “I’m going to kill the Christmas turkey.”
Since he was giggling at the time, the matrons laughed as well, Then, from inside his baggy, well-worn J. Press jacket, Wig produced a fire ax. And, swinging wildly, he proceeded to chase a turkey — which apparently only he was able to see — around the perimeter of the dining room.
Tables overturned, plates flew in the air. Everybody — tutors, students, Cliffie guests — scattered frantically. Someone called the campus cops, but when they arrived they too were scared shitless. The only guy who had the cool to deal with the situation was senior tutor Whitney Porter. He slowly approached Wig and with unwavering calm asked if Michael was finished with the hatchet.
This innocent question, so ingenuously posed, made Wig stop swinging and take stock. He didn’t answer right away. I think he was gradually beginning to realize that there was a lethal weapon in his hand, for a purpose that was not entirely clear to him.
With the same uncanny tranquility, Whitney again asked Michael for the ax.
Wigglesworth was nothing if not polite. He immediately offered the implement (handle first) to the senior tutor, saying, “Yes, sir, Dr. Porter.”
By then a couple of doctors from the Health Service had shown up. The medics led Mike off, and, no doubt to their eternal gratitude, Dr. Porter insisted on riding with them to the hospital.
I went to visit him as soon as they would let me. And it really broke my heart to see our Harvard Hercules looking so helpless. And alternating between tears and laughter. The doctor said he would “need a lot of rest.” In other words, they really didn’t know when — or probably even how — he would get better.
***
Ten days after Michael Wigglesworth’s precipitous departure, Master Finley called Andrew into his office for a chat. It began, as so many of their previous conversations had, with many repetitions of his surname in various tones. The Eliot declarative, the Eliot meditative, the Eliot interrogative. These prefatory invocations once pronounced, he then said, “Eliot, I regard you not only as an eponym but a true epigone.”
(Right after the conversation, Andrew sprinted back to his dictionary to discover that he had been praised first for stemming from the family that gave the name to his house, and second for being worthy of that name.)
“Eliot, Eliot,” Master Finley repeated, “I am sorely troubled by the fate of Wigglesworth. I have been searching my heart and wondering whether there were signs I should have noticed. But I always regarded him as a veritable Ajax.”
Andrew was slightly lost. The only Ajax he knew was a foaming cleanser.
“You know, Eliot,” the scholar continued, “Ajax, ‘the wall of the Achaians’ — second only to Achilles himself.”
“Yes,” Andrew agreed, “Wig was a real ‘wall.’ ”
“I would see him every morning,” the master continued, “as the crew stroked past my window. He looked hale.”
“The crew is going to miss him.”
“We all shall,” said Finley, shaking his silver mane sadly. “We all shall.”
The great man’s next words were not unexpected.
“Eliot, Eliot,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Eliot, Michael’s untimely departure leaves us with a space both in our house and in our hearts. And while one cannot find a second Wigglesworth, perhaps Destiny has played a hand in all of this.”
He stood up, as if to spread his rhetorical wings. “Eliot,” he continued, “who can be unaware of the tragic events of recent days? As, after Troy fell, countless innocent inhabitants were iactati aequore toto … reliquiae Danaum atque immitis Achilli …”
Andrew had had enough prep school Latin to realize the master was quoting the Aeneid. Was he about to say that Wig’s place was going to be filled by a Trojan student?
Finley was frantically pacing the room, frequently gazing out onto the river where hale Mike Wigglesworth would never more be seen, when he suddenly whirled and fixed Andrew with a coruscating gaze.
“Eliot,” he concluded, “George Keller will be arriving tomorrow evening.”
November 12, 1956
There is a common misconception that preppies are perpetually cool. Calm. Unruffled. Never get ulcers. Never even sweat or get their hair messed up. Well, let me put the lie to that. A preppie hath eyes. He hath hands, organs, passions. If you prick him, he will bleed. And if you hurt him, he may even cry.
Thus it was with my longtime friend and roommate, Michael Wigglesworth, Boston Brahmin, tall and handsome, stroke on the crew and general good guy.
None of this, not even the genuine affection of his teammates and his buddies in the Porc or the admiration of his many friends in Eliot House, could keep his mind intact. When he went home to Fairfield for the weekend, his fiancée calmly informed him that, upon reflection, she’d decided to marry some older guy — who was nearly thirty.
Wig seemed to take all this with stoic equanimity. At least till he got back to school. Then one evening, as he was going through the dinner line, he cheerfully remarked to one of the serving biddies, “I’m going to kill the Christmas turkey.”
Since he was giggling at the time, the matrons laughed as well, Then, from inside his baggy, well-worn J. Press jacket, Wig produced a fire ax. And, swinging wildly, he proceeded to chase a turkey — which apparently only he was able to see — around the perimeter of the dining room.
Tables overturned, plates flew in the air. Everybody — tutors, students, Cliffie guests — scattered frantically. Someone called the campus cops, but when they arrived they too were scared shitless. The only guy who had the cool to deal with the situation was senior tutor Whitney Porter. He slowly approached Wig and with unwavering calm asked if Michael was finished with the hatchet.
This innocent question, so ingenuously posed, made Wig stop swinging and take stock. He didn’t answer right away. I think he was gradually beginning to realize that there was a lethal weapon in his hand, for a purpose that was not entirely clear to him.
With the same uncanny tranquility, Whitney again asked Michael for the ax.
Wigglesworth was nothing if not polite. He immediately offered the implement (handle first) to the senior tutor, saying, “Yes, sir, Dr. Porter.”
By then a couple of doctors from the Health Service had shown up. The medics led Mike off, and, no doubt to their eternal gratitude, Dr. Porter insisted on riding with them to the hospital.
I went to visit him as soon as they would let me. And it really broke my heart to see our Harvard Hercules looking so helpless. And alternating between tears and laughter. The doctor said he would “need a lot of rest.” In other words, they really didn’t know when — or probably even how — he would get better.
Ten days after Michael Wigglesworth’s precipitous departure, Master Finley called Andrew into his office for a chat. It began, as so many of their previous conversations had, with many repetitions of his surname in various tones. The Eliot declarative, the Eliot meditative, the Eliot interrogative. These prefatory invocations once pronounced, he then said, “Eliot, I regard you not only as an eponym but a true epigone.”
(Right after the conversation, Andrew sprinted back to his dictionary to discover that he had been praised first for stemming from the family that gave the name to his house, and second for being worthy of that name.)
“Eliot, Eliot,” Master Finley repeated, “I am sorely troubled by the fate of Wigglesworth. I have been searching my heart and wondering whether there were signs I should have noticed. But I always regarded him as a veritable Ajax.”
Andrew was slightly lost. The only Ajax he knew was a foaming cleanser.
“You know, Eliot,” the scholar continued, “Ajax, ‘the wall of the Achaians’ — second only to Achilles himself.”
“Yes,” Andrew agreed, “Wig was a real ‘wall.’ ”
“I would see him every morning,” the master continued, “as the crew stroked past my window. He looked hale.”
“The crew is going to miss him.”
“We all shall,” said Finley, shaking his silver mane sadly. “We all shall.”
The great man’s next words were not unexpected.
“Eliot, Eliot,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Eliot, Michael’s untimely departure leaves us with a space both in our house and in our hearts. And while one cannot find a second Wigglesworth, perhaps Destiny has played a hand in all of this.”
He stood up, as if to spread his rhetorical wings. “Eliot,” he continued, “who can be unaware of the tragic events of recent days? As, after Troy fell, countless innocent inhabitants were iactati aequore toto … reliquiae Danaum atque immitis Achilli …”
Andrew had had enough prep school Latin to realize the master was quoting the Aeneid. Was he about to say that Wig’s place was going to be filled by a Trojan student?
Finley was frantically pacing the room, frequently gazing out onto the river where hale Mike Wigglesworth would never more be seen, when he suddenly whirled and fixed Andrew with a coruscating gaze.
“Eliot,” he concluded, “George Keller will be arriving tomorrow evening.”
GEORGE KELLER
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
Budapest, October 1956
George’s childhood had been dominated by two monsters: Joseph Stalin — and his own father. The only difference between the two was that Stalin terrorized millions, and his father merely terrorized George.
True enough, “Istvan the Terrible,” as George often thought of him, had never actually killed or even imprisoned anybody. He was merely a minor official in the Hungarian People’s Working Party who used Marxist-Leninist jargon to castigate his son.
“Why does he flagellate me?” George would complain to his sister, Marika. “I’m a better socialist than he is. I mean, I believe in the theory, anyway. And even though I think the party stinks, I’ve joined for his sake. Why is he so fed up?”
Marika tried to mollify her brother. And comfort him. For, try as he did to deny it, George was genuinely upset by the old man’s disapproval.
“Well,” she said softly, “he’d like your hair a little shorter…”
“What? Does he want me to shave my skull? I mean, lots of my friends wear Elvis Presley ducktails.”
“He doesn’t like your friends either, Gyuri.”
“I don’t know why,” said George, shaking his head in consternation. “They’re all sons of party members. Some are big shots, too. And they’re a lot easier on their children than Father is.”
“He just wants you to stay home and study, Gyuri. Be honest, you’re out almost every evening.”
“You be honest, Marika. I graduated first in my gimnazium class. I’m studying Soviet law —”
At that very moment Istvan Kolozsdi entered the room and, immediately taking command, finished his son’s sentence.
“You are at the university because of my party status, yompetz, and don’t forget it. If you were merely a clever Catholic or Jew, it wouldn’t matter how high your grades were. You would be sweeping some provincial street. Be grateful you are the son of a party minister.”
“Assistant minister,” George corrected him, “in the Farm Collectivization Office.”
“You say it as if it were a disgrace, Gyuri.”
“Well, it’s hardly democratic for a government to force people to farm against their will —”
“We do not force —”
“Please, Father,” Gyuri answered with an exasperated sigh, “you’re not talking to some naive idiot.”
“No, I’m talking to a yompetz, a worthless hooligan. And as for that girlfriend of yours —”
“How can you criticize Aniko, Father? The party thinks she’s good enough to study pharmacy.”
“Still, it hurts my standing when you’re seen with her. Aniko’s a bad type. She malingers. She sits in cafés in Vaci Ucca listening to Western music.”
What really annoys you, George thought, is that I sit right next to her. Last Sunday in the Kedves we heard Cole Porter for nearly three hours.
“Father,” said George, hoping for reasonable debate instead of a brawl, “if socialist music is so great, why doesn’t the Stalin Cantata have any good tunes?”
Livid, the government official turned to his daughter. “I won’t talk to this yompetz anymore. He’s a disgrace to our entire family.”
“I’ll change my name,” George said facetiously.
“Please,” said the old man, “the sooner the better.” He stormed out and slammed the door.
George turned to his sister. “Now what the hell did I do?”
Marika shrugged. She had been the referee in these father-and-son combats for as long as she could remember. There seemed to have been conflict ever since their mother died — when George was five and she only two and a half.
The old man was never the same after that. And in his fits of bitterness he would vent his anger on his eldest child. While she tried to grow up as quickly as she could to be a mediating force — a mother to her brother and a wife to him.
“Try and understand, George, he’s had a very hard life.”
“That’s no excuse for giving me one. But in a way I understand. He feels trapped in his job. Yes, Marika, even socialist officials harbor ambitions. The Farm Program is an unmitigated disaster. His boss naturally blames him, so who can he let out his frustrations on? Sometimes I wish we had a dog so he could kick it instead of me.”
Marika realized that, despite George’s angry protestations, at a certain level he genuinely sympathized with his father’s disappointment. Yet, the old man had done well for someone who had begun life as an apprentice shoemaker in Kaposvar. Istvan Kolozsdi’s greatest misfortune was that he had sired a son whose brilliance would inevitably show how mediocre he really was.
Somewhere in their hearts, the two men knew it. And this made them afraid to love each other.
“I have tremendous news!” called Aniko as she dashed across Muzeum Boulevard to catch George between lectures at the Law Faculty.
“Don’t tell me,” he smiled, “the pregnancy test was negative.”
“That I won’t know till Friday,” she replied, “but listen to this — the Polish students are striking to support Gomulka — and we’re organizing a sympathy march.”
“Aniko, the Secret Police will never let you get away with it. Those AVO thugs will beat your brains in, Or else our friendly Russian ‘visitors’ will.”
“Gyuri Kolozsdi, not only will you march with me, but you will carry one of the posters I’ve spent all morning painting. Now, which one would you like — ‘Hail Polish youth’? ‘Russians get out’?”
George smiled. Wouldn’t the sight of him carrying such a placard warm his father’s heart? “I’ll take that,” he said, pointing at “New Leadership for Hungary.”
They kissed.
March Fifteenth Square was electric with anticipation. Thousands of demonstrators had crowded onto its grassy turf, carrying posters and flags. There were delegations from factories, schools, and universities. A young actor from the National Theater clambered up the statue of Sándor Petofi and began to declaim the poet’s “National Hymn,” which had ignited Hungary’s 1848 Revolution.
The ever-increasing throng joined in with special vigor when they reached “Most vagy soha — now or never!”
For the first time, George began to feel that something important was happening. And he was a part of it.
At last the procession began, led by chanting demonstrators who carried a wreath of red carnations. They began to pour into the main city streets, blocking traffic as they passed. But there was no animosity. Many motorists simply locked their cars and joined the marchers, whose ranks had already been swelled by the shop owners and workers all along the way. Every window, every balcony was filled with families waving encouragement.
As if by magic, Budapest was transformed into a boundless field of red, white, and green. People everywhere had fashioned tricolors of ribbons, cloth — and even paper. When the students took their final turn into Jozsef Bem Square, they could see that the statue at the center was already draped with a huge Hungarian flag, the Soviet coat of arms torn out of its center.
Toward sunset, many students talked about going to dem onstrate in front of Parliament. Others proposed an attack on the great statue of Stalin that had for so many years stood in the center of the City Park looking down at Budapest with cast-iron mockery. George and Aniko held hands and let the mainstream carry them back across the river toward Parliament Square.
“What do you think the government will do?” George asked.
“Resign. They have to.”
The immensity of the crowd in Parliament Square was almost frightening. Hundreds of thousands — it seemed like millions — were laying siege to the venerable government edifice with its embroidered Gothic pinnacles. All were shouting for the return of the only leader they trusted, Imre Nagy, who had been removed from office by the Russians the year before.
Evening became night and the air grew bitingly cold. But many had made torches of the newspapers and pamphlets they held in their hands and continued to shout for Nagy.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a slight figure appeared on a balcony. From the front rows a ripple of voices began to echo and crescendo toward the back. “It’s Nagy, it’s Nagy!” Somewhat weakly, himself overcome by the emotion of the moment, the deposed leader raised his hand to plead for silence.
“Has he gone mad?” George wondered out loud, “He’s waving his hands like a lunatic.”
But in an instant all became clear. He was leading the massive throng in the singing of the national anthem. It was a stroke of genius!
After the song ended, Nagy disappeared as swiftly as he had materialized. The crowd — thrilled and elated now — began to break up. Instinctively, they knew no more would happen that night. At least not in Parliament Square.
George and Aniko were halfway back to the university when they heard gunfire. He took her hand and they began to run down toward Muzeum Boulevard. The cobblestone streets swarmed with people, excited, curious, frightened.
When they reached the Muzeum Garden, there were still traces of tear gas in the air. She took out a handkerchief and held it to her face. George’s eyes were beginning to burn. A hysterical young girl was shrieking that the Secret Police had massacred defenseless people.
“We’re going to kill every one of those bastards!” she sobbed.
“Fat chance,” George whispered to Aniko. “I’ll believe it when I see my first dead AVO man.”
He took her hand and they began to run again.
Less than a block later, they stopped in their tracks, horrified. Above them, strung up by his feet from a lamppost, were the bloody remains of a Secret Police officer. George felt sick.
“Gyuri,” said Aniko with a shudder, “we know what they did to their prisoners.”
On the next block they saw corpses of two more AVO agents.
“God,” Aniko pleaded, “I can’t bear this anymore.”
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Well, yompetz, I see they haven’t arrested you yet.”
It was nearly 5:00 A.M. Istvan Kolozsdi was seated close to the radio, exhausted, smoking nervously. Marika rushed to embrace her brother.
“Gyuri, we’ve been hearing such terrible rumors. I feared that something had happened to you.”
“Forget rumors, Marika,” the patriarch interrupted. “The truth has just been on the news.”
“Really?” George said softly. “And what is Radio Budapest’s version of tonight’s events?”
“There was a small Fascist insurrection, which the police have dealt with severely,” said Istvan Kolozsdi. “And where have you been all evening?”
George sat down in a chair opposite his father, leaned forward, and said with a smile, “Listening to Imre Nagy.”
“You are mad. Nagy is a nonperson.”
“Try telling that to the thousands who cheered him in Parliament Square. And we’re going to get him back as party leader.”
“And I’m getting my hair back on my head. You’re all a bunch of crazy idiots.”
“Spoken like a true socialist,” said George, as he headed out of the room. “I’m going to sleep. Even lunatics need rest.”
Scarcely three hours later, his sister was prodding him. “Wake up, Gyuri. Nagy is named premier! It’s just been on the news.”
George forced his weary body to get out of bed. He had to see his father’s face.
Still buttoning his shirt, he shuffled into the sitting room. The old man seemed welded to the spot beside the radio, surrounded by ashtrays spilling over with cigarette butts.
As Marika handed George a cup of black coffee, he asked his father, “Well?”
The patriarch looked up and, without the slightest trace of irony, replied, “You have never heard me say a word against Imre Nagy. In any case, he must have the blessing of Moscow, because he has asked for help from the Soviet troops.”
“Now I think you’re the dreamer, Father.” And then, turning to his sister, he said, “When Aniko calls, tell her I’ve left for the university.”
He tossed a jacket over his shoulder and hurried from the house.
In the years that followed, George looked back at this moment and wondered why he had neglected to say more of a farewell. Not to his father. For he was angered by the old man’s shameless display of hypocrisy. But why had he not been more affectionate to Marika?
He was never able to console himself with the thought that, on that cold October morning in 1956, he could not have dreamed how far he was going.
The university was a tornado of rumors. After every radio broadcast, people would scurry around the hall like town criers. The exhausted students cheered upon hearing that President Eisenhower had said, “The heart of America goes out to the people of Hungary.” They sang to one another, “The whole world is watching!”
But the peak of euphoria came on Tuesday afternoon, when Premier Nagy announced that the evacuation of Soviet troops had begun. George must have knocked down six people as he dashed ecstatically across the room to embrace Aniko.
On the morning of November first, George was rudely awakened by Geza, a fellow law student.
“What the hell —”
And then he noticed something very odd. Scrawny Geza today looked like a circus fat man. George rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
“What the hell has happened to you?” he asked. “We’ve got to get out of here,”
Geza said. “I’m wearing all my clothes — at least everything I could squeeze on — and heading for Vienna.”
“Have you lost your mind? The Soviets are gone. Don’t you hear Radio Free Europe?”
“Yes, but I also hear my cousin in the village of Gyor. He rang about two hours ago and said there were hundreds of Russian tanks massing at the western border. They’re just regrouping to come back.”
“Is he sure?”
“Do you want to wait and find out?” George hesitated, but only for a split second. “Let me get Aniko,” he said.
“Okay, but make it snappy.”
She was reluctant.
“What makes you so sure the Soviets are coming back?”
“How many reasons do you want?” George answered impatiently. “Look, if Hungary goes independent, that will give the Poles and the Czechs big ideas. Then boom, the Russian empire tumbles like a house of cards.”
Her face grew pale. She was frightened by the magnitude of the decision being forced upon her.
“But what about my mother — she can’t manage without me.”
“She will have to,” George replied impassively. He put his arms around her. She was sobbing quietly.
“Let me at least call her,” she pleaded.
“Yes. But please be quick.”
They started walking. George and Aniko with just the clothing on their backs, Geza wearing his entire wardrobe. As they reached the outskirts of Buda, George saw a phone booth and suddenly thought of his sister.
“Anybody got some change?” he asked.
Aniko pressed a coin into his hand.
“Gyuri,” his sister said anxiously, “where are you? Even Father’s been concerned.”
“Listen,” he replied, “I’m in a hurry —”
Just then, Geza stuck his head into the booth and Whispered, “Tell her the Voice of America is passing code messages from refugees who make it across.”
George nodded.
“Please, Marika, don’t ask me any questions. Just listen to the Voice of America. If they say that —” He hesitated once again. “That ‘Karl Marx is dead’ — that’ll mean I’m all right.”
“Gyuri, I don’t understand. You sound scared.”
“I am,” he confessed, and then added, “so for God’s sake, pray that he does die.”
He hung up without another word.
“What about your father?” Aniko asked. “Won’t he get into trouble when they learn you’ve fled the country?”
“Listen, he’s a consummate politician, with a genius for self-preservation. He’ll be just fine, I assure you.”
And in his heart he thought, He turned his back on me during my whole childhood, why should I care what happens to him now?
They plodded on in silence. The only traffic on the road was the occasional ancient truck — nearly always heading toward the western border. Once in a while the trio would get a lift for a few dozen kilometers. The drivers never asked where they were going or why.
It was nearly nightfall when they reached the outskirts of Gyor.
“What do we do now?” George asked Geza. “It’s much too cold to sleep outside, and I’ve barely got a few forints in my pocket for food.”
“I don’t even have enough for a bowl of soup,” Aniko added.
Geza merely smiled. “Leave it to me. Do you have the strength to walk another hour?”
“Only if I knew we could get inside somewhere,” said George. Aniko nodded agreement.
“Tibor Kovacs’s parents live in Enese — about ten kilometers from here. He was going to leave with us. His parents would be expecting him.”
Aniko gasped. “Don’t they know he was shot two nights ago?”
“No,” Geza replied, “and there’s no point in telling them.”
And he began to lead them toward Enese.
In half an hour, they were trudging down an icy country road lit only by moonlight. They had been walking since early morning and were almost too tired to speak.
“Tomorrow would be a good day to try to make it across,” said Geza. “It’s All Souls’ Day. The roads will be filled. Everybody will be going to the cemeteries.”
The Kovacs family was glad to welcome friends of their son and did not seem concerned that he was not with them. He had been instructing various groups of the newly formed militia in the use of arms, so that George’s fabrication — that Tibor was needed for another few days in Budapest — seemed perfectly plausible.
Dinner was a dream. Unlike the capital city, the villages had plenty of food, and Mrs. Kovacs set before them a feast of chicken and vegetables. There was even a bottle of Tokay.
“I admire you.” Mr. Kovacs smiled broadly. “If I were a few years younger, I’d be going, too. For sure as snow will fall tomorrow, the Russians will be back. Everyone I speak to has seen the tanks. They are off the main road, but they are out there in the forests, waiting like hungry bears.”
Aniko was offered Tibor’s bed. Though inwardly horrified, she knew she had to accept. The two young men curled up by the fire in the main room.
The next morning it was snowing heavily.
Geza looked at George and Aniko. “In this weather, I think the best idea is to try to catch a train to Sopron. From there, we have a long and very sparse border with Austria. If we are lucky, we should be able to walk across tonight.”
At midday they thanked the Kovacses and started off, leaving all sorts of encouraging messages for Tibor.
At the outskirts of the village, they got their first shock. The Russian tanks were no longer hiding behind trees. Two of them were squatting right in the center of the road.
“Well?” George asked Geza.
“Don’t panic, Gyuri. It’s snowing like hell and they don’t seem to be paying very close attention. We’re not carrying any luggage, so why should they suspect us of anything?”
“You, Geza, look like a walking football in all those clothes,” said George. “If you intend to try to bluff your way past those tanks, you’d better strip down.”
A sudden look of anxiety crossed Geza’s face. He was loath to part with five-sixths of his worldly possessions.
“Let’s go around the town and see if we can reach the railroad from the other side,” he insisted nervously.
And so they set off.
But there were two more tanks at the farther entrance to the village. They had hiked for more than an hour in the snow to no purpose. George and Aniko stared at Geza. Without a word, he began to unbutton his top jacket. His fingers were trembling — and not merely from the cold.
“Who — who — who’ll do the talking?”
“Come on, Geza,” George replied, “we’ve all had at least six years of Russian. Let’s just be sure we tell the same story.”
“Your accent is the best, George,” Geza insisted. “It would be much better if you spoke for us. Besides, when it comes to inventing lies, you’re something of a genius.”
“All right, comrade,” said George, “I’ll be our ambassador.” After Geza removed his penultimate suit and buried the rest of his garments in a snowdrift, they started off toward the tanks.
“Stoi! Kto idyot?”
A soldier asked them to identify themselves. George took a few steps forward and began to engage him in impeccable Russian.
“We are three students from Eotvos Lorand University, visiting a friend who is ill with glandular fever. We would like to take the train back to Budapest. Do you wish to see our papers?”
The soldier had a whispered conversation with one of his colleagues and then turned back to George.
“That will not be necessary. Proiditye!” And he waved them on. They hurried into the village, toward the train station, their hearts pounding.
“Damn,” said Geza, pointing to the station up ahead. “They have tanks there too.”
“Ignore them,” George replied. “I don’t think these soldiers know what they’re supposed to do, anyway.”
He was right. No one stopped them from getting onto the platform, where a very crowded train was about to leave. There was much noise and confusion. All three of them called desperately to various people, “Sopron? Going to Sopron?”
There was shouting and waving from inside the train, which now began slowly to pull out. Geza leapt on board first. George helped Aniko and then clambered on himself. In an instant, they had left the station.
There was not a single empty seat, so they stood in the corridor looking out the window. Each knew what the other two were thinking. In an hour and a half at most they’d be in Sopron. And then the border.
There were startling new additions to the otherwise familiar Hungarian landscape. Russian tanks. Everywhere. All with their guns aimed straight at the train.
They did not exchange a word in the next half-hour.
Then came the shock.
“George,” said Geza, sounding as if a noose were around his neck, “do you see where we are?”
George looked beyond the Soviet armor. His heart nearly stopped.
“We’re going in the wrong direction! The damn train isn’t going to Sopron — it’s going back to Budapest!” Aniko grabbed his arm in terror.
The train suddenly halted with a jolt. Aniko fell against George, who kept his balance only because he was holding on to the window rail. The passengers glanced at one another in fear and confusion. George’s eyes were fixed on the Russian tanks outside the window.
“You don’t think they’re going to shoot, do you?” Aniko whispered.
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” he replied, biting his lip.
Then, suddenly, at the far end of the car, a conductor in a faded blue-gray uniform appeared, trying to weave his way through the crowd. Questions were fired at him from every direction. He cupped his hands and announced:
“We cannot enter Budapest. Repeat, we cannot enter Budapest. The Soviets have surrounded the city and there is fierce shelling.” And then the most startling piece of information: “We are turning back. We must go all the way to Sopron.”
Geza, George, and Aniko looked at one another. There was jubilation in their eyes. In a few moments, the train started up slowly… away from the Soviet stranglehold on Budapest.
The entire journey toward the border seemed to be through a corridor of tanks. When they finally arrived and stepped onto the Sopron station platform, hope permitted them to take one deep breath. So far, so good.
It was now late afternoon.
“Which way is the border?” George asked Geza.
“I don’t know,” he confessed.
“Well, what the hell do you expect us to do?” he snapped. “Ask some Russian soldier?”
Then it occurred to Aniko. “Isn’t there a School of Forestry here? We could ask a student.”
She didn’t have to finish her thought. In a split second, George had obtained directions from an elderly woman and they were off.
The minute they entered the great hail, a young man in a beret asked, “Do you need ammo, comrade?”
The atmosphere inside the school was actually festive. Dozens of patriots were arming to drive the Russian invaders from their homeland.
They were each given a piece of bread, a cup of cocoa — and a handful of bullets scooped out from a large vat.
“Where are the weapons?” George asked, his mouth stuffed with bread.
“They will come, comrade, they will come.”
The three of them went to sit down in a corner and plan their next move. One thing was certain. They had not come all this way to join a doomed rebellion.
“These people are crazy,” said Ceza, shifting a half-dozen bullets from hand to hand as if they were mixed nuts. “The shells are all of different calibers. I don’t see two alike. What are they going to do — spit them at the Russians?”
And then he rose and walked off to seek out geographical orientation.
George and Aniko looked at each other. This was the first time they had been alone in days.
“How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Scared. I hope we can make it.”
She clasped his hand.
“Don’t worry,” he replied. And then after a few minutes inquired, “By the way, what did you tell your mother?”
“I know you’ll laugh, but it’s the only thing she would’ve believed.” She smiled weakly. “I said we were going off to get married.”
He grinned wearily and squeezed her hand.
“Maybe it won’t be a lie, Aniko.”
“Do you really mean it, George?”
He hesitated for a split second and replied, “Why else did I bring you along?”
Then they both leaned back, silent and exhausted.
A few minutes later she said sadly, “I wonder how it’s going in Budapest.”
“You must force yourself not to think of these things,” he replied.
She nodded. But, unlike him, she could not so easily eradicate her memories.
Geza reappeared. “Austria is a few kilometers’ walk through those woods back there. If we left now, we could still get there by nightfall.”
George looked at Aniko. She stood up, saying nothing.
It had begun to snow heavily again. Thick, silent chunks of white. All three of them were soon soaked and freezing. Their thin city shoes made it worse than walking barefoot.
But they were not alone. Every few minutes a group or a family with children would pass. Some times they would merely nod. At others, they’d exchange what meager information they possessed. Yes, we think the frontier is in that direction. Yes, we did hear that most of the Border Patrol has deserted. No, we haven’t seen any Russian soldiers.
Deep in the forest they would pass bunkers from which submachine guns protruded menacingly. These were Border Guard stations, apparently — hopefully — unoccupied. They just moved on, half-expecting a sudden burst of bullets in the back.
The snow reflected an eerie light. In the distance, they heard a growling dog. They stopped in their tracks, paralyzed.
“Is it the guards?” Geza whispered in a panic.
“How the hell do I know?” George shot back. A second or two later, a man with a German shepherd crossed their path. But that was all he was — just a local peasant out for a stroll with his dog. They pressed forward again.
Less than five minutes later, they were out of the woods. On a hill overlooking what had to be the Austrian border. They could see soldiers in overcoats stopping vehicles at a gate, talking, gesturing for documents, et cetera. Some cars were waved through, others turned away.
“Well, we’re here,” Geza announced, a tinge of triumph in his exhausted voice.
“Yeah,” George commented wryly, “now all we have to do is get past the guards. Anybody know how to fly?”
The next words were spoken in a strange voice.
“Halt — put your hands in the air!”
They whirled and saw two men in uniform behind them. One was holding a machine gun.
Damn — the Border Patrol!
“You weren’t intending to go on a picnic in Austria, by some chance?”
Neither George nor Geza nor Aniko answered. They were numb beyond despair. The second officer had a radio, with which he now began to contact headquarters.
Knowing they had nothing to lose, George tried desperate diplomacy.
“Listen, we’re all Hungarians. In a few hours, we’ll be Russian prisoners. And I mean you guys, too. Why don’t we all —”
“Silence!” barked the man with the radio. “We have caught you illegally attempting to cross the frontier.”
But the soldier with the gun seemed to be trying to catch George’s eye. Could he be hallucinating — or was the officer tilting his head slightly as if to say, “Run for it”?
Actually, it didn’t matter. This was their last chance for freedom and they all instinctively knew it.
He touched Aniko’s hand lightly. She understood. And at the same instant they both broke into a run. Geza, equally hungry for survival, dashed to the left as George and Aniko bolted to the right.
They had taken two or three steps before the bullets began whistling through the air. Perhaps the gunner was not really aiming, but George didn’t want to find out. He tucked his head down and sprinted and sprinted and sprinted.
George had no idea how long he had been running. He knew only that he still did not feel tired. He flailed on and on in the knee-deep snow until gradually he began to realize there was no more gunfire. In fact, there was no noise at all. Suddenly, he found himself in a vast, empty field of snow.
He felt safe enough to slacken his pace. Only now did he sense that he was exhausted and near collapse. All he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. He turned to look at Aniko.
But he saw nothing. No one. Gradually, painfully, he began to comprehend that she was no longer with him. He had been too preoccupied with his own flight to think of her.
Had she tripped and fallen? Lost her way in that blinding snow? Had one of the many bullets struck her?
George started to retrace his steps, wondering if he should call her name. He opened his mouth, but no voice emerged. He was afraid. Afraid to attract attention. And if he kept heading back, the police might get him. As they might already have gotten her. Was there any point to committing suicide?
No, Aniko would want him to go on and save himself. He turned again, trying not to think of the girl who loved him and left everything to be with him.
Moments later, in the distance, he saw — or thought he saw — the outline of a tower against the evening sky. Then he recognized it as a steeple.
They don’t have churches like that in Hungary, he realized. This has to be Austria. He set out toward the horizon.
Half an hour later, Gyorgy Kolozsdi staggered into the Austrian town of Neunkirchen. The villagers were celebrating some local festival. As soon as he appeared, they knew who he was. Or at least what he was. A plump, ruddy-faced man approached, pointing a finger at him.
“Bist du ungarisch?” he asked.
Even in his state of shock, he knew they were asking him if he was Hungarian. And, more important, they were speaking German. He was safe.
Two men came up and helped him sit down on a bench. One had a flask of schnapps. George took a swig. Then suddenly he began to sob.
He felt guilty to be alive.
*
A small Austrian police van creaked to a halt about fifty feet from where George was sitting. A tall, slender, and totally expressionless officer came up to him.
“Guten Abend,” he said quietly. And then gesturing toward his vehicle added, “mit mir, bitte.”
George breathed the sigh of a defeated man, rse obediently, and slowly followed his captor. When he climbed wearily inside, his worst fears were confirmed. There were ten or twelve other passengers, all Hungarians like himself.
“Welcome to the West,” said a short, wiry man with bushy sideburns, ensconced in a rear seat. George hastened to sit next to him.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked anxiously.
“The Austrians are rounding up strays like us. My name’s Sándor, Miklos, Call me Miki. And you —?”
“Kolozsdi, Gyorgy,” George replied. And then asked quickly, “Are they taking us back?”
“Don’t be silly. I am on my way to Chicago.”
“How do you know?”
“Because on this side of the border people are free to go where they want to. Isn’t that why you left?”
George thought for a moment and then replied softly, “Yes, I suppose so. But where are we going in this bus?”
“Well, after they pick up a few more fish that slipped through the Soviet nets, they’ll take us someplace to snooze. I know a bit of German and I’ve chatted up the captain.”
George was almost tempted to feel relief. But there had been so many disappointments, so many unexpected turns of the screw, that he dared not let his guard down.
As they drove through the night, many of the refugees dozed off. But George remained awake, gazing intently out the window to catch the names of towns and villages. He wanted to be absolutely certain there were no deviations from the path to freedom.
Just before daybreak they reached Eisenstadt. The van pulled into the crowded parking area of the railroad station — which was bristling with thousands of Hungarian refugees.
“What’s happening?” asked George as Miki trotted back from a lightning reconnaissance mission.
“They’re organizing trains,” he puffed, “to take us to some big abandoned army camp the Russians used during the war.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said George.
“Yes,” Miki agreed with a wink. “Anything Russian — even without Russians in it — is not for me. I’m going freelance.”
“Meaning what?”
“Look, sooner or later they’ll have to take these people to Vienna. But I prefer to go right now. Want to join me?”
“Sure. Do you have a map?”
“In here,” the little man answered, pointing to his head. “I memorized everything. All we have to do is head north and watch the signs. Okay, let’s separate and stroll nonchalantly toward the far exit. When you’re sure nobody’s looking, slip away and start walking along the main road. We’ll rendezvous at the first beerhouse on the right-hand side.”
They nodded and quickly parted company. George hurried as inconspicuously as possible to the edge of the station. Then, after whistling his way past the armed guards, he began to stride northward as quickly as he could.
The first tavern was a mere six hundred yards away. The older man was already there, leaning casually against a fading wooden sign that identified the establishment as “Der Wiener Keller.”
“It means the Vienna Wine Cellar,” explained Miki, pointing to the placard. “It’s a sort of weak pun on ‘Wein’ and ‘Wien.’ Not sophisticated enough for gentlemen like us. I suggest we move on.”
Without another word they set off.
“How’s your English?” asked Miki, as they marched briskly. “I don’t know a single word,” George replied.
“Oh yes, you’re one of those privileged party children who get to study all those years of Russian, Not very provident of you, was it?”
“No. But I’ll start learning English the minute I can buy a book.”
“You’re walking with one,” his fellow refugee replied. “If you pay attention, I will have you speaking good American before We reach Vienna.”
“Okay.” George smiled. “Start teaching.”
“First lesson. Repeat after me, ‘I am a cool cat. You are a cool cat. He is a cool cat. She is a — ’ ”
“What does that mean?” George asked.
“ ‘Cool cat’ is a nice compliment meaning ‘good person.’ Trust me, George, I’m up-to-date from studying all the newspapers. Now stop the questions and start repeating.”
After two hours, George was able to make a modicum of idiomatic small talk. He knew how to flatter his future countrymen. To tell them that life in Hungary was “a drag.” And that the United States was the hope for the future of all mankind. On the more pragmatic side, he was able to ask where the men’s room was.
They slowed somewhat as they crossed the Danube. For they both were acutely aware that, a few hundred kilometers to the east, this same river bisected their native city.
“Do you have family back in Budapest?” George asked. Miki hesitated. His expression seemed to alter slightly.
“Not anymore,” he answered enigmatically. “And you?”
Regretting that he had broached the subject, George responded with the same words: “Not anymore.”
And he once more fought to drive the thoughts of Aniko from his mind.
Miki explained that he was going to seek out the major American relief organizations and tell each one of them that he had a sister and brother-in-law in Illinois. He also had a profession. And besides, Charles Lancaster was willing to be his sponsor.
“Who the hell is Charles Lancaster?” asked George.
“My brother-in-law, of course.”
“ ‘Lancaster?’ ”
“Listen, Gyuri, if your name were Karoly Lukacs, wouldn’t you change it to something more familiar to the American ear?”
George agreed. And immediately applied the lesson to his own predicament. “But, Miki, what will they make of ‘Gyuri Kolozsdi’?”
“They will make a mess of it, my friend. An American needs an American name.”
“Well, what would you suggest?”
“ ‘Gyorgy’ is no problem,” answered Miki, clearly enjoying the opportunity to rebaptize an adult. “It simply becomes ‘George.’ But ‘Kolozsdi’ must be replaced by something clear and neat.”
George searched his mind. For some strange reason, his thoughts returned to that first tavern on the road to freedom — Der Wiener Keller. “How does ‘George Keller’ sound?”
“Very dignified. Very dignified indeed.”
At this point they could have taken a tram, but George was loath to leave his new friend.
“Do you think they’ll want a simple student? I mean, I have no degree or anything,”
“Then you must find something that will make them want you.”
“I was studying Soviet law. What good is that in America?”
“Aha — there you have it. You have had a thorough party education. You know Russian almost as a mother tongue. Tell them you want to use this knowledge in the struggle against world communism. Tell them you want to go to university to help in this fight.”
“Any university in particular?”
“In America, the two best are Harvard and Yale. But you’d better say you want to go to Harvard.”
“Why?”
Miki smiled. “Because for a Hungarian, ‘Yale’ is too hard to pronounce.”
They finally parted company on the Ringstrasse.
“Good luck, Georgie.”
“Miki, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”
Several moments later George discovered an envelope in his pocket. It contained Miki’s future address in Highland Park, Illinois. And twenty-five U.S. dollars.
The American Red Cross committee seemed fairly impressed with George’s academic background. But instead of receiving an air ticket, he was assigned to barracks on the outskirts of town. This wouldn’t do.
George approached a fresh-faced official wearing a Red Cross tag that identified him as:
ALBERT BEDDING
English-Deutsch-Français
“Excuse me, Mr. Redding,” George said politely. “I would like to go to Harvard.”
“Who wouldn’t?” The young man laughed. “I got turned down flat. And I was third in my graduating class and editor of the paper. But don’t you worry, we’ve got lots of colleges. You’ll finish your studies, I’ll promise you that.”
But George had a trump card, one of the “key American phrases” Miki had taught him on their march from Eisenstadt to Vienna.
“Mr. Redding,” he said with a slight quaver in his voice, “I — I want to be in America… for Christmas.”
It worked! George could see from the expression on Redding’s face that he was moved by this lonely refugee’s yearning.
“You’re a good fella, you know that?” he said with genuine affection. “Look — give me your name and I’ll see what I can do.”
Gyorgy Kolozsdi spoke his freshly minted appellation for the first time. “It’s Keller. George Keller.”
“Well, George,” said Albert, “I can’t promise anything, but come back and see me tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And if there’s anything you need in the meantime —”
“There is,” George interrupted this gentle attempt to brush him off. “I understand it is possible to get messages on the Voice of America, yes?”
“Uh, sure. That’s not my department, but I could pass it on.” He withdrew a pad and pencil from his jacket pocket and George dictated.
“I would simply like it said please that… ‘Mr. Karl Marx has died.’”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, please.”
The young man looked up at George and inquired diffidently, “Say, don’t they know this behind the Iron Curtain?”
“It may shock some people,” George replied. “Anyway, thank you, mister. I will return tomorrow early.”
At seven-thirty the next morning, Albert Redding was in a state of shock.
“I dunno,” he muttered to George, waving a telegram in his left hand. “Maybe I should have been born Hungarian.”
“What is it?”
“I just do not believe this luck,” the young man repeated in dismay. “Listen to this: ‘To the Field Director, American Red Cross, Vienna — Harvard University has set up a committee to seek out and subsidize one or two qualified refugee students from Hungarian universities. We would appreciate complete details on any potential candidates. Please reply to me with fullest particulars. Signed, Zbigniew K. Brzezinski, Assistant Professor of Government.’ ”
Redding looked wide-eyed at George. “Do you believe that?”
“Who knows? But let us anyway quickly send this person a report about me.”
The response came within twenty-four hours. This young refugee was just the sort of candidate they were looking for. The rest was merely bureaucratic detail.
Eight days afterward, George Keller boarded a bus for Munich, where he was placed on an aircraft; twenty-six hours later, he alighted at Newark Airport, USA. He was not at all tired by the long journey. It had allowed him time to memorize more of his newest acquisition, a book called Thirty Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary.
Customs at the airport was perfunctory. It had to be. All George possessed were two books, three newspapers, and some clean underwear the Red Cross had given him. As he walked tentatively out of the Immigration area, a pale angular man with a crewcut held out his hand.
“George Keller?”
He nodded, still slightly unfamiliar with his new name.
“I’m Professor Brzezinski. Welcome to America. We’ve arranged for you to sleep tonight at the New York Harvard Club.”
***
Andrew first met George Keller after lunch in Master Finley’s office. Professor Brzezinski had just brought the young refugee over from South Station and made the introductions. He then gave Andrew two hundred dollars and asked him to take George around the Square and fit him out with all the basic clothes he’d need. They would have to be thorough, since the Hungarian didn’t even have pajamas. Lest Andrew get the wrong idea, Brzezinski cautioned, “We are on a tight budget, Mr. Eliot. So I think it wise you do most of your shopping at The Coop.”
As soon as they reached the Square, George began to read the billboards out loud, and then he eagerly asked, “Do I pronounce these words correctly, Andrew?”
He recited everything from slogans such as “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco” to “Eight Minutes to Park Street” (on the electric sign over the subway). And then he would immediately try to use this, verbiage in a sentence like, “What do you think, Andrew? Shall we buy some Lucky Strike? I’m told that it is fine tobacco and it is very good to smoke.” Or, “I hear the journey into Park Street, which is known to be the center of Boston city, is eight minutes only from this Harvard Square. Am I correct?”
He then listened with frenetic intensity to whatever nonsense Andrew replied, immediately asking for definitions of words he had not understood.
“Please, George,” Andrew begged at last, “I feel like a walking dictionary.”
Not that George wasn’t grateful. He kept effusively repeating things like, “Andrew, you’re a really cool cat.”
The preppie wondered where the refugee had picked up slang like that. But then concluded that it must be a translation from Hungarian.
Inside The Coop, George acted like a child in Santa’s storehouse. He had never seen such an array of merchandise in his whole life. What struck him most was the amazing brightness of the colors.
“Back in my home — my former home, I mean to say — all things were gray,” he commented. “Also a great big drag.”
Despite a gleam in his eyes that made Andrew think he wanted to buy everything in the place, when it came down to selecting the most trivial of items, George was enormously fastidious. They stood in the underwear department and engaged in a long dialectic as to whether the majority of Harvard men wore boxer shorts or “the most cool of them” preferred the jockey type (Every part of him had to be fashionably American.)
They ran the same investigative gamut when it came to socks and ties. Andrew steered him toward the reps, of course.
With notebooks and similar supplies, it was a good deal easier. George simply picked everything that had the college emblem on it (even the ballpoint pens, strictly a tourist item).
And yet he was a little leery when Andrew explained that Harvard types carried their stuff around in a green bookbag.
“Why green? Is not the official university color this winelike crimson?”
“Yeah,” Andrew sputtered, at a loss for words, “but —”
“Then what is the reason you make me buy green?”
“Hey, George, I honestly don’t know. It’s just an old tradition. I mean, all the cool people —”
“Oh, truthfully?”
“Even Dr. Pusey,” Andrew answered, hoping that the President of Harvard would not mind his invoking him in vain.
They spent an aeon in the textbook section. On the train, Brzezinski had helped George work out a schedule of courses that would suit someone with perfect Russian. Still, in addition to his class texts, he bought all sorts of English grammar books and dictionaries. Anything that would advance his crusade to conquer the language.
As they were lugging all their purchases back home to Eliot, George suddenly asked in an incongruous whisper, “We are alone now, Andrew, are we not?”
Dunster Street was empty, so the answer obviously was yes.
“Then we can speak the truth to one another?”
Andrew was totally confused. “I don’t understand you, George.”
“You can trust me to keep a secret, Andrew,” he continued, still half-whispering. “Are you the spy?”
“The what?”
“Please. I am not some naive newborn child. In every university the government has spies.”
“Not in America,” Andrew answered, trying to sound convincing. For, like someone in a Kafka story, he felt slightly guilty.
“George, do I look like a spy to you?”
“Of course not,” he said knowingly. “That is the biggest reason why I suspect you. Please — you won’t report this, yes?”
“Hey look,” Andrew protested, “I don’t report to anybody. I’m just a Harvard undergraduate.”
“Is your name really Andrew Eliot?”
“Of course. What do you find so strange in that?”
“Look here,” he reasoned, “the dwelling they assign me is called Eliot. You say that is your name also. Do you not find that curious coincidence?”
As patiently as possible, Andrew tried to explain how Harvard buildings got their names from notable alumni of a bygone age. And that his family had been pretty distinguished. Apparently that satisfied George for the moment. In fact, it seemed to lift, his mood.
“Then you are an aristocrat?”
“You might say so,” Andrew answered candidly. And was pleasantly surprised to find that for some unfathomable reason, this seemed to make George happy.
Then came the horror show.
They had left Eliot at about half past one. It was close to five when they returned.
Fortunately, Andrew was the first to walk into the suite. Something made him glance toward the bedroom, where he saw in panic what they’d interrupted.
The day’s events had made him totally forget! It took Andrew half a second to react. First he ordered George to wait in the hall, then he sprinted like a demon to the bedroom door and slammed it shut.
At last, he turned around to see the refugee staring at him, his suspicion now inflamed to paranoia.
“Eliot, what is happening?”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing. Some friends of mine have just been … borrowing the place.”
As Andrew stood there like a sentry at the bedroom door, both men could hear frantic shuffling inside.
“I don’t believe you,” George stated angrily, a quaver in his voice. “And I wish to speak to your superiors immediately.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Keller, let me explain this, huh?”
He glanced at his brand-new Timex watch and, like a military officer, replied, “Okay, I give you five minutes. Then I phone Brzezinski to get me out of here.” He sat down and folded his arms.
Andrew didn’t know how to begin. “Look, George, there are these two friends of mine who —” At a loss for words, he stood there making futile gestures in the air.
“So far, no good,” Keller said disapprovingly. Then he glanced at his watch again. “Four minutes twenty and I call Brzezinski.”
Suddenly he looked up and his expression changed completely. He jumped to his feet and, with a broad smile, said, “Greetings, honey, I am George. What’s your name?”
Andrew whirled around and saw that Sara had emerged, a little red-faced.
“I’m Sara Harrison,” she said with as much friendly composure as she could muster under the circumstances. “Welcome to Harvard.”
George held out his hand. They shook. Then Ted appeared and introduced himself. George was miraculously transformed.
“And so we all are living here?” he asked with newfound optimism.
“Uh — not really,” Andrew stammered. “It’s just that Ted and Sara have no place to, you know —”
“Please,” George said gallantly, “there is no need to explain. We have these housing problems also in Hungary.”
“Hey,” Ted whispered to Andrew apologetically, “I’m sorry for this little mess-up. But you didn’t give us any warning.”
“No, no, you guys. It’s all my fault. I should have called you when I learned what train he would be coming on.”
“No sweat,” Ted reassured him. “But look, it’s getting late. I’ve got to walk Sara back and go to work. Thanks, Eliot, it was great while it lasted.”
As Sara kissed Andrew on the cheek and started out, he called, “Hey, you know nothing has to change. I mean, you’re welcome to continue … visiting.”
Sara stuck her head back in. “We’ll see.” She smiled. “But I think you’ve got your hands full.”
***
The Eliot House dining hall was the one selected to stay open through the Christmas holidays. To offer nourishment — a flattering term for Central Kitchen fare — to the poor souls who had to stay in Cambridge during the vacation.
These were not the usual men of the house, but rather a potpourri of undergraduates from all over the campus. Many were seniors (of the Class of ’57) feverishly working on their honors dissertations. Some were freshmen who lived too far from home and didn’t have the wherewithal even for bus fare.
Still, a few were genuine Eliot men, each of whom had a special reason for remaining in arctic Cambridge over Christmas.
Danny Rossi was one of them. He welcomed the liberation from his classwork to plunge fully into composing Arcadia. The place was quiet. Not a single raucous shout rose from the snowy courtyard to destroy his concentration. For, wanting to impress Maria, he’d rashly promised that he’d have the whole score done by New Year’s Eve.
He worked demonically from dawn to late at night. One theme came magically — the plaintive love song of the shepherds. It was a melody born of his longing for Maria. The rest took sweat to write but gradually the staves were filled.
It was, he thought, the best stuff he had ever done.
This dedication was convenient for another reason. His mother’s recent letters had been urging him to come home for the holidays and make peace. Yet, his important first commission gave him a legitimate excuse to continue to avoid facing his father.
Danny spent his Yuletide locked up, psychologically as well as physically. For his obsession with this new ballet helped him to shut out all emotion: the natural desire to spend Christmas with his family, especially his mother. And those feelings for Maria. So lovely. So desirable, So completely unattainable.
Hell, he tried to rationalize, I’ll put the pain down on the music paper. Passion can inspire art. But, in this case, his attempt to sublimate passion merely inspired more passion.
-*-
George Keller had also chosen to remain in Cambridge. Though Andrew Eliot had kindly invited him to his home, George preferred to stay on monastically and make his rapidly improving English even better.
On Christmas Eve, the dining hail came up with something tasting almost like roast turkey. George Keller did not notice. He sat at the far end of a rectangular table, devouring a vocabulary book. At the other end, his classmate Danny Rossi was intently reading over what he had composed that day.
They were too engrossed to notice each other. Or the fact that each of them was lonely.
Close to midnight, the subconscious child in Danny Rossi reemerged. He put away his score and for some atavistic reason began to improvise Christmas carols on the keyboard.
Since his window had been slightly open, the music floated gently out across the darkened courtyard where it could be heard by George Keller, who was, of course, still madly studying.
The refugee leaned back and closed his eyes. Even in Hungary, he had always been affected by the melody of “Silent Night.” Now, a million miles away, he harkened to it echoing faintly in the icy Cambridge air.
And for a moment he remembered things that he had hoped had been suppressed forever.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
Budapest, October 1956
George’s childhood had been dominated by two monsters: Joseph Stalin — and his own father. The only difference between the two was that Stalin terrorized millions, and his father merely terrorized George.
True enough, “Istvan the Terrible,” as George often thought of him, had never actually killed or even imprisoned anybody. He was merely a minor official in the Hungarian People’s Working Party who used Marxist-Leninist jargon to castigate his son.
“Why does he flagellate me?” George would complain to his sister, Marika. “I’m a better socialist than he is. I mean, I believe in the theory, anyway. And even though I think the party stinks, I’ve joined for his sake. Why is he so fed up?”
Marika tried to mollify her brother. And comfort him. For, try as he did to deny it, George was genuinely upset by the old man’s disapproval.
“Well,” she said softly, “he’d like your hair a little shorter…”
“What? Does he want me to shave my skull? I mean, lots of my friends wear Elvis Presley ducktails.”
“He doesn’t like your friends either, Gyuri.”
“I don’t know why,” said George, shaking his head in consternation. “They’re all sons of party members. Some are big shots, too. And they’re a lot easier on their children than Father is.”
“He just wants you to stay home and study, Gyuri. Be honest, you’re out almost every evening.”
“You be honest, Marika. I graduated first in my gimnazium class. I’m studying Soviet law —”
At that very moment Istvan Kolozsdi entered the room and, immediately taking command, finished his son’s sentence.
“You are at the university because of my party status, yompetz, and don’t forget it. If you were merely a clever Catholic or Jew, it wouldn’t matter how high your grades were. You would be sweeping some provincial street. Be grateful you are the son of a party minister.”
“Assistant minister,” George corrected him, “in the Farm Collectivization Office.”
“You say it as if it were a disgrace, Gyuri.”
“Well, it’s hardly democratic for a government to force people to farm against their will —”
“We do not force —”
“Please, Father,” Gyuri answered with an exasperated sigh, “you’re not talking to some naive idiot.”
“No, I’m talking to a yompetz, a worthless hooligan. And as for that girlfriend of yours —”
“How can you criticize Aniko, Father? The party thinks she’s good enough to study pharmacy.”
“Still, it hurts my standing when you’re seen with her. Aniko’s a bad type. She malingers. She sits in cafés in Vaci Ucca listening to Western music.”
What really annoys you, George thought, is that I sit right next to her. Last Sunday in the Kedves we heard Cole Porter for nearly three hours.
“Father,” said George, hoping for reasonable debate instead of a brawl, “if socialist music is so great, why doesn’t the Stalin Cantata have any good tunes?”
Livid, the government official turned to his daughter. “I won’t talk to this yompetz anymore. He’s a disgrace to our entire family.”
“I’ll change my name,” George said facetiously.
“Please,” said the old man, “the sooner the better.” He stormed out and slammed the door.
George turned to his sister. “Now what the hell did I do?”
Marika shrugged. She had been the referee in these father-and-son combats for as long as she could remember. There seemed to have been conflict ever since their mother died — when George was five and she only two and a half.
The old man was never the same after that. And in his fits of bitterness he would vent his anger on his eldest child. While she tried to grow up as quickly as she could to be a mediating force — a mother to her brother and a wife to him.
“Try and understand, George, he’s had a very hard life.”
“That’s no excuse for giving me one. But in a way I understand. He feels trapped in his job. Yes, Marika, even socialist officials harbor ambitions. The Farm Program is an unmitigated disaster. His boss naturally blames him, so who can he let out his frustrations on? Sometimes I wish we had a dog so he could kick it instead of me.”
Marika realized that, despite George’s angry protestations, at a certain level he genuinely sympathized with his father’s disappointment. Yet, the old man had done well for someone who had begun life as an apprentice shoemaker in Kaposvar. Istvan Kolozsdi’s greatest misfortune was that he had sired a son whose brilliance would inevitably show how mediocre he really was.
Somewhere in their hearts, the two men knew it. And this made them afraid to love each other.
“I have tremendous news!” called Aniko as she dashed across Muzeum Boulevard to catch George between lectures at the Law Faculty.
“Don’t tell me,” he smiled, “the pregnancy test was negative.”
“That I won’t know till Friday,” she replied, “but listen to this — the Polish students are striking to support Gomulka — and we’re organizing a sympathy march.”
“Aniko, the Secret Police will never let you get away with it. Those AVO thugs will beat your brains in, Or else our friendly Russian ‘visitors’ will.”
“Gyuri Kolozsdi, not only will you march with me, but you will carry one of the posters I’ve spent all morning painting. Now, which one would you like — ‘Hail Polish youth’? ‘Russians get out’?”
George smiled. Wouldn’t the sight of him carrying such a placard warm his father’s heart? “I’ll take that,” he said, pointing at “New Leadership for Hungary.”
They kissed.
March Fifteenth Square was electric with anticipation. Thousands of demonstrators had crowded onto its grassy turf, carrying posters and flags. There were delegations from factories, schools, and universities. A young actor from the National Theater clambered up the statue of Sándor Petofi and began to declaim the poet’s “National Hymn,” which had ignited Hungary’s 1848 Revolution.
The ever-increasing throng joined in with special vigor when they reached “Most vagy soha — now or never!”
For the first time, George began to feel that something important was happening. And he was a part of it.
At last the procession began, led by chanting demonstrators who carried a wreath of red carnations. They began to pour into the main city streets, blocking traffic as they passed. But there was no animosity. Many motorists simply locked their cars and joined the marchers, whose ranks had already been swelled by the shop owners and workers all along the way. Every window, every balcony was filled with families waving encouragement.
As if by magic, Budapest was transformed into a boundless field of red, white, and green. People everywhere had fashioned tricolors of ribbons, cloth — and even paper. When the students took their final turn into Jozsef Bem Square, they could see that the statue at the center was already draped with a huge Hungarian flag, the Soviet coat of arms torn out of its center.
Toward sunset, many students talked about going to dem onstrate in front of Parliament. Others proposed an attack on the great statue of Stalin that had for so many years stood in the center of the City Park looking down at Budapest with cast-iron mockery. George and Aniko held hands and let the mainstream carry them back across the river toward Parliament Square.
“What do you think the government will do?” George asked.
“Resign. They have to.”
The immensity of the crowd in Parliament Square was almost frightening. Hundreds of thousands — it seemed like millions — were laying siege to the venerable government edifice with its embroidered Gothic pinnacles. All were shouting for the return of the only leader they trusted, Imre Nagy, who had been removed from office by the Russians the year before.
Evening became night and the air grew bitingly cold. But many had made torches of the newspapers and pamphlets they held in their hands and continued to shout for Nagy.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a slight figure appeared on a balcony. From the front rows a ripple of voices began to echo and crescendo toward the back. “It’s Nagy, it’s Nagy!” Somewhat weakly, himself overcome by the emotion of the moment, the deposed leader raised his hand to plead for silence.
“Has he gone mad?” George wondered out loud, “He’s waving his hands like a lunatic.”
But in an instant all became clear. He was leading the massive throng in the singing of the national anthem. It was a stroke of genius!
After the song ended, Nagy disappeared as swiftly as he had materialized. The crowd — thrilled and elated now — began to break up. Instinctively, they knew no more would happen that night. At least not in Parliament Square.
George and Aniko were halfway back to the university when they heard gunfire. He took her hand and they began to run down toward Muzeum Boulevard. The cobblestone streets swarmed with people, excited, curious, frightened.
When they reached the Muzeum Garden, there were still traces of tear gas in the air. She took out a handkerchief and held it to her face. George’s eyes were beginning to burn. A hysterical young girl was shrieking that the Secret Police had massacred defenseless people.
“We’re going to kill every one of those bastards!” she sobbed.
“Fat chance,” George whispered to Aniko. “I’ll believe it when I see my first dead AVO man.”
He took her hand and they began to run again.
Less than a block later, they stopped in their tracks, horrified. Above them, strung up by his feet from a lamppost, were the bloody remains of a Secret Police officer. George felt sick.
“Gyuri,” said Aniko with a shudder, “we know what they did to their prisoners.”
On the next block they saw corpses of two more AVO agents.
“God,” Aniko pleaded, “I can’t bear this anymore.”
“Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Well, yompetz, I see they haven’t arrested you yet.”
It was nearly 5:00 A.M. Istvan Kolozsdi was seated close to the radio, exhausted, smoking nervously. Marika rushed to embrace her brother.
“Gyuri, we’ve been hearing such terrible rumors. I feared that something had happened to you.”
“Forget rumors, Marika,” the patriarch interrupted. “The truth has just been on the news.”
“Really?” George said softly. “And what is Radio Budapest’s version of tonight’s events?”
“There was a small Fascist insurrection, which the police have dealt with severely,” said Istvan Kolozsdi. “And where have you been all evening?”
George sat down in a chair opposite his father, leaned forward, and said with a smile, “Listening to Imre Nagy.”
“You are mad. Nagy is a nonperson.”
“Try telling that to the thousands who cheered him in Parliament Square. And we’re going to get him back as party leader.”
“And I’m getting my hair back on my head. You’re all a bunch of crazy idiots.”
“Spoken like a true socialist,” said George, as he headed out of the room. “I’m going to sleep. Even lunatics need rest.”
Scarcely three hours later, his sister was prodding him. “Wake up, Gyuri. Nagy is named premier! It’s just been on the news.”
George forced his weary body to get out of bed. He had to see his father’s face.
Still buttoning his shirt, he shuffled into the sitting room. The old man seemed welded to the spot beside the radio, surrounded by ashtrays spilling over with cigarette butts.
As Marika handed George a cup of black coffee, he asked his father, “Well?”
The patriarch looked up and, without the slightest trace of irony, replied, “You have never heard me say a word against Imre Nagy. In any case, he must have the blessing of Moscow, because he has asked for help from the Soviet troops.”
“Now I think you’re the dreamer, Father.” And then, turning to his sister, he said, “When Aniko calls, tell her I’ve left for the university.”
He tossed a jacket over his shoulder and hurried from the house.
In the years that followed, George looked back at this moment and wondered why he had neglected to say more of a farewell. Not to his father. For he was angered by the old man’s shameless display of hypocrisy. But why had he not been more affectionate to Marika?
He was never able to console himself with the thought that, on that cold October morning in 1956, he could not have dreamed how far he was going.
The university was a tornado of rumors. After every radio broadcast, people would scurry around the hall like town criers. The exhausted students cheered upon hearing that President Eisenhower had said, “The heart of America goes out to the people of Hungary.” They sang to one another, “The whole world is watching!”
But the peak of euphoria came on Tuesday afternoon, when Premier Nagy announced that the evacuation of Soviet troops had begun. George must have knocked down six people as he dashed ecstatically across the room to embrace Aniko.
On the morning of November first, George was rudely awakened by Geza, a fellow law student.
“What the hell —”
And then he noticed something very odd. Scrawny Geza today looked like a circus fat man. George rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
“What the hell has happened to you?” he asked. “We’ve got to get out of here,”
Geza said. “I’m wearing all my clothes — at least everything I could squeeze on — and heading for Vienna.”
“Have you lost your mind? The Soviets are gone. Don’t you hear Radio Free Europe?”
“Yes, but I also hear my cousin in the village of Gyor. He rang about two hours ago and said there were hundreds of Russian tanks massing at the western border. They’re just regrouping to come back.”
“Is he sure?”
“Do you want to wait and find out?” George hesitated, but only for a split second. “Let me get Aniko,” he said.
“Okay, but make it snappy.”
She was reluctant.
“What makes you so sure the Soviets are coming back?”
“How many reasons do you want?” George answered impatiently. “Look, if Hungary goes independent, that will give the Poles and the Czechs big ideas. Then boom, the Russian empire tumbles like a house of cards.”
Her face grew pale. She was frightened by the magnitude of the decision being forced upon her.
“But what about my mother — she can’t manage without me.”
“She will have to,” George replied impassively. He put his arms around her. She was sobbing quietly.
“Let me at least call her,” she pleaded.
“Yes. But please be quick.”
They started walking. George and Aniko with just the clothing on their backs, Geza wearing his entire wardrobe. As they reached the outskirts of Buda, George saw a phone booth and suddenly thought of his sister.
“Anybody got some change?” he asked.
Aniko pressed a coin into his hand.
“Gyuri,” his sister said anxiously, “where are you? Even Father’s been concerned.”
“Listen,” he replied, “I’m in a hurry —”
Just then, Geza stuck his head into the booth and Whispered, “Tell her the Voice of America is passing code messages from refugees who make it across.”
George nodded.
“Please, Marika, don’t ask me any questions. Just listen to the Voice of America. If they say that —” He hesitated once again. “That ‘Karl Marx is dead’ — that’ll mean I’m all right.”
“Gyuri, I don’t understand. You sound scared.”
“I am,” he confessed, and then added, “so for God’s sake, pray that he does die.”
He hung up without another word.
“What about your father?” Aniko asked. “Won’t he get into trouble when they learn you’ve fled the country?”
“Listen, he’s a consummate politician, with a genius for self-preservation. He’ll be just fine, I assure you.”
And in his heart he thought, He turned his back on me during my whole childhood, why should I care what happens to him now?
They plodded on in silence. The only traffic on the road was the occasional ancient truck — nearly always heading toward the western border. Once in a while the trio would get a lift for a few dozen kilometers. The drivers never asked where they were going or why.
It was nearly nightfall when they reached the outskirts of Gyor.
“What do we do now?” George asked Geza. “It’s much too cold to sleep outside, and I’ve barely got a few forints in my pocket for food.”
“I don’t even have enough for a bowl of soup,” Aniko added.
Geza merely smiled. “Leave it to me. Do you have the strength to walk another hour?”
“Only if I knew we could get inside somewhere,” said George. Aniko nodded agreement.
“Tibor Kovacs’s parents live in Enese — about ten kilometers from here. He was going to leave with us. His parents would be expecting him.”
Aniko gasped. “Don’t they know he was shot two nights ago?”
“No,” Geza replied, “and there’s no point in telling them.”
And he began to lead them toward Enese.
In half an hour, they were trudging down an icy country road lit only by moonlight. They had been walking since early morning and were almost too tired to speak.
“Tomorrow would be a good day to try to make it across,” said Geza. “It’s All Souls’ Day. The roads will be filled. Everybody will be going to the cemeteries.”
The Kovacs family was glad to welcome friends of their son and did not seem concerned that he was not with them. He had been instructing various groups of the newly formed militia in the use of arms, so that George’s fabrication — that Tibor was needed for another few days in Budapest — seemed perfectly plausible.
Dinner was a dream. Unlike the capital city, the villages had plenty of food, and Mrs. Kovacs set before them a feast of chicken and vegetables. There was even a bottle of Tokay.
“I admire you.” Mr. Kovacs smiled broadly. “If I were a few years younger, I’d be going, too. For sure as snow will fall tomorrow, the Russians will be back. Everyone I speak to has seen the tanks. They are off the main road, but they are out there in the forests, waiting like hungry bears.”
Aniko was offered Tibor’s bed. Though inwardly horrified, she knew she had to accept. The two young men curled up by the fire in the main room.
The next morning it was snowing heavily.
Geza looked at George and Aniko. “In this weather, I think the best idea is to try to catch a train to Sopron. From there, we have a long and very sparse border with Austria. If we are lucky, we should be able to walk across tonight.”
At midday they thanked the Kovacses and started off, leaving all sorts of encouraging messages for Tibor.
At the outskirts of the village, they got their first shock. The Russian tanks were no longer hiding behind trees. Two of them were squatting right in the center of the road.
“Well?” George asked Geza.
“Don’t panic, Gyuri. It’s snowing like hell and they don’t seem to be paying very close attention. We’re not carrying any luggage, so why should they suspect us of anything?”
“You, Geza, look like a walking football in all those clothes,” said George. “If you intend to try to bluff your way past those tanks, you’d better strip down.”
A sudden look of anxiety crossed Geza’s face. He was loath to part with five-sixths of his worldly possessions.
“Let’s go around the town and see if we can reach the railroad from the other side,” he insisted nervously.
And so they set off.
But there were two more tanks at the farther entrance to the village. They had hiked for more than an hour in the snow to no purpose. George and Aniko stared at Geza. Without a word, he began to unbutton his top jacket. His fingers were trembling — and not merely from the cold.
“Who — who — who’ll do the talking?”
“Come on, Geza,” George replied, “we’ve all had at least six years of Russian. Let’s just be sure we tell the same story.”
“Your accent is the best, George,” Geza insisted. “It would be much better if you spoke for us. Besides, when it comes to inventing lies, you’re something of a genius.”
“All right, comrade,” said George, “I’ll be our ambassador.” After Geza removed his penultimate suit and buried the rest of his garments in a snowdrift, they started off toward the tanks.
“Stoi! Kto idyot?”
A soldier asked them to identify themselves. George took a few steps forward and began to engage him in impeccable Russian.
“We are three students from Eotvos Lorand University, visiting a friend who is ill with glandular fever. We would like to take the train back to Budapest. Do you wish to see our papers?”
The soldier had a whispered conversation with one of his colleagues and then turned back to George.
“That will not be necessary. Proiditye!” And he waved them on. They hurried into the village, toward the train station, their hearts pounding.
“Damn,” said Geza, pointing to the station up ahead. “They have tanks there too.”
“Ignore them,” George replied. “I don’t think these soldiers know what they’re supposed to do, anyway.”
He was right. No one stopped them from getting onto the platform, where a very crowded train was about to leave. There was much noise and confusion. All three of them called desperately to various people, “Sopron? Going to Sopron?”
There was shouting and waving from inside the train, which now began slowly to pull out. Geza leapt on board first. George helped Aniko and then clambered on himself. In an instant, they had left the station.
There was not a single empty seat, so they stood in the corridor looking out the window. Each knew what the other two were thinking. In an hour and a half at most they’d be in Sopron. And then the border.
There were startling new additions to the otherwise familiar Hungarian landscape. Russian tanks. Everywhere. All with their guns aimed straight at the train.
They did not exchange a word in the next half-hour.
Then came the shock.
“George,” said Geza, sounding as if a noose were around his neck, “do you see where we are?”
George looked beyond the Soviet armor. His heart nearly stopped.
“We’re going in the wrong direction! The damn train isn’t going to Sopron — it’s going back to Budapest!” Aniko grabbed his arm in terror.
The train suddenly halted with a jolt. Aniko fell against George, who kept his balance only because he was holding on to the window rail. The passengers glanced at one another in fear and confusion. George’s eyes were fixed on the Russian tanks outside the window.
“You don’t think they’re going to shoot, do you?” Aniko whispered.
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” he replied, biting his lip.
Then, suddenly, at the far end of the car, a conductor in a faded blue-gray uniform appeared, trying to weave his way through the crowd. Questions were fired at him from every direction. He cupped his hands and announced:
“We cannot enter Budapest. Repeat, we cannot enter Budapest. The Soviets have surrounded the city and there is fierce shelling.” And then the most startling piece of information: “We are turning back. We must go all the way to Sopron.”
Geza, George, and Aniko looked at one another. There was jubilation in their eyes. In a few moments, the train started up slowly… away from the Soviet stranglehold on Budapest.
The entire journey toward the border seemed to be through a corridor of tanks. When they finally arrived and stepped onto the Sopron station platform, hope permitted them to take one deep breath. So far, so good.
It was now late afternoon.
“Which way is the border?” George asked Geza.
“I don’t know,” he confessed.
“Well, what the hell do you expect us to do?” he snapped. “Ask some Russian soldier?”
Then it occurred to Aniko. “Isn’t there a School of Forestry here? We could ask a student.”
She didn’t have to finish her thought. In a split second, George had obtained directions from an elderly woman and they were off.
The minute they entered the great hail, a young man in a beret asked, “Do you need ammo, comrade?”
The atmosphere inside the school was actually festive. Dozens of patriots were arming to drive the Russian invaders from their homeland.
They were each given a piece of bread, a cup of cocoa — and a handful of bullets scooped out from a large vat.
“Where are the weapons?” George asked, his mouth stuffed with bread.
“They will come, comrade, they will come.”
The three of them went to sit down in a corner and plan their next move. One thing was certain. They had not come all this way to join a doomed rebellion.
“These people are crazy,” said Ceza, shifting a half-dozen bullets from hand to hand as if they were mixed nuts. “The shells are all of different calibers. I don’t see two alike. What are they going to do — spit them at the Russians?”
And then he rose and walked off to seek out geographical orientation.
George and Aniko looked at each other. This was the first time they had been alone in days.
“How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Scared. I hope we can make it.”
She clasped his hand.
“Don’t worry,” he replied. And then after a few minutes inquired, “By the way, what did you tell your mother?”
“I know you’ll laugh, but it’s the only thing she would’ve believed.” She smiled weakly. “I said we were going off to get married.”
He grinned wearily and squeezed her hand.
“Maybe it won’t be a lie, Aniko.”
“Do you really mean it, George?”
He hesitated for a split second and replied, “Why else did I bring you along?”
Then they both leaned back, silent and exhausted.
A few minutes later she said sadly, “I wonder how it’s going in Budapest.”
“You must force yourself not to think of these things,” he replied.
She nodded. But, unlike him, she could not so easily eradicate her memories.
Geza reappeared. “Austria is a few kilometers’ walk through those woods back there. If we left now, we could still get there by nightfall.”
George looked at Aniko. She stood up, saying nothing.
It had begun to snow heavily again. Thick, silent chunks of white. All three of them were soon soaked and freezing. Their thin city shoes made it worse than walking barefoot.
But they were not alone. Every few minutes a group or a family with children would pass. Some times they would merely nod. At others, they’d exchange what meager information they possessed. Yes, we think the frontier is in that direction. Yes, we did hear that most of the Border Patrol has deserted. No, we haven’t seen any Russian soldiers.
Deep in the forest they would pass bunkers from which submachine guns protruded menacingly. These were Border Guard stations, apparently — hopefully — unoccupied. They just moved on, half-expecting a sudden burst of bullets in the back.
The snow reflected an eerie light. In the distance, they heard a growling dog. They stopped in their tracks, paralyzed.
“Is it the guards?” Geza whispered in a panic.
“How the hell do I know?” George shot back. A second or two later, a man with a German shepherd crossed their path. But that was all he was — just a local peasant out for a stroll with his dog. They pressed forward again.
Less than five minutes later, they were out of the woods. On a hill overlooking what had to be the Austrian border. They could see soldiers in overcoats stopping vehicles at a gate, talking, gesturing for documents, et cetera. Some cars were waved through, others turned away.
“Well, we’re here,” Geza announced, a tinge of triumph in his exhausted voice.
“Yeah,” George commented wryly, “now all we have to do is get past the guards. Anybody know how to fly?”
The next words were spoken in a strange voice.
“Halt — put your hands in the air!”
They whirled and saw two men in uniform behind them. One was holding a machine gun.
Damn — the Border Patrol!
“You weren’t intending to go on a picnic in Austria, by some chance?”
Neither George nor Geza nor Aniko answered. They were numb beyond despair. The second officer had a radio, with which he now began to contact headquarters.
Knowing they had nothing to lose, George tried desperate diplomacy.
“Listen, we’re all Hungarians. In a few hours, we’ll be Russian prisoners. And I mean you guys, too. Why don’t we all —”
“Silence!” barked the man with the radio. “We have caught you illegally attempting to cross the frontier.”
But the soldier with the gun seemed to be trying to catch George’s eye. Could he be hallucinating — or was the officer tilting his head slightly as if to say, “Run for it”?
Actually, it didn’t matter. This was their last chance for freedom and they all instinctively knew it.
He touched Aniko’s hand lightly. She understood. And at the same instant they both broke into a run. Geza, equally hungry for survival, dashed to the left as George and Aniko bolted to the right.
They had taken two or three steps before the bullets began whistling through the air. Perhaps the gunner was not really aiming, but George didn’t want to find out. He tucked his head down and sprinted and sprinted and sprinted.
George had no idea how long he had been running. He knew only that he still did not feel tired. He flailed on and on in the knee-deep snow until gradually he began to realize there was no more gunfire. In fact, there was no noise at all. Suddenly, he found himself in a vast, empty field of snow.
He felt safe enough to slacken his pace. Only now did he sense that he was exhausted and near collapse. All he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. He turned to look at Aniko.
But he saw nothing. No one. Gradually, painfully, he began to comprehend that she was no longer with him. He had been too preoccupied with his own flight to think of her.
Had she tripped and fallen? Lost her way in that blinding snow? Had one of the many bullets struck her?
George started to retrace his steps, wondering if he should call her name. He opened his mouth, but no voice emerged. He was afraid. Afraid to attract attention. And if he kept heading back, the police might get him. As they might already have gotten her. Was there any point to committing suicide?
No, Aniko would want him to go on and save himself. He turned again, trying not to think of the girl who loved him and left everything to be with him.
Moments later, in the distance, he saw — or thought he saw — the outline of a tower against the evening sky. Then he recognized it as a steeple.
They don’t have churches like that in Hungary, he realized. This has to be Austria. He set out toward the horizon.
Half an hour later, Gyorgy Kolozsdi staggered into the Austrian town of Neunkirchen. The villagers were celebrating some local festival. As soon as he appeared, they knew who he was. Or at least what he was. A plump, ruddy-faced man approached, pointing a finger at him.
“Bist du ungarisch?” he asked.
Even in his state of shock, he knew they were asking him if he was Hungarian. And, more important, they were speaking German. He was safe.
Two men came up and helped him sit down on a bench. One had a flask of schnapps. George took a swig. Then suddenly he began to sob.
He felt guilty to be alive.
A small Austrian police van creaked to a halt about fifty feet from where George was sitting. A tall, slender, and totally expressionless officer came up to him.
“Guten Abend,” he said quietly. And then gesturing toward his vehicle added, “mit mir, bitte.”
George breathed the sigh of a defeated man, rse obediently, and slowly followed his captor. When he climbed wearily inside, his worst fears were confirmed. There were ten or twelve other passengers, all Hungarians like himself.
“Welcome to the West,” said a short, wiry man with bushy sideburns, ensconced in a rear seat. George hastened to sit next to him.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked anxiously.
“The Austrians are rounding up strays like us. My name’s Sándor, Miklos, Call me Miki. And you —?”
“Kolozsdi, Gyorgy,” George replied. And then asked quickly, “Are they taking us back?”
“Don’t be silly. I am on my way to Chicago.”
“How do you know?”
“Because on this side of the border people are free to go where they want to. Isn’t that why you left?”
George thought for a moment and then replied softly, “Yes, I suppose so. But where are we going in this bus?”
“Well, after they pick up a few more fish that slipped through the Soviet nets, they’ll take us someplace to snooze. I know a bit of German and I’ve chatted up the captain.”
George was almost tempted to feel relief. But there had been so many disappointments, so many unexpected turns of the screw, that he dared not let his guard down.
As they drove through the night, many of the refugees dozed off. But George remained awake, gazing intently out the window to catch the names of towns and villages. He wanted to be absolutely certain there were no deviations from the path to freedom.
Just before daybreak they reached Eisenstadt. The van pulled into the crowded parking area of the railroad station — which was bristling with thousands of Hungarian refugees.
“What’s happening?” asked George as Miki trotted back from a lightning reconnaissance mission.
“They’re organizing trains,” he puffed, “to take us to some big abandoned army camp the Russians used during the war.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said George.
“Yes,” Miki agreed with a wink. “Anything Russian — even without Russians in it — is not for me. I’m going freelance.”
“Meaning what?”
“Look, sooner or later they’ll have to take these people to Vienna. But I prefer to go right now. Want to join me?”
“Sure. Do you have a map?”
“In here,” the little man answered, pointing to his head. “I memorized everything. All we have to do is head north and watch the signs. Okay, let’s separate and stroll nonchalantly toward the far exit. When you’re sure nobody’s looking, slip away and start walking along the main road. We’ll rendezvous at the first beerhouse on the right-hand side.”
They nodded and quickly parted company. George hurried as inconspicuously as possible to the edge of the station. Then, after whistling his way past the armed guards, he began to stride northward as quickly as he could.
The first tavern was a mere six hundred yards away. The older man was already there, leaning casually against a fading wooden sign that identified the establishment as “Der Wiener Keller.”
“It means the Vienna Wine Cellar,” explained Miki, pointing to the placard. “It’s a sort of weak pun on ‘Wein’ and ‘Wien.’ Not sophisticated enough for gentlemen like us. I suggest we move on.”
Without another word they set off.
“How’s your English?” asked Miki, as they marched briskly. “I don’t know a single word,” George replied.
“Oh yes, you’re one of those privileged party children who get to study all those years of Russian, Not very provident of you, was it?”
“No. But I’ll start learning English the minute I can buy a book.”
“You’re walking with one,” his fellow refugee replied. “If you pay attention, I will have you speaking good American before We reach Vienna.”
“Okay.” George smiled. “Start teaching.”
“First lesson. Repeat after me, ‘I am a cool cat. You are a cool cat. He is a cool cat. She is a — ’ ”
“What does that mean?” George asked.
“ ‘Cool cat’ is a nice compliment meaning ‘good person.’ Trust me, George, I’m up-to-date from studying all the newspapers. Now stop the questions and start repeating.”
After two hours, George was able to make a modicum of idiomatic small talk. He knew how to flatter his future countrymen. To tell them that life in Hungary was “a drag.” And that the United States was the hope for the future of all mankind. On the more pragmatic side, he was able to ask where the men’s room was.
They slowed somewhat as they crossed the Danube. For they both were acutely aware that, a few hundred kilometers to the east, this same river bisected their native city.
“Do you have family back in Budapest?” George asked. Miki hesitated. His expression seemed to alter slightly.
“Not anymore,” he answered enigmatically. “And you?”
Regretting that he had broached the subject, George responded with the same words: “Not anymore.”
And he once more fought to drive the thoughts of Aniko from his mind.
Miki explained that he was going to seek out the major American relief organizations and tell each one of them that he had a sister and brother-in-law in Illinois. He also had a profession. And besides, Charles Lancaster was willing to be his sponsor.
“Who the hell is Charles Lancaster?” asked George.
“My brother-in-law, of course.”
“ ‘Lancaster?’ ”
“Listen, Gyuri, if your name were Karoly Lukacs, wouldn’t you change it to something more familiar to the American ear?”
George agreed. And immediately applied the lesson to his own predicament. “But, Miki, what will they make of ‘Gyuri Kolozsdi’?”
“They will make a mess of it, my friend. An American needs an American name.”
“Well, what would you suggest?”
“ ‘Gyorgy’ is no problem,” answered Miki, clearly enjoying the opportunity to rebaptize an adult. “It simply becomes ‘George.’ But ‘Kolozsdi’ must be replaced by something clear and neat.”
George searched his mind. For some strange reason, his thoughts returned to that first tavern on the road to freedom — Der Wiener Keller. “How does ‘George Keller’ sound?”
“Very dignified. Very dignified indeed.”
At this point they could have taken a tram, but George was loath to leave his new friend.
“Do you think they’ll want a simple student? I mean, I have no degree or anything,”
“Then you must find something that will make them want you.”
“I was studying Soviet law. What good is that in America?”
“Aha — there you have it. You have had a thorough party education. You know Russian almost as a mother tongue. Tell them you want to use this knowledge in the struggle against world communism. Tell them you want to go to university to help in this fight.”
“Any university in particular?”
“In America, the two best are Harvard and Yale. But you’d better say you want to go to Harvard.”
“Why?”
Miki smiled. “Because for a Hungarian, ‘Yale’ is too hard to pronounce.”
They finally parted company on the Ringstrasse.
“Good luck, Georgie.”
“Miki, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”
Several moments later George discovered an envelope in his pocket. It contained Miki’s future address in Highland Park, Illinois. And twenty-five U.S. dollars.
The American Red Cross committee seemed fairly impressed with George’s academic background. But instead of receiving an air ticket, he was assigned to barracks on the outskirts of town. This wouldn’t do.
George approached a fresh-faced official wearing a Red Cross tag that identified him as:
ALBERT BEDDING
English-Deutsch-Français
“Excuse me, Mr. Redding,” George said politely. “I would like to go to Harvard.”
“Who wouldn’t?” The young man laughed. “I got turned down flat. And I was third in my graduating class and editor of the paper. But don’t you worry, we’ve got lots of colleges. You’ll finish your studies, I’ll promise you that.”
But George had a trump card, one of the “key American phrases” Miki had taught him on their march from Eisenstadt to Vienna.
“Mr. Redding,” he said with a slight quaver in his voice, “I — I want to be in America… for Christmas.”
It worked! George could see from the expression on Redding’s face that he was moved by this lonely refugee’s yearning.
“You’re a good fella, you know that?” he said with genuine affection. “Look — give me your name and I’ll see what I can do.”
Gyorgy Kolozsdi spoke his freshly minted appellation for the first time. “It’s Keller. George Keller.”
“Well, George,” said Albert, “I can’t promise anything, but come back and see me tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And if there’s anything you need in the meantime —”
“There is,” George interrupted this gentle attempt to brush him off. “I understand it is possible to get messages on the Voice of America, yes?”
“Uh, sure. That’s not my department, but I could pass it on.” He withdrew a pad and pencil from his jacket pocket and George dictated.
“I would simply like it said please that… ‘Mr. Karl Marx has died.’”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, please.”
The young man looked up at George and inquired diffidently, “Say, don’t they know this behind the Iron Curtain?”
“It may shock some people,” George replied. “Anyway, thank you, mister. I will return tomorrow early.”
At seven-thirty the next morning, Albert Redding was in a state of shock.
“I dunno,” he muttered to George, waving a telegram in his left hand. “Maybe I should have been born Hungarian.”
“What is it?”
“I just do not believe this luck,” the young man repeated in dismay. “Listen to this: ‘To the Field Director, American Red Cross, Vienna — Harvard University has set up a committee to seek out and subsidize one or two qualified refugee students from Hungarian universities. We would appreciate complete details on any potential candidates. Please reply to me with fullest particulars. Signed, Zbigniew K. Brzezinski, Assistant Professor of Government.’ ”
Redding looked wide-eyed at George. “Do you believe that?”
“Who knows? But let us anyway quickly send this person a report about me.”
The response came within twenty-four hours. This young refugee was just the sort of candidate they were looking for. The rest was merely bureaucratic detail.
Eight days afterward, George Keller boarded a bus for Munich, where he was placed on an aircraft; twenty-six hours later, he alighted at Newark Airport, USA. He was not at all tired by the long journey. It had allowed him time to memorize more of his newest acquisition, a book called Thirty Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary.
Customs at the airport was perfunctory. It had to be. All George possessed were two books, three newspapers, and some clean underwear the Red Cross had given him. As he walked tentatively out of the Immigration area, a pale angular man with a crewcut held out his hand.
“George Keller?”
He nodded, still slightly unfamiliar with his new name.
“I’m Professor Brzezinski. Welcome to America. We’ve arranged for you to sleep tonight at the New York Harvard Club.”
Andrew first met George Keller after lunch in Master Finley’s office. Professor Brzezinski had just brought the young refugee over from South Station and made the introductions. He then gave Andrew two hundred dollars and asked him to take George around the Square and fit him out with all the basic clothes he’d need. They would have to be thorough, since the Hungarian didn’t even have pajamas. Lest Andrew get the wrong idea, Brzezinski cautioned, “We are on a tight budget, Mr. Eliot. So I think it wise you do most of your shopping at The Coop.”
As soon as they reached the Square, George began to read the billboards out loud, and then he eagerly asked, “Do I pronounce these words correctly, Andrew?”
He recited everything from slogans such as “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco” to “Eight Minutes to Park Street” (on the electric sign over the subway). And then he would immediately try to use this, verbiage in a sentence like, “What do you think, Andrew? Shall we buy some Lucky Strike? I’m told that it is fine tobacco and it is very good to smoke.” Or, “I hear the journey into Park Street, which is known to be the center of Boston city, is eight minutes only from this Harvard Square. Am I correct?”
He then listened with frenetic intensity to whatever nonsense Andrew replied, immediately asking for definitions of words he had not understood.
“Please, George,” Andrew begged at last, “I feel like a walking dictionary.”
Not that George wasn’t grateful. He kept effusively repeating things like, “Andrew, you’re a really cool cat.”
The preppie wondered where the refugee had picked up slang like that. But then concluded that it must be a translation from Hungarian.
Inside The Coop, George acted like a child in Santa’s storehouse. He had never seen such an array of merchandise in his whole life. What struck him most was the amazing brightness of the colors.
“Back in my home — my former home, I mean to say — all things were gray,” he commented. “Also a great big drag.”
Despite a gleam in his eyes that made Andrew think he wanted to buy everything in the place, when it came down to selecting the most trivial of items, George was enormously fastidious. They stood in the underwear department and engaged in a long dialectic as to whether the majority of Harvard men wore boxer shorts or “the most cool of them” preferred the jockey type (Every part of him had to be fashionably American.)
They ran the same investigative gamut when it came to socks and ties. Andrew steered him toward the reps, of course.
With notebooks and similar supplies, it was a good deal easier. George simply picked everything that had the college emblem on it (even the ballpoint pens, strictly a tourist item).
And yet he was a little leery when Andrew explained that Harvard types carried their stuff around in a green bookbag.
“Why green? Is not the official university color this winelike crimson?”
“Yeah,” Andrew sputtered, at a loss for words, “but —”
“Then what is the reason you make me buy green?”
“Hey, George, I honestly don’t know. It’s just an old tradition. I mean, all the cool people —”
“Oh, truthfully?”
“Even Dr. Pusey,” Andrew answered, hoping that the President of Harvard would not mind his invoking him in vain.
They spent an aeon in the textbook section. On the train, Brzezinski had helped George work out a schedule of courses that would suit someone with perfect Russian. Still, in addition to his class texts, he bought all sorts of English grammar books and dictionaries. Anything that would advance his crusade to conquer the language.
As they were lugging all their purchases back home to Eliot, George suddenly asked in an incongruous whisper, “We are alone now, Andrew, are we not?”
Dunster Street was empty, so the answer obviously was yes.
“Then we can speak the truth to one another?”
Andrew was totally confused. “I don’t understand you, George.”
“You can trust me to keep a secret, Andrew,” he continued, still half-whispering. “Are you the spy?”
“The what?”
“Please. I am not some naive newborn child. In every university the government has spies.”
“Not in America,” Andrew answered, trying to sound convincing. For, like someone in a Kafka story, he felt slightly guilty.
“George, do I look like a spy to you?”
“Of course not,” he said knowingly. “That is the biggest reason why I suspect you. Please — you won’t report this, yes?”
“Hey look,” Andrew protested, “I don’t report to anybody. I’m just a Harvard undergraduate.”
“Is your name really Andrew Eliot?”
“Of course. What do you find so strange in that?”
“Look here,” he reasoned, “the dwelling they assign me is called Eliot. You say that is your name also. Do you not find that curious coincidence?”
As patiently as possible, Andrew tried to explain how Harvard buildings got their names from notable alumni of a bygone age. And that his family had been pretty distinguished. Apparently that satisfied George for the moment. In fact, it seemed to lift, his mood.
“Then you are an aristocrat?”
“You might say so,” Andrew answered candidly. And was pleasantly surprised to find that for some unfathomable reason, this seemed to make George happy.
Then came the horror show.
They had left Eliot at about half past one. It was close to five when they returned.
Fortunately, Andrew was the first to walk into the suite. Something made him glance toward the bedroom, where he saw in panic what they’d interrupted.
The day’s events had made him totally forget! It took Andrew half a second to react. First he ordered George to wait in the hall, then he sprinted like a demon to the bedroom door and slammed it shut.
At last, he turned around to see the refugee staring at him, his suspicion now inflamed to paranoia.
“Eliot, what is happening?”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing. Some friends of mine have just been … borrowing the place.”
As Andrew stood there like a sentry at the bedroom door, both men could hear frantic shuffling inside.
“I don’t believe you,” George stated angrily, a quaver in his voice. “And I wish to speak to your superiors immediately.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Keller, let me explain this, huh?”
He glanced at his brand-new Timex watch and, like a military officer, replied, “Okay, I give you five minutes. Then I phone Brzezinski to get me out of here.” He sat down and folded his arms.
Andrew didn’t know how to begin. “Look, George, there are these two friends of mine who —” At a loss for words, he stood there making futile gestures in the air.
“So far, no good,” Keller said disapprovingly. Then he glanced at his watch again. “Four minutes twenty and I call Brzezinski.”
Suddenly he looked up and his expression changed completely. He jumped to his feet and, with a broad smile, said, “Greetings, honey, I am George. What’s your name?”
Andrew whirled around and saw that Sara had emerged, a little red-faced.
“I’m Sara Harrison,” she said with as much friendly composure as she could muster under the circumstances. “Welcome to Harvard.”
George held out his hand. They shook. Then Ted appeared and introduced himself. George was miraculously transformed.
“And so we all are living here?” he asked with newfound optimism.
“Uh — not really,” Andrew stammered. “It’s just that Ted and Sara have no place to, you know —”
“Please,” George said gallantly, “there is no need to explain. We have these housing problems also in Hungary.”
“Hey,” Ted whispered to Andrew apologetically, “I’m sorry for this little mess-up. But you didn’t give us any warning.”
“No, no, you guys. It’s all my fault. I should have called you when I learned what train he would be coming on.”
“No sweat,” Ted reassured him. “But look, it’s getting late. I’ve got to walk Sara back and go to work. Thanks, Eliot, it was great while it lasted.”
As Sara kissed Andrew on the cheek and started out, he called, “Hey, you know nothing has to change. I mean, you’re welcome to continue … visiting.”
Sara stuck her head back in. “We’ll see.” She smiled. “But I think you’ve got your hands full.”
The Eliot House dining hall was the one selected to stay open through the Christmas holidays. To offer nourishment — a flattering term for Central Kitchen fare — to the poor souls who had to stay in Cambridge during the vacation.
These were not the usual men of the house, but rather a potpourri of undergraduates from all over the campus. Many were seniors (of the Class of ’57) feverishly working on their honors dissertations. Some were freshmen who lived too far from home and didn’t have the wherewithal even for bus fare.
Still, a few were genuine Eliot men, each of whom had a special reason for remaining in arctic Cambridge over Christmas.
Danny Rossi was one of them. He welcomed the liberation from his classwork to plunge fully into composing Arcadia. The place was quiet. Not a single raucous shout rose from the snowy courtyard to destroy his concentration. For, wanting to impress Maria, he’d rashly promised that he’d have the whole score done by New Year’s Eve.
He worked demonically from dawn to late at night. One theme came magically — the plaintive love song of the shepherds. It was a melody born of his longing for Maria. The rest took sweat to write but gradually the staves were filled.
It was, he thought, the best stuff he had ever done.
This dedication was convenient for another reason. His mother’s recent letters had been urging him to come home for the holidays and make peace. Yet, his important first commission gave him a legitimate excuse to continue to avoid facing his father.
Danny spent his Yuletide locked up, psychologically as well as physically. For his obsession with this new ballet helped him to shut out all emotion: the natural desire to spend Christmas with his family, especially his mother. And those feelings for Maria. So lovely. So desirable, So completely unattainable.
Hell, he tried to rationalize, I’ll put the pain down on the music paper. Passion can inspire art. But, in this case, his attempt to sublimate passion merely inspired more passion.
George Keller had also chosen to remain in Cambridge. Though Andrew Eliot had kindly invited him to his home, George preferred to stay on monastically and make his rapidly improving English even better.
On Christmas Eve, the dining hail came up with something tasting almost like roast turkey. George Keller did not notice. He sat at the far end of a rectangular table, devouring a vocabulary book. At the other end, his classmate Danny Rossi was intently reading over what he had composed that day.
They were too engrossed to notice each other. Or the fact that each of them was lonely.
Close to midnight, the subconscious child in Danny Rossi reemerged. He put away his score and for some atavistic reason began to improvise Christmas carols on the keyboard.
Since his window had been slightly open, the music floated gently out across the darkened courtyard where it could be heard by George Keller, who was, of course, still madly studying.
The refugee leaned back and closed his eyes. Even in Hungary, he had always been affected by the melody of “Silent Night.” Now, a million miles away, he harkened to it echoing faintly in the icy Cambridge air.
And for a moment he remembered things that he had hoped had been suppressed forever.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
January 18, 1957
This George Keller is driving me insane. Maybe it’s the immigrant mentality. In fact, I’m working up a theory that Americans are driven by ambition in direct proportion to how recently they’ve set foot on these shores.
I mean, I once thought Lambros had a bullet up his ass. But he was born here. It was his father’s generation that came over on the boat. But nothing, absolutely nothing, tops the frenzied drive of this Hungarian, barely two months in America. I mean, if he were a locomotive he’d explode, he’s stoking his fire so hot.
When I wake up at what for me is the ungodly hour of 8:00 A.M., he’s already hard at work, having long since eaten breakfast. Almost every day he tells me with a kind of gleeful pride that he was first man in the dining hail. (Compare this to Newall, who revels in the distinction of never once having gotten up for breakfast in his entire Harvard career.)
George borrowed fifty bucks from me (which he’ll pay back as soon as his scholarship money comes through), and bought a portable recorder he takes to every class.
Now in the afternoons he plays back the lectures — and sometimes not just once — till he practically knows them by heart. Lots are in Russian. Which may be great for him, but makes me feel like I’m suddenly living in the Kremlin. Needless to say, George has the suite pretty much to himself during the days.
We did have a little problem about Ted and Sara. While George was very understanding of their need for a place to be alone, he insisted that he wouldn’t mind if they used my bedroom as long as he could keep studying in the living room.
I had to explain to him very tactfully that they would mind very much. George finally agreed to go and sit in the house library from four to six-thirty on the days Ted and Sara are in temporary residence.
Now here’s a shocker. I have no idea what time he goes to bed. In fact, I have the sneaking suspicion that the guy doesn’t sleep at all! And I had this really weird experience late the other night.
After a hard session of drinking at the Pore, nature obliged me to get up at around 2:00 A.M. As I was standing in the john taking care of my needs, I suddenly heard this ghostly voice emanating from the shower, saying things like, “begin-began-begun, bite-bit-bitten, sing-sang-sung.”
I called out to George, but, instead Of answering me directly, he simply went on rehearsing his verbs in that tile echo chamber.
Then I pulled back the shower curtain. There he was, naked except for his new a la mode jockey shorts, holding an English grammar. He barely noticed me as he droned on, hammering new words into his head.
I warned him that he’d drive himself to death. To which he replied, “Drive-drove-driven.”
I went to the sink, picked up a glass of cold water, and poured it over his head. He shivered and looked at me with comatose astonishment, then ripped the curtain from my hand, slammed it closed, and continued his verbal gymnastics.
“Show-showed-shown, speak-spoke-spoken.”
Shit, I thought. He can kill himself for all I care.
I shut the bathroom door behind me so that at least Newall could have some peace, staggered back to my bed, and went to sleep.
Or, as George would have put it, sleep-slept-slept.
***
“Hello, Dad. It’s Jason. I’ve got some great news.”
“I can’t hear you, son. There’s a terrific racket going on behind you. Where are you calling from?”
“Racket’s a good word for it. The whole squash team’s in my room. They just voted for next year’s varsity captain and for some stupid reason they chose me.”
“Son,” the elder Gilbert said elatedly, “that’s just terrific news. I can’t wait to tell your mother. And you know what? I bet you’ll be tennis captain, too.”
As Jason hung up, he felt a kind of vague, inexplicable sadness. For his dad’s last remark had unsettled him. After all, he had been calling to announce a great success. And though his father was obviously delighted, he had concluded with the pretty unsubtle expectation that his son would bring him still more glory. Where would it end?
“Hey, Captain,” Newall interrupted giddily, “are you still sober?”
“Yeah.” Jason laughed. “Couldn’t let my dad think we were all a bunch of drunken bums, which naturally we are.”
His teammates roared appreciatively. There were a dozen of them crowded in his little room, plus several hangers-on including Ted and Sara. Andrew Eliot had brought them along to get a glimpse of the more athletic creatures in the Harvard bestiary.
Originally Newall had intended these festivities to be a surprise. But then George Keller had refused to let them use their own room to hold the party. Newall had no alternative but to tell Jason in advance, so they could use his suite.
“How is that dingbat?” Jason asked, while pouring out a Bud. “I bet he’s out memorizing the Encyclopedia Britannica by now.”
“Don’t laugh,” cautioned Andrew. “Besides studying like a maniac for all his courses, he also reads every inch of The New York Times — including real estate and recipes — and writes down every word he doesn’t know.”
“And that includes the Sunday edition,” Newall added, “when the goddamn paper’s practically as long as War and Peace.”
“Well,” said Jason, “you gotta admire a guy like that.”
“I’ll be happy to admire him,” Newall retorted, “if only someone else would room with him.”
Suddenly the members of the squash team started clinking glasses and calling boozily for silence. It was time to toast their newly chosen captain. The most eloquent of them was Tod Anderson, former Andover captain, now number three on the varsity.
Tod raised his glass and spoke a tribute appropriate for such a gathering of jocks. “To our beloved new leader, Jason Gilbert, ace racket-man and incomparable ass-man. May his shots in court drop as often as his shorts in bed.”
Just after seven, the final partyers began to disperse, and the squash team, as prearranged, started strolling through the streets of Cambridge toward the Hasty Pudding Club. Thursday was steak night, the best buy in Cambridge for $1.75.
As they trooped down Mount Auburn toward Holyoke Street, the knights of the Harvard Squash Varsity broke into a euphoric variant of the college’s most popular fight song:
With Gilbert in triumph flashing
Mid the strains of victory
Poor Eli’s brains we are smashing
Into blue obscurity…
They grew only slightly more sedate as they shuffled up the wooden steps of the clubhouse, at number 12, and mounted the stairs, past two centuries of theatrical posters, to the dining room where Newall had reserved a large table for the entire group.
Naturally they put Jason at the head, which cheered him immensely, because his prominent position drew the attention of every other Pudding member’s date. To these ordinary mortals’ discomfiture, their female guests kept smiling at the man of the hour. And he smiled disarmingly back at them.
At about ten o’clock Jason, Andrew, and Dickie Newall were weaving their way back to Eliot House when something occurred to the captain-elect.
“Hey,” he remarked, “I didn’t see Anderson at dinner. Did he duck the party or something?”
“C’mon, Jason,” Newall responded with liquid lightheartedness, “you know Tod’s not a member of the Pudding.”
“How come?” asked Jason, surprised that such a popular athlete should not be in the eating society that took almost a third of all upperclassmen.
“Haven’t you noticed that Anderson’s a Negro?” Newall chided.
“So what?” said Jason.
“Come on, Gilbert,” Dickie continued, “the Pudding’s not that liberal. I mean, we’ve still got to keep somebody out.”
Thus, even on the night of such personal triumph, Jason Gilbert was once again reminded that although all Harvard undergraduates are equal, some are more equal than others.
***
Professor Samuel Eliot Morison was among the most eminent members of the Harvard faculty, and by far the most prolific. Renowned for his many volumes of naval history and his chronicles of Harvard, this distinguished gentleman was also, as his middle name suggests, vaguely related to the Eliot in The Class of ’58.
Andrew had been gliding along for almost three years now, flitting like a bee from major to major (English, American studies, even Ec. for a few silly weeks). But now his senior tutor sent him an ultimatum: he had to choose a subject and stick to it. Knowing that he had to graduate from Harvard with a degree in something, he was panicked into seeking professional advice.
Gathering his courage, he wrote Professor Morison a note. And was agreeably surprised to receive an immediate invitation to visit the great man in his map-lined office deep in the stacks of Widener.
“What a real pleasure,” he remarked as they shook hands. “I see before me living proof that old John Eliot’s line is vibrant still. I knew your father when he was an undergraduate and tried to get him to help me a bit with my colonial history. But I guess the banking branch seduced him.”
“Yes,” Andrew averred politely, “Dad is sort of fond of money.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Morison, “especially since so much Eliot philanthropy has helped to build this college. My own namesake, Samuel Eliot, endowed the first professorship of Greek back in 1814. Tell me, Andrew, what’s your major?”
“That’s just it, sir. I’m a junior and I still haven’t made up my mind.”
“What do you think you’ll be doing after college?”
“Well, naturally, I’ll have to do some military service —”
“The Eliots have long served with honor in the navy,” he commented.
“Yes, sir, Admiral Morison,” Andrew replied. But did not tell him that that was why he was thinking of the army.
“And after that?”
“I guess Dad expects me to be some sort of banker.” After all, he thought, I’m coming into so much dough in four years I’ll at least have to visit where the bonds are kept. That’s sort of banking, isn’t it?
“Well, then,” said Morison, “you’ll have a fine vocation. Now you ought to choose a major that will give you some enriching avocation. Have you ever thought about the history of your own family?”
“Dad never lets me forget it,” Andrew responded with honesty and some discomfort. “I mean, while I was still in diapers he was already lecturing me about our noble heritage. To be frank sir, it’s a bit off-putting. I mean, over pablum I was hearing about John Eliot, the Apostle to the Indians, and greatgranddad Charles, the famous Harvard President. I was practically smothered by the foliage on our family tree.”
“But you’ve just leapfrogged several centuries,” the admiral remarked. “What about the Revolutionary War? Do you know where all the Eliots were during ‘the times that tried men’s souls’?”
“No, sir. I just assumed they were shooting off their muskets around Bunker Hill.”
Now the professor smiled. “Then I think I have some enlightenment for you. The eighteenth century Eliots were splendid diarists. And we have records in their very words of what they saw and did during the Revolution.
“Andrew, I can think of nothing more exciting, especially for an Eliot, than studying what Harvard graduates were up to at that time. It could be a splendid topic for a senior thesis.”
At this point Andrew had to confess. “Sir, I think I should tell you that my grades are not exactly at the honors level. They’d never let me write a dissertation.”
The great historian smiled.
“Then you can have the essence of true education, Andrew. I’ll arrange for you to have tutorial with me, and we’ll go through the Eliot diaries together. Grades won’t enter into it. Just reading them will be their own reward.”
Andrew left Morison’s office almost breathless with elation. Now there was a chance that in addition to receiving a diploma, he might even get an education.
***
Danny Rossi was torn.
At times he desperately wanted the rehearsals of Arcadia to end, so the damn ballet would be performed and close. Then he would never have to see Maria again.
At other times he wished the preparations would go on forever. Six afternoons a week in February and March he had to sit for several hours at the keyboard as Maria put the ballet on its feet. Drilling the dancers, demonstrating the movements, and often coming over to lean on the piano and ask the composer’s advice.
It was that damn blue leotard of hers. No, how could he blame the garment when what was driving him crazy was the body it so tantalizingly accentuated.
Perhaps the worst part of all was when they would go out for a bite afterward to discuss how the ballet was going. She was so warm and friendly, and their conversations would go on for hours. Agonizingly, these evenings grew more and more to seem like dates. Yet Danny knew they weren’t.
Once, when she had Asian flu, he went to visit her in the Infirmary and brought a flower. He sat down by her bed and tried to cheer her up with silly anecdotes. She laughed a lot and, when he rose to leave, said, “Thanks for coming, Danny. You’re a pal.”
That’s all he was, goddammit, just a lousy pal. And yet how could it be otherwise? She was beautiful and confident — and tall. And he was none of these.
And worst of all, what pretext could he possibly invent to see her once the performances had ended?
Opening night finally arrived. All the self-styled Harvard cognoscenti assembled in Radcliffe’s Agassiz Theater to sit in judgment on Maria Pastore’s choreography and Daniel Rossi’s score.
Danny was too involved conducting to notice how it was going, although at several points the audience burst into applause. Was it for the music or the dance?
*
Since most of the performers were abstemious, the party was held in an adjacent rehearsal room, where brackish KoolAid punch was served and a few daring souls drank beer.
Harvard theatrical premieres are just like those on Broadway in one respect. The performers all sit up waiting for the reviews. The only difference is that in Cambridge they merely keep vigil for the verdict of the Crimson.
At about eleven, someone sprinted in with Sonya Levin’s comments for tomorrow’s Crime. For a journal by implicit policy supercilious, the review began with some pretty enthusiastic remarks about Maria’s choreography, which was deemed “dynamic and imaginative, with touches of lighthearted invention.”
Then Miss Levin turned her attention to Danny Rossi. Or rather her guns. In her opinion,
the music, though ambitious and energetic, was, to
say the least, derivative. Imitation may be the sin-
cerest form of flattery, but Stravinsky and Aaron
Copland could justifiably ask Rossi to pay royalties.
To Danny’s consternation, this was all being read aloud by the stage manager, who was growing steadily uneasier as he recited.
Danny was stung. Why was this sarcastic Crimson smart-ass trying to make herself look good at his expense? Did she have any idea how this would hurt?
He felt a sudden urge to run out of the room. Just as he stood, there was a hand on his shoulder. It was Maria.
“Hey, Danny —”
“Don’t bother,” he muttered bitterly. He could not turn around and face her. And forgetting he had left his parka folded on a backstage chair, he started slowly out of the room.
As soon as he reached the stairway he quickened his pace. He had to get the hell out of there. To escape all those pitying glances.
When he reached the ground floor he noticed the sign pointing toward the public telephone and remembered his promise to call Dr. Landau as soon as the performance was over.
Oh, shit, no. How can I repeat those crushing things that bitch reviewer said? In fact, how could he ever call his teacher now? He was a failure. A conspicuous and public failure. Like that long-ago day on the high school track.
He pushed open the glass door and walked out into the cold March night, insensitive to the harsh wind hitting his face. He was too preoccupied with the thought that this unexpected turn of events would deprive him of his beloved teacher’s respect.
Danny always knew he would be Landau’s last pupil. And he wanted to be his best.
He could go no farther. He sat down on the stone steps and put his head in his hands.
“Hey, Rossi, what are you doing there? You’ll catch pneumonia.”
Maria was standing above him, just outside the door.
“Go away, Pastore. You shouldn’t hang around with second-raters.”
Ignoring his words, she came down and sat a step below him.
“Listen, Danny, I don’t care what Sonya says. I think your music’s brilliant.”
“Everybody in the college’s gonna read that tomorrow morning. That’ll give those bastards in Eliot House a few laughs.”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “Most of those preppies can’t read anyway.” And then added gently, “I only wish you’d believe that I hurt just as much as you.”
“Why? You got good reviews,”
“Because I love you.”
“You can’t,” he answered as an unwilling reflex. “You’re much too tall.”
She could not help laughing at this absurd reaction.
Then he began to laugh as well. And reached down and drew her toward him. They kissed.
After a moment Maria gazed at him and smiled. “Now it’s your turn.”
“What?”
“I mean, is this a one-way thing or not?”
“No,” he answered softly. “I love you too, Maria.”
They did not feel the chill wind blow as they continued to embrace.
***
Harvard spring vacations can mean many things to many people.
Seniors stay in place to finish off their dissertations, which are due the day that classes recommence. The more affluent undergraduates fly off to Bermuda for that fabled rite known as College Week. The program includes sunning, sailing, waterskiing, calypso dancing, and — at least hypothetically — seducing the girls who flock there for most of the same reasons.
Spring normally visits Cambridge in name only. And athletic muscles need the vernal warmth to tone them for the crucial competitions yet to come.
The track team gets to fly to Puerto Rico. Which sounds more exotic than it is. Because, unlike the tourists on the beaches of Bermuda, the harriers get up at 5:00 A.M., go ten miles before breakfast, and then sleep all day until it’s time to run again that afternoon. Few have the energy, or even the desire, to seek out señoritas in the evening.
Tennis, golf, and baseball tour the southern states to limber up, competing against some of the local universities. These teams live less ascetically than the runners, and thus have reservoirs of energy for nighttime entertainment. After dinner they strut through the richly landscaped campuses wearing an irresistible lodestone for the lovely southern coeds: sweaters with that noble H.
After a hard-earned victory against the University of North Carolina, Jason Gilbert and his teammates were preparing to go out and captivate the female population of Chapel Hill. As they dressed and showered, Dam Oliver, the coach, was offering constructive criticism to his men — including Jason, who, although he’d won, had looked a little sluggish on the court.
“Because I’m tired, coach,” he was protesting. “All this traveling and practicing and playing matches isn’t really what you’d call a picnic.”
“Come on, Gilbert,” Dam reprimanded with good humor, “you’ve been putting too much effort into postgame partying. May I remind you this is not supposed to be a holiday?”
“Hey, coach, you do remember that I won today, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but you were sleeping on your feet. So shape up, or I’ll slap a curfew on you. Do you read me, Gilbert?”
“Yessir. Sorry, mother dear.”
As laughter echoed even from the shower room, a graying academic type in suit and tie appeared and asked to have a few words with the coach.
“Who is that guy?” Jason whispered to Newall, who was drying himself at an adjacent locker.
“Probably an FBI man after you, Gilbert,” he quipped. “I think you’ve violated the Mann Act four or five times so far this week.”
Before Jason could reply, the coach was calling for the team’s attention.
A dozen players in varying states of undress obediently assembled.
Coach Oliver addressed them. “Guys, this gentleman is Rabbi Yavetz, the director of the U.N. C. Hillel Society. He tells me that this evening is the first night of the Passover holiday. And all Jewish players on the team are welcome to attend his service.”
“It will be short and festive,” the rabbi added in a southern accent. “Just a simple seder with some pretty good food and the songs I hope your granddads taught you.”
“Any takers?” asked the coach.
“I’ll be glad to come,” said sophomore Larry Wexler, new to the team at number seven. “That’ll smooth things over with my parents, who were sort of disappointed that I won’t be home.”
“Anybody else?” Oliver inquired, glancing at Jason Gilbert.
He looked back blandly and replied, “Thanks a lot, but I’m not really … interested.”
“You’re always welcome if you change your mind,” the rabbi said. And then turned to Larry Wexler. “I’ll send one of our members to the dorm where y’all are staying about half past six.”
When the clergyman departed, Newall asked with casual curiosity, “Say, Wexler, what’s this holiday for, anyway?”
“It’s kind of neat,” replied the sophomore. “It celebrates the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. You know, when Moses said, ‘Let my people go.’ ”
“Sounds like a colored folks’ jamboree,” Newall commented.
“Listen,” Wexler retorted, “as Disraeli once told an English bigot, ‘When my ancestors were reading the Bible yours were still swinging from trees.’ ”
An hour later, as he was carefully adjusting the knot in his Varsity Club tie, Larry Wexler noticed a reflection in the mirror.
It was Jason — dressed, with uncharacteristic formality, in a sedate blue blazer.
“Hey, Wexler,” he said uneasily, “if I go to this thing, will I look like a total asshole? I mean, I don’t know what to do.”
“No sweat, Gilbert. All you’ve got to do is sit, listen, and then eat. I’ll even turn the pages for you.”
They were about four dozen, seated at long tables in a private dining room of the Student Union.
Rabbi Yavetz made some brief introductory remarks.
“In a real sense, Passover is the cardinal holiday on the Jewish calendar. For it fulfills the central commandment of our faith, as put forth in Exodus, Chapter Thirteen — that of reminding our children in every generation that the Lord delivered us from oppression in Egypt.”
Jason listened mutely as the celebrants took turns reading from the biblical account and singing psalms of praise. At one point he whispered to Larry, “How come you all know the same tunes?”
“They’re from the Top Ten of 5000 B.C. Your ancestors must have been on a very slow camel.”
Jason was relieved when the dinner was served. For then the conversation became very much twentieth-century collegiate and he did not feel like an odd man out.
During the meal Larry whispered, “Did any of it mean anything to you — you know, culturally?”
“Sort of,” Jason replied, with politeness if not much conviction. For in truth he had not really understood what this ritual had to do with him in 1957.
And yet, before the evening ended, he did.
When the service continued, the rabbi bade everyone rise to pray for the coming of the Messiah. At this point he added a note of more recent history:
“We are all, of course, aware that the ancient Egyptians were far from the last to try to destroy our people. As recently as Passover 1943, the brave Jews in the Warsaw ghetto, starved and almost without arms, began their last heroic stand against the Nazis who were besieging them.
“This did not happen to our forefathers, it happened to our very own relatives. Uncles, aunts, grandparents — and for some of us, brothers and sisters. It is of them — and the six million others murdered by Hitler — that we think at this moment.”
There was a sudden hush.
Jason saw a young man at the first table lower his head and begin to weep silently.
“Did you lose any relatives — over there?” Jason whispered.
Larry Wexler looked at his teammate and answered somberly, “Didn’t we all?”
A moment later they were again seated, singing festive songs.
The formalities concluded not long after. They were followed by some unofficial socializing with the attractive coeds, who, enjoined by a double code of hospitality, flocked to welcome the two visitors from Harvard.
At a little before eleven, Larry and Jason were walking through the darkened campus back to their dorm.
“I don’t know about you, Gilbert,” Larry commented, “but I’m really glad I went.
I mean, don’t you think it’s good to know about our roots?”
“I guess so,” Jason Gilbert answered half-aloud. And thought, My own roots seem just to go back to a courthouse twenty years ago. When some accommodating judge gave my father a new, non-Jewish name.
And to secure our future, he mortgaged all our past.
As they walked on, he mused further. I wonder why Dad had to do it. I mean, this guy Wexler’s no worse off than I. In fact, he’s better. He’s got an identity.
Jason returned from the spring tour changed in one official way. After their match against a group of former college all-stars now serving with the Marines in Quantico, Virginia, he had succumbed to the blandishments of a persuasive recruiting officer and signed up for the Platoon Leaders Class.
He had decided that this would be a great way to discharge his military obligation since, unlike the ROTC program, it would meet only during the next two summers. Then, after graduation, he’d go straight into the Marines and serve a two-year stint as an officer. There were even heavy hints that after basic training he might be transferred to Special Services and could spend his tour of duty hitting tennis balls.
But first another battle lay before him. There was Yale to face in May. And the New Haven hordes were out to get revenge.
“No”
“Please.”
“No!”
Maria Pastore sat bolt upright, her face flushed.
“Please, Danny, for God’s sake, do we have to go through this all the time?”
“Maria, you’re being unreasonable.”
“No, Danny, you’re being cruel and insensitive, Can’t you understand I have my principles?”
Danny Rossi could get nowhere with Maria.
Though for the first few weeks they had lived in a kind of paradise for two, alone amid the crowds of Cambridge, they soon encountered serious ethical differences.
Maria was the nicest, kindest, brightest, and most beautiful young woman he had ever met. And she adored him. But the problem was — for reasons he refused to understand, or at any rate accept — she would not sleep with him. In fact, she would permit considerably less than that.
They would embrace and kiss each other passionately while lying on his couch, but whenever he so much as slipped his hand beneath her sweater, all her ardor suddenly turned to rigid panic.
“Please, Danny. Please don’t.”
“Maria,” he reasoned with her patiently, “this is not a fly-by-night affair. We really care for each other. I only want to touch you because I love you.”
She stood up, and pulling down her sweater pleaded with him to appreciate her feelings.
“Danny, we’re both Catholic. Can’t you understand it’s wrong to do this sort of thing before you’re married?”
“What sort of thing?” he said exasperatedly. “Where is it written in the Bible that a man can’t touch a woman’s breasts? In fact, the Song of Songs —”
“Please, Danny,” she said quietly, but with obvious inward agony, “you know it isn’t that, It would never stop there.”
“But I swear to you I won’t ask for more.”
Maria looked at him, her cheeks red, and said candidly, “Hey look, maybe you think you could break off right in the middle. But I know myself. I know that once we reached that point, I couldn’t stop.”
For a moment this confession elated Danny. “Then in your heart you do want to go all the way?”
She nodded, with a look of shame.
“Danny, I’m a woman. I’m in love with you. And I’ve got a lot of passion bottled up inside me. But I’m also a religious Catholic. The sisters taught us that to do this is a mortal sin.”
“Hey look,” he now persisted as if in a university debate. “Can you, an enlightened Radcliffe girl in 1957, tell me you really think you’ll burn in hell if you go to bed with someone you love?”
“Before I’m married, yes,” she answered without hesitation.
“God, I don’t believe this,” he responded, running out of patience. And of arguments.
Overcome with dizzying desire to convince this sensual conservative, he said impetuously, “Look, Maria, we’ll be married someday. Isn’t that enough for you?”
Perhaps she was too upset to notice that he had actually mentioned matrimony. In any case she answered, “Danny, please believe, by everything that’s holy, I simply can’t forget the way I’ve been brought up. My priest, my parents, no — I won’t evade responsibility and put the blame on them — it’s my belief. I want to give my husband my virginity.”
“Jesus, that’s so antiquated. Haven’t you read Kinsey? Maybe ten percent of women do that nowadays.”
“Danny, I don’t care if I’m the last girl on this earth. I’m going to be chaste until my wedding night.”
To which, having reached the end of his rhetorical tether, Danny could but answer with a near-involuntary, “Shit.”
Then, trying to rein in his own passion, he said, “Okay, okay, let’s forget this whole thing and have some dinner.”
As he started to put on his tie, he was surprised to hear her answer, “No.”
He whirled and barked, “Now what?”
“Danny, let’s be honest. Neither of us can go on like this. Because we’re starting to get angry with each other. And that means all our tender feelings will inevitably dissipate.”
She stood up. As if to put him at a physical as well as moral disadvantage.
“Danny, I really care for you a lot,” she said. “But I don’t want to see you —”
“Anymore?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, “but for a while anyway. Look, you’ve got Tanglewood this summer. I’ll be working back in Cleveland. Maybe the separation will do us good. We’ll both have time to think.”
“But didn’t you hear me say I want to marry you?”
She nodded. And then answered softly, “Yes. But I’m not sure you know if you really mean it. That’s why we need time apart.”
“At least can we write to each other?” Danny asked.
“Please, let’s.”
Maria then walked to the door and turned. She looked at him silently for a moment and then murmured, “You’ll never know how much this hurts me, Danny.”
Then she left.
***
By the spring of 1957 George Keller was as intellectually prepared as anyone in The Class to take courses in the normal language of instruction at Harvard College.
Not unexpectedly, he had chosen to major in government. For Brzezinski had explained how, with his fluent Russian and firsthand knowledge of Iron Curtain politics, he’d be indispensable in Washington.
Among the courses he selected for the spring was Government 180, Principles of International Politics, even though the name of the professor had evoked in him some of his original feelings of paranoia. For the instructor was one William Palmer Eliot — yet another (alleged) relative of his roommate, Andrew.
Still, it was a fateful choice. For Eliot’s assistant was a chubby young instructor who spoke English with a foreign accent heavier than George’s. His name was Henry Kissinger. And by some uncanny mutual telepathy they gravitated toward each other.
Kissinger, a refugee like George, albeit from wartime Germany, had also been a Harvard undergraduate (and likewise anglicized his first name). He had acquired an uncanny grasp of politics — both in theory and practice. Dr. K. (as he was affectionately known) already directed something called the Harvard International Seminar. And was on the board of what was probably the world’s most important political journal, Foreign Affairs.
George thought his own cleverness had gotten him Kissinger as section man, only to discover that the teacher had made all the necessary efforts to win him for his discussion group. Neither man was disappointed.
Among other things, Kissinger was impressed by George’s command of the Russian language. But it was his own burning ambition to be number one at Harvard (and, by extension, in the world) that most made him want to enlist the young Hungarian for his team. For he knew how much his archrival Zbig Brzezinski desperately desired to keep George in his own sphere of influence.
After a section meeting early in the term, he stopped George and said, “Mr. Keller, may I see you for a moment? I would like to add a word or two about your recent essay.”
“Certainly,” George said politely, suddenly afraid his paper had been less than the original and perceptive analysis he himself considered it.
“Was it all right, Professor?” George asked when the last student had departed. Keen academic strategist, he had astutely bestowed on Kissinger the title of Professor when he knew full well he was a mere instructor. The honoree was clearly flattered. Or at least he smiled broadly.
“Your paper, Mr. Keller, was not just ‘all right.’ It was absolutely first rate. I’ve never seen an essay that so perceptively distinguished all the subtleties of the various East European philosophies.”
“Thank you, Professor,” George replied elatedly.
“I know you are one of our new imports from Hungary. What were you studying in Budapest?”
“Law. Soviet law, of course. Pretty useless, eh?”
“Depends to whom. Personally, for my researches I would welcome someone who was expert in this area and could read Russian easily.”
“Well, sir, to be quite above the boards,” George replied, “I didn’t finish my degree. So you could hardly say I was an expert.”
Kissinger’s eyes twinkled behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses.
“Perhaps in Hungary you would not qualify as such, but in Cambridge people even with your experience are as rare as hen’s teeth —”
“Or snowflakes in July perhaps?” suggested George, to demonstrate his range of English idioms.
“Indeed,” Dr. K. replied. “So if you have time, I would like to hire you as a research assistant. The European Study Center pays two dollars an hour, which is pretty good. And there would be the additional incentive of our possibly finding a senior-thesis topic in the work you will be doing.”
“Are you intimating that you might personally direct my dissertation?”
“Young man, I’d be insulted if you didn’t ask me,” Kissinger responded with seductive affability. “So do I take it then that you accept my offer, George? Or do you want to think about it? Maybe talk it over with your faculty adviser? Who is it, that young Polish fellow Brzezinski?”
“It’s all right, I’ll explain things to Zbig. When shall I start working, Dr. Kissinger?”
“Come to my office after lunch today. And, George, from now on, when we’re not in class, please call me Henry.”
***
And thus Junior Year concluded.
While in the outside world, Eisenhower had been reelected President by his loving U.S. family, one of The Class had been chosen as the minister of millions to the Lord himself For when the reigning Aga Khan was dying, he unexpectedly chose his grandson, Prince Karim ’58, to succeed him as spiritual leader of the millions of Ismaili Moslems.
Many members of The Class saw this as an augury that they too would be blessed by heaven.
George Keller had traveled farthest — both geographically and mentally. After barely seven months, he had truly conquered the English language. Sentence structure bent to his will. Words had become mere pawns in a power play to breach the walls of argument and capture minds.
He now was free to climb the academic mountain. And here he had a magisterial mentor. For if Harvard served him no other purpose, it had brought him close to Henry Kissinger, with whom his mind worked in uncanny synchronicity.
Thus, he was rewarded with the enviable summer job of acting as Dr. K.’s special assistant in organizing the International Seminar and editing its journal, Confluence.
The program had gathered several dozen government officials and important intellectuals from both sides of the Iron Curtain for a series of colloquia and public lectures, to make them more sensitive to the new postwar configurations of the global family.
Part of George’s duties was to fraternize among the representatives from the Eastern bloc countries and find out what they really thought of Harvard, the seminar — and even Kissinger himself.
Despite their initial wariness, they all ultimately succumbed to George’s European charm and, at one point or another, spoke far more candidly than they had ever imagined they would in the alien confines of a Western capitalist university.
Of course, nothing in Henry’s brief to George suggested that he need go as far as to become physically intimate with any of the participants. This he did on his own initiative.
Perhaps it was something about the sultry Cambridge weather, the sudden stimulation of seeing bevies of non-Radcliffe girls stroll through the Yard in the shortest of shorts and the tightest of T-shirts.
Or perhaps the guilt that had inspired George’s self-induced chastity — a kind of subliminal penance — had been absolved by time.
In early August he went to bed with one of Poland’s leading journalists. She was nearly forty and a woman of the world. Her comments on George’s amorous technique, therefore, carried substantial weight.
“Young man,” she whispered, “you are the most expert lover I have ever known —”
George smiled.
“ — And the coldest,” she quickly added. “You do everything as if you have learned it from a textbook.”
“Do you doubt my sincerity?” he asked good-humoredly.
“Of course not,” she replied with a sly smile. “I never for a minute believed that you had any. You are their spy, yes?”
“Of course.” George grinned. “The director wants me to find out which delegate is the best in bed.”
“And?” she inquired saucily.
“If they ever give a Lenin Prize for sex, you would win hands down.”.
“Ah, George,” she cooed, “you talk as elegantly as you screw. You have a great future ahead of you.”
“In what field do you think?” he asked, genuinely eager to learn how such a woman of the world viewed him.
“It’s obvious,” she replied. “There is one profession which needs an equal quantity of your two best talents. I mean, of course, politics.”
And she pulled him to her to engage once again in the dialectic of Eros.
-*-
Jason Gilbert’s march to sporting glory went on unimpeded. He had won the IC4A Tennis Title for the second straight year. And, as if that were not sufficient kudos, his teammates demonstrated the exceptional esteem in which they held him by voting him their captain — as they already had for squash.
Though normally not vindictive, he could not keep himself from sending to his Old Blue headmaster, Mr. Trumbull, the lengthy Crimson article that assessed his extraordinary number of sporting achievements to date. And, as the encomium concluded, “Who can dare to speculate what further heights Gilbert will reach with yet another year to go?”
-*-
Ted and Sara’s love had grown to such intensity that the mere notion of having to spend two months apart became an intolerable prospect. She therefore persuaded her parents to allow her to attend Harvard Summer School and sublet a flat in North Cambridge. Sara’s mother was more than slightly dubious about her daughter’s sudden passion to take on yet more academic work. But her father, to whom she could confide the fact that mother’s suspicions were in fact correct, was generous in his support and helped her win the day.
It was a long and passionate summer (during which they even made love one starry night in Harvard Yard itself, in the quadrangle behind Sever Hall). Parting on Labor Day was a painful wrench. Sara cried the entire week before they had to give up the apartment.
-*-
For Danny Rossi, the summer of ’57 was a kind of overture to the highest point yet in his musical career.
Munch had booked him to perform with the Boston Symphony on October 12, when he would play Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto. Those trills in the opening movement would have reverberations around the musical world. When he jubilantly called Dr. Landau to tell him the news, he was thrilled to hear that his teacher had been saving money for the plane fare and intended to be present at the concert.
Still, Danny’s imminent debut offered far less joy than he had always dreamed it would. For his junior year had taken from him more than it had bestowed. The humiliation of the Crimson’s pan for his ballet still haunted him. And then there was the tortured relationship with Maria.
He had hoped their separation through the summer would allow him time to clarify his thoughts and possibly to seduce a few girls at Tanglewood to fortify his masculine self-image. But a sudden tragedy cast a huge pall on everything.
The very night he arrived at Tanglewood, his mother called to tell him that Dr. Landau had suffered a fatal heart attack. In a haze of grief, Danny packed and flew out for his teacher’s funeral. At the graveside he cried unashamedly.
When, after the brief service the mourners started to disperse, his mother, whom he had not seen in three long years, implored him to come home. She told Danny it was Dr. Landau’s final wish that he be reconciled with his father.
And so the prodigal son returned at last to the house where he had spent such a miserable adolescence.
Arthur Rossi seemed to have changed both inwardly and outwardly. He was subdued now. There were furrows in his face, and he was completely gray at the temples.
For a fugitive instant, Danny felt a pang of remorse. As if his father’s outward signs of physical decline had somehow been his fault.
But as they stood there facing each other wordlessly for those first awkward moments, Danny forced himself to remember how callously this man had treated him. But he could no longer find it in himself to hate his father. Still, he could not love him, either.
“You’re looking well, son.”
“You too, Dad.”
“It — it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
That was the full extent of what he could say. Danny’s long-cherished fantasy of a paternal apology was just that — a figment of his own childish desires.
Thus, with a quiet magnanimity born of grief and newly found indifference, Danny offered his hand to signal that their quarrel was finally at an end. The two even embraced.
“I’m really glad, son,” Arthur Rossi murmured. “Now we can all let bygones be bygones.”
Yeah, thought Danny, what the hell. It’s so unimportant now. The only man who ever acted like a real father to me is dead.
January 18, 1957
This George Keller is driving me insane. Maybe it’s the immigrant mentality. In fact, I’m working up a theory that Americans are driven by ambition in direct proportion to how recently they’ve set foot on these shores.
I mean, I once thought Lambros had a bullet up his ass. But he was born here. It was his father’s generation that came over on the boat. But nothing, absolutely nothing, tops the frenzied drive of this Hungarian, barely two months in America. I mean, if he were a locomotive he’d explode, he’s stoking his fire so hot.
When I wake up at what for me is the ungodly hour of 8:00 A.M., he’s already hard at work, having long since eaten breakfast. Almost every day he tells me with a kind of gleeful pride that he was first man in the dining hail. (Compare this to Newall, who revels in the distinction of never once having gotten up for breakfast in his entire Harvard career.)
George borrowed fifty bucks from me (which he’ll pay back as soon as his scholarship money comes through), and bought a portable recorder he takes to every class.
Now in the afternoons he plays back the lectures — and sometimes not just once — till he practically knows them by heart. Lots are in Russian. Which may be great for him, but makes me feel like I’m suddenly living in the Kremlin. Needless to say, George has the suite pretty much to himself during the days.
We did have a little problem about Ted and Sara. While George was very understanding of their need for a place to be alone, he insisted that he wouldn’t mind if they used my bedroom as long as he could keep studying in the living room.
I had to explain to him very tactfully that they would mind very much. George finally agreed to go and sit in the house library from four to six-thirty on the days Ted and Sara are in temporary residence.
Now here’s a shocker. I have no idea what time he goes to bed. In fact, I have the sneaking suspicion that the guy doesn’t sleep at all! And I had this really weird experience late the other night.
After a hard session of drinking at the Pore, nature obliged me to get up at around 2:00 A.M. As I was standing in the john taking care of my needs, I suddenly heard this ghostly voice emanating from the shower, saying things like, “begin-began-begun, bite-bit-bitten, sing-sang-sung.”
I called out to George, but, instead Of answering me directly, he simply went on rehearsing his verbs in that tile echo chamber.
Then I pulled back the shower curtain. There he was, naked except for his new a la mode jockey shorts, holding an English grammar. He barely noticed me as he droned on, hammering new words into his head.
I warned him that he’d drive himself to death. To which he replied, “Drive-drove-driven.”
I went to the sink, picked up a glass of cold water, and poured it over his head. He shivered and looked at me with comatose astonishment, then ripped the curtain from my hand, slammed it closed, and continued his verbal gymnastics.
“Show-showed-shown, speak-spoke-spoken.”
Shit, I thought. He can kill himself for all I care.
I shut the bathroom door behind me so that at least Newall could have some peace, staggered back to my bed, and went to sleep.
Or, as George would have put it, sleep-slept-slept.
“Hello, Dad. It’s Jason. I’ve got some great news.”
“I can’t hear you, son. There’s a terrific racket going on behind you. Where are you calling from?”
“Racket’s a good word for it. The whole squash team’s in my room. They just voted for next year’s varsity captain and for some stupid reason they chose me.”
“Son,” the elder Gilbert said elatedly, “that’s just terrific news. I can’t wait to tell your mother. And you know what? I bet you’ll be tennis captain, too.”
As Jason hung up, he felt a kind of vague, inexplicable sadness. For his dad’s last remark had unsettled him. After all, he had been calling to announce a great success. And though his father was obviously delighted, he had concluded with the pretty unsubtle expectation that his son would bring him still more glory. Where would it end?
“Hey, Captain,” Newall interrupted giddily, “are you still sober?”
“Yeah.” Jason laughed. “Couldn’t let my dad think we were all a bunch of drunken bums, which naturally we are.”
His teammates roared appreciatively. There were a dozen of them crowded in his little room, plus several hangers-on including Ted and Sara. Andrew Eliot had brought them along to get a glimpse of the more athletic creatures in the Harvard bestiary.
Originally Newall had intended these festivities to be a surprise. But then George Keller had refused to let them use their own room to hold the party. Newall had no alternative but to tell Jason in advance, so they could use his suite.
“How is that dingbat?” Jason asked, while pouring out a Bud. “I bet he’s out memorizing the Encyclopedia Britannica by now.”
“Don’t laugh,” cautioned Andrew. “Besides studying like a maniac for all his courses, he also reads every inch of The New York Times — including real estate and recipes — and writes down every word he doesn’t know.”
“And that includes the Sunday edition,” Newall added, “when the goddamn paper’s practically as long as War and Peace.”
“Well,” said Jason, “you gotta admire a guy like that.”
“I’ll be happy to admire him,” Newall retorted, “if only someone else would room with him.”
Suddenly the members of the squash team started clinking glasses and calling boozily for silence. It was time to toast their newly chosen captain. The most eloquent of them was Tod Anderson, former Andover captain, now number three on the varsity.
Tod raised his glass and spoke a tribute appropriate for such a gathering of jocks. “To our beloved new leader, Jason Gilbert, ace racket-man and incomparable ass-man. May his shots in court drop as often as his shorts in bed.”
Just after seven, the final partyers began to disperse, and the squash team, as prearranged, started strolling through the streets of Cambridge toward the Hasty Pudding Club. Thursday was steak night, the best buy in Cambridge for $1.75.
As they trooped down Mount Auburn toward Holyoke Street, the knights of the Harvard Squash Varsity broke into a euphoric variant of the college’s most popular fight song:
With Gilbert in triumph flashing
Mid the strains of victory
Poor Eli’s brains we are smashing
Into blue obscurity…
They grew only slightly more sedate as they shuffled up the wooden steps of the clubhouse, at number 12, and mounted the stairs, past two centuries of theatrical posters, to the dining room where Newall had reserved a large table for the entire group.
Naturally they put Jason at the head, which cheered him immensely, because his prominent position drew the attention of every other Pudding member’s date. To these ordinary mortals’ discomfiture, their female guests kept smiling at the man of the hour. And he smiled disarmingly back at them.
At about ten o’clock Jason, Andrew, and Dickie Newall were weaving their way back to Eliot House when something occurred to the captain-elect.
“Hey,” he remarked, “I didn’t see Anderson at dinner. Did he duck the party or something?”
“C’mon, Jason,” Newall responded with liquid lightheartedness, “you know Tod’s not a member of the Pudding.”
“How come?” asked Jason, surprised that such a popular athlete should not be in the eating society that took almost a third of all upperclassmen.
“Haven’t you noticed that Anderson’s a Negro?” Newall chided.
“So what?” said Jason.
“Come on, Gilbert,” Dickie continued, “the Pudding’s not that liberal. I mean, we’ve still got to keep somebody out.”
Thus, even on the night of such personal triumph, Jason Gilbert was once again reminded that although all Harvard undergraduates are equal, some are more equal than others.
Professor Samuel Eliot Morison was among the most eminent members of the Harvard faculty, and by far the most prolific. Renowned for his many volumes of naval history and his chronicles of Harvard, this distinguished gentleman was also, as his middle name suggests, vaguely related to the Eliot in The Class of ’58.
Andrew had been gliding along for almost three years now, flitting like a bee from major to major (English, American studies, even Ec. for a few silly weeks). But now his senior tutor sent him an ultimatum: he had to choose a subject and stick to it. Knowing that he had to graduate from Harvard with a degree in something, he was panicked into seeking professional advice.
Gathering his courage, he wrote Professor Morison a note. And was agreeably surprised to receive an immediate invitation to visit the great man in his map-lined office deep in the stacks of Widener.
“What a real pleasure,” he remarked as they shook hands. “I see before me living proof that old John Eliot’s line is vibrant still. I knew your father when he was an undergraduate and tried to get him to help me a bit with my colonial history. But I guess the banking branch seduced him.”
“Yes,” Andrew averred politely, “Dad is sort of fond of money.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Morison, “especially since so much Eliot philanthropy has helped to build this college. My own namesake, Samuel Eliot, endowed the first professorship of Greek back in 1814. Tell me, Andrew, what’s your major?”
“That’s just it, sir. I’m a junior and I still haven’t made up my mind.”
“What do you think you’ll be doing after college?”
“Well, naturally, I’ll have to do some military service —”
“The Eliots have long served with honor in the navy,” he commented.
“Yes, sir, Admiral Morison,” Andrew replied. But did not tell him that that was why he was thinking of the army.
“And after that?”
“I guess Dad expects me to be some sort of banker.” After all, he thought, I’m coming into so much dough in four years I’ll at least have to visit where the bonds are kept. That’s sort of banking, isn’t it?
“Well, then,” said Morison, “you’ll have a fine vocation. Now you ought to choose a major that will give you some enriching avocation. Have you ever thought about the history of your own family?”
“Dad never lets me forget it,” Andrew responded with honesty and some discomfort. “I mean, while I was still in diapers he was already lecturing me about our noble heritage. To be frank sir, it’s a bit off-putting. I mean, over pablum I was hearing about John Eliot, the Apostle to the Indians, and greatgranddad Charles, the famous Harvard President. I was practically smothered by the foliage on our family tree.”
“But you’ve just leapfrogged several centuries,” the admiral remarked. “What about the Revolutionary War? Do you know where all the Eliots were during ‘the times that tried men’s souls’?”
“No, sir. I just assumed they were shooting off their muskets around Bunker Hill.”
Now the professor smiled. “Then I think I have some enlightenment for you. The eighteenth century Eliots were splendid diarists. And we have records in their very words of what they saw and did during the Revolution.
“Andrew, I can think of nothing more exciting, especially for an Eliot, than studying what Harvard graduates were up to at that time. It could be a splendid topic for a senior thesis.”
At this point Andrew had to confess. “Sir, I think I should tell you that my grades are not exactly at the honors level. They’d never let me write a dissertation.”
The great historian smiled.
“Then you can have the essence of true education, Andrew. I’ll arrange for you to have tutorial with me, and we’ll go through the Eliot diaries together. Grades won’t enter into it. Just reading them will be their own reward.”
Andrew left Morison’s office almost breathless with elation. Now there was a chance that in addition to receiving a diploma, he might even get an education.
Danny Rossi was torn.
At times he desperately wanted the rehearsals of Arcadia to end, so the damn ballet would be performed and close. Then he would never have to see Maria again.
At other times he wished the preparations would go on forever. Six afternoons a week in February and March he had to sit for several hours at the keyboard as Maria put the ballet on its feet. Drilling the dancers, demonstrating the movements, and often coming over to lean on the piano and ask the composer’s advice.
It was that damn blue leotard of hers. No, how could he blame the garment when what was driving him crazy was the body it so tantalizingly accentuated.
Perhaps the worst part of all was when they would go out for a bite afterward to discuss how the ballet was going. She was so warm and friendly, and their conversations would go on for hours. Agonizingly, these evenings grew more and more to seem like dates. Yet Danny knew they weren’t.
Once, when she had Asian flu, he went to visit her in the Infirmary and brought a flower. He sat down by her bed and tried to cheer her up with silly anecdotes. She laughed a lot and, when he rose to leave, said, “Thanks for coming, Danny. You’re a pal.”
That’s all he was, goddammit, just a lousy pal. And yet how could it be otherwise? She was beautiful and confident — and tall. And he was none of these.
And worst of all, what pretext could he possibly invent to see her once the performances had ended?
Opening night finally arrived. All the self-styled Harvard cognoscenti assembled in Radcliffe’s Agassiz Theater to sit in judgment on Maria Pastore’s choreography and Daniel Rossi’s score.
Danny was too involved conducting to notice how it was going, although at several points the audience burst into applause. Was it for the music or the dance?
Since most of the performers were abstemious, the party was held in an adjacent rehearsal room, where brackish KoolAid punch was served and a few daring souls drank beer.
Harvard theatrical premieres are just like those on Broadway in one respect. The performers all sit up waiting for the reviews. The only difference is that in Cambridge they merely keep vigil for the verdict of the Crimson.
At about eleven, someone sprinted in with Sonya Levin’s comments for tomorrow’s Crime. For a journal by implicit policy supercilious, the review began with some pretty enthusiastic remarks about Maria’s choreography, which was deemed “dynamic and imaginative, with touches of lighthearted invention.”
Then Miss Levin turned her attention to Danny Rossi. Or rather her guns. In her opinion,
the music, though ambitious and energetic, was, to
say the least, derivative. Imitation may be the sin-
cerest form of flattery, but Stravinsky and Aaron
Copland could justifiably ask Rossi to pay royalties.
To Danny’s consternation, this was all being read aloud by the stage manager, who was growing steadily uneasier as he recited.
Danny was stung. Why was this sarcastic Crimson smart-ass trying to make herself look good at his expense? Did she have any idea how this would hurt?
He felt a sudden urge to run out of the room. Just as he stood, there was a hand on his shoulder. It was Maria.
“Hey, Danny —”
“Don’t bother,” he muttered bitterly. He could not turn around and face her. And forgetting he had left his parka folded on a backstage chair, he started slowly out of the room.
As soon as he reached the stairway he quickened his pace. He had to get the hell out of there. To escape all those pitying glances.
When he reached the ground floor he noticed the sign pointing toward the public telephone and remembered his promise to call Dr. Landau as soon as the performance was over.
Oh, shit, no. How can I repeat those crushing things that bitch reviewer said? In fact, how could he ever call his teacher now? He was a failure. A conspicuous and public failure. Like that long-ago day on the high school track.
He pushed open the glass door and walked out into the cold March night, insensitive to the harsh wind hitting his face. He was too preoccupied with the thought that this unexpected turn of events would deprive him of his beloved teacher’s respect.
Danny always knew he would be Landau’s last pupil. And he wanted to be his best.
He could go no farther. He sat down on the stone steps and put his head in his hands.
“Hey, Rossi, what are you doing there? You’ll catch pneumonia.”
Maria was standing above him, just outside the door.
“Go away, Pastore. You shouldn’t hang around with second-raters.”
Ignoring his words, she came down and sat a step below him.
“Listen, Danny, I don’t care what Sonya says. I think your music’s brilliant.”
“Everybody in the college’s gonna read that tomorrow morning. That’ll give those bastards in Eliot House a few laughs.”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “Most of those preppies can’t read anyway.” And then added gently, “I only wish you’d believe that I hurt just as much as you.”
“Why? You got good reviews,”
“Because I love you.”
“You can’t,” he answered as an unwilling reflex. “You’re much too tall.”
She could not help laughing at this absurd reaction.
Then he began to laugh as well. And reached down and drew her toward him. They kissed.
After a moment Maria gazed at him and smiled. “Now it’s your turn.”
“What?”
“I mean, is this a one-way thing or not?”
“No,” he answered softly. “I love you too, Maria.”
They did not feel the chill wind blow as they continued to embrace.
Harvard spring vacations can mean many things to many people.
Seniors stay in place to finish off their dissertations, which are due the day that classes recommence. The more affluent undergraduates fly off to Bermuda for that fabled rite known as College Week. The program includes sunning, sailing, waterskiing, calypso dancing, and — at least hypothetically — seducing the girls who flock there for most of the same reasons.
Spring normally visits Cambridge in name only. And athletic muscles need the vernal warmth to tone them for the crucial competitions yet to come.
The track team gets to fly to Puerto Rico. Which sounds more exotic than it is. Because, unlike the tourists on the beaches of Bermuda, the harriers get up at 5:00 A.M., go ten miles before breakfast, and then sleep all day until it’s time to run again that afternoon. Few have the energy, or even the desire, to seek out señoritas in the evening.
Tennis, golf, and baseball tour the southern states to limber up, competing against some of the local universities. These teams live less ascetically than the runners, and thus have reservoirs of energy for nighttime entertainment. After dinner they strut through the richly landscaped campuses wearing an irresistible lodestone for the lovely southern coeds: sweaters with that noble H.
After a hard-earned victory against the University of North Carolina, Jason Gilbert and his teammates were preparing to go out and captivate the female population of Chapel Hill. As they dressed and showered, Dam Oliver, the coach, was offering constructive criticism to his men — including Jason, who, although he’d won, had looked a little sluggish on the court.
“Because I’m tired, coach,” he was protesting. “All this traveling and practicing and playing matches isn’t really what you’d call a picnic.”
“Come on, Gilbert,” Dam reprimanded with good humor, “you’ve been putting too much effort into postgame partying. May I remind you this is not supposed to be a holiday?”
“Hey, coach, you do remember that I won today, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but you were sleeping on your feet. So shape up, or I’ll slap a curfew on you. Do you read me, Gilbert?”
“Yessir. Sorry, mother dear.”
As laughter echoed even from the shower room, a graying academic type in suit and tie appeared and asked to have a few words with the coach.
“Who is that guy?” Jason whispered to Newall, who was drying himself at an adjacent locker.
“Probably an FBI man after you, Gilbert,” he quipped. “I think you’ve violated the Mann Act four or five times so far this week.”
Before Jason could reply, the coach was calling for the team’s attention.
A dozen players in varying states of undress obediently assembled.
Coach Oliver addressed them. “Guys, this gentleman is Rabbi Yavetz, the director of the U.N. C. Hillel Society. He tells me that this evening is the first night of the Passover holiday. And all Jewish players on the team are welcome to attend his service.”
“It will be short and festive,” the rabbi added in a southern accent. “Just a simple seder with some pretty good food and the songs I hope your granddads taught you.”
“Any takers?” asked the coach.
“I’ll be glad to come,” said sophomore Larry Wexler, new to the team at number seven. “That’ll smooth things over with my parents, who were sort of disappointed that I won’t be home.”
“Anybody else?” Oliver inquired, glancing at Jason Gilbert.
He looked back blandly and replied, “Thanks a lot, but I’m not really … interested.”
“You’re always welcome if you change your mind,” the rabbi said. And then turned to Larry Wexler. “I’ll send one of our members to the dorm where y’all are staying about half past six.”
When the clergyman departed, Newall asked with casual curiosity, “Say, Wexler, what’s this holiday for, anyway?”
“It’s kind of neat,” replied the sophomore. “It celebrates the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. You know, when Moses said, ‘Let my people go.’ ”
“Sounds like a colored folks’ jamboree,” Newall commented.
“Listen,” Wexler retorted, “as Disraeli once told an English bigot, ‘When my ancestors were reading the Bible yours were still swinging from trees.’ ”
An hour later, as he was carefully adjusting the knot in his Varsity Club tie, Larry Wexler noticed a reflection in the mirror.
It was Jason — dressed, with uncharacteristic formality, in a sedate blue blazer.
“Hey, Wexler,” he said uneasily, “if I go to this thing, will I look like a total asshole? I mean, I don’t know what to do.”
“No sweat, Gilbert. All you’ve got to do is sit, listen, and then eat. I’ll even turn the pages for you.”
They were about four dozen, seated at long tables in a private dining room of the Student Union.
Rabbi Yavetz made some brief introductory remarks.
“In a real sense, Passover is the cardinal holiday on the Jewish calendar. For it fulfills the central commandment of our faith, as put forth in Exodus, Chapter Thirteen — that of reminding our children in every generation that the Lord delivered us from oppression in Egypt.”
Jason listened mutely as the celebrants took turns reading from the biblical account and singing psalms of praise. At one point he whispered to Larry, “How come you all know the same tunes?”
“They’re from the Top Ten of 5000 B.C. Your ancestors must have been on a very slow camel.”
Jason was relieved when the dinner was served. For then the conversation became very much twentieth-century collegiate and he did not feel like an odd man out.
During the meal Larry whispered, “Did any of it mean anything to you — you know, culturally?”
“Sort of,” Jason replied, with politeness if not much conviction. For in truth he had not really understood what this ritual had to do with him in 1957.
And yet, before the evening ended, he did.
When the service continued, the rabbi bade everyone rise to pray for the coming of the Messiah. At this point he added a note of more recent history:
“We are all, of course, aware that the ancient Egyptians were far from the last to try to destroy our people. As recently as Passover 1943, the brave Jews in the Warsaw ghetto, starved and almost without arms, began their last heroic stand against the Nazis who were besieging them.
“This did not happen to our forefathers, it happened to our very own relatives. Uncles, aunts, grandparents — and for some of us, brothers and sisters. It is of them — and the six million others murdered by Hitler — that we think at this moment.”
There was a sudden hush.
Jason saw a young man at the first table lower his head and begin to weep silently.
“Did you lose any relatives — over there?” Jason whispered.
Larry Wexler looked at his teammate and answered somberly, “Didn’t we all?”
A moment later they were again seated, singing festive songs.
The formalities concluded not long after. They were followed by some unofficial socializing with the attractive coeds, who, enjoined by a double code of hospitality, flocked to welcome the two visitors from Harvard.
At a little before eleven, Larry and Jason were walking through the darkened campus back to their dorm.
“I don’t know about you, Gilbert,” Larry commented, “but I’m really glad I went.
I mean, don’t you think it’s good to know about our roots?”
“I guess so,” Jason Gilbert answered half-aloud. And thought, My own roots seem just to go back to a courthouse twenty years ago. When some accommodating judge gave my father a new, non-Jewish name.
And to secure our future, he mortgaged all our past.
As they walked on, he mused further. I wonder why Dad had to do it. I mean, this guy Wexler’s no worse off than I. In fact, he’s better. He’s got an identity.
Jason returned from the spring tour changed in one official way. After their match against a group of former college all-stars now serving with the Marines in Quantico, Virginia, he had succumbed to the blandishments of a persuasive recruiting officer and signed up for the Platoon Leaders Class.
He had decided that this would be a great way to discharge his military obligation since, unlike the ROTC program, it would meet only during the next two summers. Then, after graduation, he’d go straight into the Marines and serve a two-year stint as an officer. There were even heavy hints that after basic training he might be transferred to Special Services and could spend his tour of duty hitting tennis balls.
But first another battle lay before him. There was Yale to face in May. And the New Haven hordes were out to get revenge.
“No”
“Please.”
“No!”
Maria Pastore sat bolt upright, her face flushed.
“Please, Danny, for God’s sake, do we have to go through this all the time?”
“Maria, you’re being unreasonable.”
“No, Danny, you’re being cruel and insensitive, Can’t you understand I have my principles?”
Danny Rossi could get nowhere with Maria.
Though for the first few weeks they had lived in a kind of paradise for two, alone amid the crowds of Cambridge, they soon encountered serious ethical differences.
Maria was the nicest, kindest, brightest, and most beautiful young woman he had ever met. And she adored him. But the problem was — for reasons he refused to understand, or at any rate accept — she would not sleep with him. In fact, she would permit considerably less than that.
They would embrace and kiss each other passionately while lying on his couch, but whenever he so much as slipped his hand beneath her sweater, all her ardor suddenly turned to rigid panic.
“Please, Danny. Please don’t.”
“Maria,” he reasoned with her patiently, “this is not a fly-by-night affair. We really care for each other. I only want to touch you because I love you.”
She stood up, and pulling down her sweater pleaded with him to appreciate her feelings.
“Danny, we’re both Catholic. Can’t you understand it’s wrong to do this sort of thing before you’re married?”
“What sort of thing?” he said exasperatedly. “Where is it written in the Bible that a man can’t touch a woman’s breasts? In fact, the Song of Songs —”
“Please, Danny,” she said quietly, but with obvious inward agony, “you know it isn’t that, It would never stop there.”
“But I swear to you I won’t ask for more.”
Maria looked at him, her cheeks red, and said candidly, “Hey look, maybe you think you could break off right in the middle. But I know myself. I know that once we reached that point, I couldn’t stop.”
For a moment this confession elated Danny. “Then in your heart you do want to go all the way?”
She nodded, with a look of shame.
“Danny, I’m a woman. I’m in love with you. And I’ve got a lot of passion bottled up inside me. But I’m also a religious Catholic. The sisters taught us that to do this is a mortal sin.”
“Hey look,” he now persisted as if in a university debate. “Can you, an enlightened Radcliffe girl in 1957, tell me you really think you’ll burn in hell if you go to bed with someone you love?”
“Before I’m married, yes,” she answered without hesitation.
“God, I don’t believe this,” he responded, running out of patience. And of arguments.
Overcome with dizzying desire to convince this sensual conservative, he said impetuously, “Look, Maria, we’ll be married someday. Isn’t that enough for you?”
Perhaps she was too upset to notice that he had actually mentioned matrimony. In any case she answered, “Danny, please believe, by everything that’s holy, I simply can’t forget the way I’ve been brought up. My priest, my parents, no — I won’t evade responsibility and put the blame on them — it’s my belief. I want to give my husband my virginity.”
“Jesus, that’s so antiquated. Haven’t you read Kinsey? Maybe ten percent of women do that nowadays.”
“Danny, I don’t care if I’m the last girl on this earth. I’m going to be chaste until my wedding night.”
To which, having reached the end of his rhetorical tether, Danny could but answer with a near-involuntary, “Shit.”
Then, trying to rein in his own passion, he said, “Okay, okay, let’s forget this whole thing and have some dinner.”
As he started to put on his tie, he was surprised to hear her answer, “No.”
He whirled and barked, “Now what?”
“Danny, let’s be honest. Neither of us can go on like this. Because we’re starting to get angry with each other. And that means all our tender feelings will inevitably dissipate.”
She stood up. As if to put him at a physical as well as moral disadvantage.
“Danny, I really care for you a lot,” she said. “But I don’t want to see you —”
“Anymore?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, “but for a while anyway. Look, you’ve got Tanglewood this summer. I’ll be working back in Cleveland. Maybe the separation will do us good. We’ll both have time to think.”
“But didn’t you hear me say I want to marry you?”
She nodded. And then answered softly, “Yes. But I’m not sure you know if you really mean it. That’s why we need time apart.”
“At least can we write to each other?” Danny asked.
“Please, let’s.”
Maria then walked to the door and turned. She looked at him silently for a moment and then murmured, “You’ll never know how much this hurts me, Danny.”
Then she left.
By the spring of 1957 George Keller was as intellectually prepared as anyone in The Class to take courses in the normal language of instruction at Harvard College.
Not unexpectedly, he had chosen to major in government. For Brzezinski had explained how, with his fluent Russian and firsthand knowledge of Iron Curtain politics, he’d be indispensable in Washington.
Among the courses he selected for the spring was Government 180, Principles of International Politics, even though the name of the professor had evoked in him some of his original feelings of paranoia. For the instructor was one William Palmer Eliot — yet another (alleged) relative of his roommate, Andrew.
Still, it was a fateful choice. For Eliot’s assistant was a chubby young instructor who spoke English with a foreign accent heavier than George’s. His name was Henry Kissinger. And by some uncanny mutual telepathy they gravitated toward each other.
Kissinger, a refugee like George, albeit from wartime Germany, had also been a Harvard undergraduate (and likewise anglicized his first name). He had acquired an uncanny grasp of politics — both in theory and practice. Dr. K. (as he was affectionately known) already directed something called the Harvard International Seminar. And was on the board of what was probably the world’s most important political journal, Foreign Affairs.
George thought his own cleverness had gotten him Kissinger as section man, only to discover that the teacher had made all the necessary efforts to win him for his discussion group. Neither man was disappointed.
Among other things, Kissinger was impressed by George’s command of the Russian language. But it was his own burning ambition to be number one at Harvard (and, by extension, in the world) that most made him want to enlist the young Hungarian for his team. For he knew how much his archrival Zbig Brzezinski desperately desired to keep George in his own sphere of influence.
After a section meeting early in the term, he stopped George and said, “Mr. Keller, may I see you for a moment? I would like to add a word or two about your recent essay.”
“Certainly,” George said politely, suddenly afraid his paper had been less than the original and perceptive analysis he himself considered it.
“Was it all right, Professor?” George asked when the last student had departed. Keen academic strategist, he had astutely bestowed on Kissinger the title of Professor when he knew full well he was a mere instructor. The honoree was clearly flattered. Or at least he smiled broadly.
“Your paper, Mr. Keller, was not just ‘all right.’ It was absolutely first rate. I’ve never seen an essay that so perceptively distinguished all the subtleties of the various East European philosophies.”
“Thank you, Professor,” George replied elatedly.
“I know you are one of our new imports from Hungary. What were you studying in Budapest?”
“Law. Soviet law, of course. Pretty useless, eh?”
“Depends to whom. Personally, for my researches I would welcome someone who was expert in this area and could read Russian easily.”
“Well, sir, to be quite above the boards,” George replied, “I didn’t finish my degree. So you could hardly say I was an expert.”
Kissinger’s eyes twinkled behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses.
“Perhaps in Hungary you would not qualify as such, but in Cambridge people even with your experience are as rare as hen’s teeth —”
“Or snowflakes in July perhaps?” suggested George, to demonstrate his range of English idioms.
“Indeed,” Dr. K. replied. “So if you have time, I would like to hire you as a research assistant. The European Study Center pays two dollars an hour, which is pretty good. And there would be the additional incentive of our possibly finding a senior-thesis topic in the work you will be doing.”
“Are you intimating that you might personally direct my dissertation?”
“Young man, I’d be insulted if you didn’t ask me,” Kissinger responded with seductive affability. “So do I take it then that you accept my offer, George? Or do you want to think about it? Maybe talk it over with your faculty adviser? Who is it, that young Polish fellow Brzezinski?”
“It’s all right, I’ll explain things to Zbig. When shall I start working, Dr. Kissinger?”
“Come to my office after lunch today. And, George, from now on, when we’re not in class, please call me Henry.”
And thus Junior Year concluded.
While in the outside world, Eisenhower had been reelected President by his loving U.S. family, one of The Class had been chosen as the minister of millions to the Lord himself For when the reigning Aga Khan was dying, he unexpectedly chose his grandson, Prince Karim ’58, to succeed him as spiritual leader of the millions of Ismaili Moslems.
Many members of The Class saw this as an augury that they too would be blessed by heaven.
George Keller had traveled farthest — both geographically and mentally. After barely seven months, he had truly conquered the English language. Sentence structure bent to his will. Words had become mere pawns in a power play to breach the walls of argument and capture minds.
He now was free to climb the academic mountain. And here he had a magisterial mentor. For if Harvard served him no other purpose, it had brought him close to Henry Kissinger, with whom his mind worked in uncanny synchronicity.
Thus, he was rewarded with the enviable summer job of acting as Dr. K.’s special assistant in organizing the International Seminar and editing its journal, Confluence.
The program had gathered several dozen government officials and important intellectuals from both sides of the Iron Curtain for a series of colloquia and public lectures, to make them more sensitive to the new postwar configurations of the global family.
Part of George’s duties was to fraternize among the representatives from the Eastern bloc countries and find out what they really thought of Harvard, the seminar — and even Kissinger himself.
Despite their initial wariness, they all ultimately succumbed to George’s European charm and, at one point or another, spoke far more candidly than they had ever imagined they would in the alien confines of a Western capitalist university.
Of course, nothing in Henry’s brief to George suggested that he need go as far as to become physically intimate with any of the participants. This he did on his own initiative.
Perhaps it was something about the sultry Cambridge weather, the sudden stimulation of seeing bevies of non-Radcliffe girls stroll through the Yard in the shortest of shorts and the tightest of T-shirts.
Or perhaps the guilt that had inspired George’s self-induced chastity — a kind of subliminal penance — had been absolved by time.
In early August he went to bed with one of Poland’s leading journalists. She was nearly forty and a woman of the world. Her comments on George’s amorous technique, therefore, carried substantial weight.
“Young man,” she whispered, “you are the most expert lover I have ever known —”
George smiled.
“ — And the coldest,” she quickly added. “You do everything as if you have learned it from a textbook.”
“Do you doubt my sincerity?” he asked good-humoredly.
“Of course not,” she replied with a sly smile. “I never for a minute believed that you had any. You are their spy, yes?”
“Of course.” George grinned. “The director wants me to find out which delegate is the best in bed.”
“And?” she inquired saucily.
“If they ever give a Lenin Prize for sex, you would win hands down.”.
“Ah, George,” she cooed, “you talk as elegantly as you screw. You have a great future ahead of you.”
“In what field do you think?” he asked, genuinely eager to learn how such a woman of the world viewed him.
“It’s obvious,” she replied. “There is one profession which needs an equal quantity of your two best talents. I mean, of course, politics.”
And she pulled him to her to engage once again in the dialectic of Eros.
Jason Gilbert’s march to sporting glory went on unimpeded. He had won the IC4A Tennis Title for the second straight year. And, as if that were not sufficient kudos, his teammates demonstrated the exceptional esteem in which they held him by voting him their captain — as they already had for squash.
Though normally not vindictive, he could not keep himself from sending to his Old Blue headmaster, Mr. Trumbull, the lengthy Crimson article that assessed his extraordinary number of sporting achievements to date. And, as the encomium concluded, “Who can dare to speculate what further heights Gilbert will reach with yet another year to go?”
Ted and Sara’s love had grown to such intensity that the mere notion of having to spend two months apart became an intolerable prospect. She therefore persuaded her parents to allow her to attend Harvard Summer School and sublet a flat in North Cambridge. Sara’s mother was more than slightly dubious about her daughter’s sudden passion to take on yet more academic work. But her father, to whom she could confide the fact that mother’s suspicions were in fact correct, was generous in his support and helped her win the day.
It was a long and passionate summer (during which they even made love one starry night in Harvard Yard itself, in the quadrangle behind Sever Hall). Parting on Labor Day was a painful wrench. Sara cried the entire week before they had to give up the apartment.
For Danny Rossi, the summer of ’57 was a kind of overture to the highest point yet in his musical career.
Munch had booked him to perform with the Boston Symphony on October 12, when he would play Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto. Those trills in the opening movement would have reverberations around the musical world. When he jubilantly called Dr. Landau to tell him the news, he was thrilled to hear that his teacher had been saving money for the plane fare and intended to be present at the concert.
Still, Danny’s imminent debut offered far less joy than he had always dreamed it would. For his junior year had taken from him more than it had bestowed. The humiliation of the Crimson’s pan for his ballet still haunted him. And then there was the tortured relationship with Maria.
He had hoped their separation through the summer would allow him time to clarify his thoughts and possibly to seduce a few girls at Tanglewood to fortify his masculine self-image. But a sudden tragedy cast a huge pall on everything.
The very night he arrived at Tanglewood, his mother called to tell him that Dr. Landau had suffered a fatal heart attack. In a haze of grief, Danny packed and flew out for his teacher’s funeral. At the graveside he cried unashamedly.
When, after the brief service the mourners started to disperse, his mother, whom he had not seen in three long years, implored him to come home. She told Danny it was Dr. Landau’s final wish that he be reconciled with his father.
And so the prodigal son returned at last to the house where he had spent such a miserable adolescence.
Arthur Rossi seemed to have changed both inwardly and outwardly. He was subdued now. There were furrows in his face, and he was completely gray at the temples.
For a fugitive instant, Danny felt a pang of remorse. As if his father’s outward signs of physical decline had somehow been his fault.
But as they stood there facing each other wordlessly for those first awkward moments, Danny forced himself to remember how callously this man had treated him. But he could no longer find it in himself to hate his father. Still, he could not love him, either.
“You’re looking well, son.”
“You too, Dad.”
“It — it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
That was the full extent of what he could say. Danny’s long-cherished fantasy of a paternal apology was just that — a figment of his own childish desires.
Thus, with a quiet magnanimity born of grief and newly found indifference, Danny offered his hand to signal that their quarrel was finally at an end. The two even embraced.
“I’m really glad, son,” Arthur Rossi murmured. “Now we can all let bygones be bygones.”
Yeah, thought Danny, what the hell. It’s so unimportant now. The only man who ever acted like a real father to me is dead.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
August 8, 1957
All summer I had one foot in the future and the other in the past (don’t ask me which I like better).
Since — with any luck — I’ll be graduating next June, Father thought it best that I forgo the usual physical labor this year. And instead begin to get acquainted with the family banking business.
Naturally he was in Maine, running things by phone. So he put me into the charge of “good old Johnny Winthrop,” an officer quite accurately described by both those adjectives.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open, lad,” he explained at the beginning of my very first day. “Watch when I buy, watch when I sell, watch when I hold. You’ll quickly get the knack of it. Now why don’t you get us both a nice cup of tea?”
Our offices in downtown Boston are just a short walk across the Common from the Historical Society. This is where I did my real learning, as I delved into the diaries of the Reverend Andrew Eliot, Class of 1737, and his son, John, 1772.
They gave me a real sense of our country’s (and my family’s) history. And also that, give or take a few improvements in the plumbing, Harvard life seems to have been the same since the beginning.
I photostated some juicy tidbits from John Eliot’s freshman diary.
Item. September 2, 1768. John leaves for college. Packs his vital gear. Required blue coat, three-cornered hat, and gown. Also fork, spoon, and chamberpot (freshmen had to bring their own).
Item. Dad insists he take Charlestown ferry. Cheapest way. And — most important — Harvard gets the proceeds.
Item. Tuition can be paid in kind, e.g., potatoes or firewood. One guy brought a sheep.
Item. College punch called “flip.” Two-thirds beer, molasses, spiked with rum. Served in huge, tall mugs (called “bumpers”).
Item. September 6, 1768. Describes wretched food in Commons.
“Each undergraduate receives one pound of meat a day,” John wrote. “But since it has no taste at all, one cannot tell what animal it comes from. Now and then there are some greens. On great occasions, dandelions. The butter is unspeakable and several times has been the cause of violent student demonstrations.
“At least we shall not die of thirst. For the supply of cider is unlimited. Each table has large pewter cans which we pass from mouth to mouth, just like the English wassail-bowl.”
Except for the presence of cider, this could well have been the description of an Eliot House dinner. Especially their table talk. There’s a certain eternal quality to undergraduate bullshit.
Not all was fun and games. As the situation with Britain deteriorated, the campus atmosphere grew tense. There were bloody fights between rebel and loyalist students. And then the war broke out.
In late 1773, just after the Boston Tea Party, there was a violent riot in the dining hall between patriots and Tories. No simple food fight, but a deadly battle. Tutors struggled to halt bloodshed.
One afternoon, I discovered something fascinating. I learned that the British army once intended to wipe Harvard College off the map.
“On the eighteenth of April in seventy-five,” as Professor Longfellow’s famous poem goes, Paul Revere galloped through the night to alert the citizens of Lexington and Concord that the redcoats were coming.
But another part of their forces was heading toward Cambridge. John Eliot’s diary of April 19 tells of the panic at Harvard. For it was well known that the English considered the college “a hotbed of sedition.”
Fearing that the enemy might arrive via the great bridge over the Charles River, a group of undergraduates dismantled it so that the British would be unable to cross. They then hid in the bushes to see what would happen.
Just after noon, a horde of troops appeared on the western bank led by Lord Percy himself, splendidly attired, mounted on a beautiful white horse.
When he saw what we — I mean the Harvard guys — had done to thwart him, he was pretty ticked off. But the canny British bastard had brought along some carpenters, who repaired the bridge in less than an hour.
They then marched straight through the center of the town, whose windows all were shuttered tight.
Percy was en route to reinforce the troops already out in Lexington. But he did not know the way. And so he headed for the most likely source of information-Harvard College. He led some of his men right into the center of the Yard and shouted at the seemingly deserted buildings for someone to come out immediately and give him directions.
No one ventured forth. Those undergraduates had guts.
John Eliot and his roommates were peering anxiously through the slats of his shutters, fearing Percy might order his troops to start shooting. And well he might, but first he tried a different ploy. He asked again — in Latin.
Then Tutor Isaac Smith suddenly appeared from Hollis Hall and approached the Englishman.
The students couldn’t hear them speak, but saw Smith motion toward Lexington. Percy waved, and all then galloped off.
Almost instantly the tutor was bombarded by shouts of, “grubstreet lobster-loving idiot.”
The man was quite bewildered. He was of that breed who can quote all of Cicero and Plato without book, yet can’t recall a student’s name.
He stuttered that the information had been requested in the king’s name. So how could he, as a loyal subject, have refused? He added that Lord Percy planned to honor Harvard with another visit.
The students were outraged. It seems the general had told Tutor Smith they’d have “a glass of good Madeira by the fire” later that night. The idiot didn’t realize that by “fire” the redcoat had meant conflagration. Some wanted to tar and feather this overeducated simpleton. But, typical of Harvard, everyone proposed a different course of action.
And while they were haranguing one another, Tutor Smith slipped quietly away. He was never seen again.
That evening Paul Revere rode into Cambridge with the awesome news of Lexington and Concord.
Some of the students joined the minutemen who had hastily built barricades on Cambridge Common, preparing for the British to attack.
They never came.
The Brookline militia, led by Isaac Gardner ’47, ambushed the approaching redcoats at Watson’s Corner. Though Isaac fell, his brave charge made the British scatter, thinking that the route to Cambridge teemed with patriots as fierce as he.
Thanks to men like him, there was no battle fought in Harvard Yard.
That steamy afternoon when I first read John Eliot’s words, I couldn’t help but wonder how we modern undergraduates would have responded if the university was under siege of arms. What would we do — hurl Frisbees at the enemy?
It was nearly five when I got back from “lunch.” I went straight to Mr. Winthrop to apologize. He looked up from his desk and said he hadn’t even noticed I was gone.
That is the story of my life.
***
When The Class of ’58 returned to Cambridge for their final year, they all were painfully aware that very little sand remained in the hourglass of their college lives. For in precisely nine months, they would be cast from the comfortable womb of Harvard into the cold, harsh world.
Everything seems to speed up at a frighteningly rapid pace. The seniors are like downhill skiers, some of whom are frightened by the gathering momentum and, although the end is manifestly near, still cannot keep their balance.
The Class had thus far had three suicides, all more or less precipitated by the pressures of trying to remain at Harvard. Now in this final year, two more of them would take their lives. But this time out of fear of leaving.
The final act is sad in other ways as well. The cynicism that is so endemic in the first three years turns slowly and surprisingly into nostalgia. Which by June creates an embryonic feeling of regret. Of wasted time. Of chances lost. Of carefree feelings none of them will ever know again.
There are exceptions. Those who can survive this senior crucible are usually the ones most likely to bring glory to The Class.
Not the least of them made his debut as piano soloist with the Boston Symphony on October 12, 1957.
Yet, the Danny Rossi who walked nervously to the keyboard in the crowded, venerable auditorium was different physically from the bespectacled young man who had left Eliot House the previous spring.
He was no longer wearing glasses.
Not that his vision had improved — although his appearance most dramatically had.
He owed his metamorphosis to the suggestion of an amorous admirer from last summer’s Tanglewood Festival staff. Seeing his face under circumstances when he did not need glasses to function, she remarked on the appeal of his piercing gray-green eyes — and what a pity it was that his spectacles hid them from the audience’s view, The next day he went out and was fitted for contact lenses.
The minute he appeared on stage of Symphony Hal! Danny could sense how right his inamorata’s advice had been. Amid the polite, friendly applause, he could perceive remarks like, “Oh, he’s cute.”
His performance was almost flawless. He was always passionate. And in the final movement some of his front locks fell across his forehead.
A standing ovation.
*
He had no notion of how long the public adoration lasted. In fact, Danny was swept up in its tidal wave and had lost all sense of time. He would have stayed on stage forever had not Munch, a friendly arm around his shoulder, led him to the wings.
Shortly after he got to his dressing room, his parents appeared. And, hard upon their heels, new planets that began to spin around the sun of Danny Rossi — journalists.
First the flashbulbs popping at him shaking hands with Munch. Then several with his mom and dad. And then a series with dignitaries of the music world, many of whom had come up from New York.
Finally, even Danny had had enough.
“Hey, guys,” he pleaded, “I’ve just started to feel very tired. As you can imagine, I didn’t get too much sleep last night. So can I ask you to pack up and go? I mean, if you’ve got all you want.”
Most of the press was satisfied and started to retreat. But one of the photographers realized that a single commercial picture yet remained untaken.
“Danny,” he cried out, “how about one with you kissing your girlfriend?”
Danny glanced toward the corner where Maria, dressed sedately, had been all but hiding. (It had taken weeks of persuasion to get her to go to the concert just as a “friend.”) He motioned to her to come forward. But she shook her head.
“No, Danny, please. I don’t want to be photographed. Besides, this is your night. I’m just here as a member of the audience.”
Doubly disappointed, for he would have liked the world to see him with a really sexy girl, Danny acquiesced and told the journalists, “She isn’t used to this.
Another time, okay?”
Reluctantly, the Fourth Estate departed. And the Rossis and Maria headed toward the limousine to drive down to The Ritz, where a suite had been reserved by the Symphony management.
Danny rode to the hotel half in a dream. Cocooned within the leather plushness of the chauffeured car, he inwardly repeated to himself, I can’t believe it, I’m a star. A goddamn star.
*
Never having imagined he would be feeling such euphoria, Danny had deliberately requested that his parents keep the party small. For he thought that after the performance he would be consumed with sadness at the absence of the man who was responsible for bringing him so far. But the night’s ovation had been so intoxicating that for the moment he could think of no one but himself.
Munch and the concertmaster dropped by for a single glass of champagne and quickly left. They had a matinee the next afternoon and needed to get home to rest. The managing director of the B.S.O. had brought along a most distinguished gentleman who absolutely would not wait even a day to talk to Danny.
The unexpected guest was none other than S. Hurok, the world’s most famous concert manager. He told the young pianist not only how much he admired his performance, but that he hoped Danny would consider allowing his office to represent him. He went as far as to promise Danny the chance to play with major orchestras as early as next year.
“But, Mr. Hurok, I’m a total unknown.”
“Ah,” the old man smiled, “but I am not. And most of all, the symphony directors I will contact trust their ears.”
“You mean there were some in the audience tonight?”
“No,” Hurok smiled, “but Maître Munch thought it might be useful if he had this evening’s concert taped. With your permission, I could make very good use of those reels.”
“Gosh —”
“Hi, Mr. Hurok,” Arthur Rossi interposed. “I’m Danny’s dad. If you would like, we could have breakfast in the morning.”
Danny shot a withering glance at his father, and then turned back to the impresario. “I’m very flattered, sir. If we could talk some other time —”
“Of course, of course,” Hurok said with enthusiastic understanding. “We’ll chat again when you’re less busy.”
He then politely said good night and left with the director. Now there were only four of them. Danny, his parents, and Maria.
“Well,” Arthur Rossi jested, smiling at Maria, “here we are, just us Italians.”
He was avoiding Danny’s gaze. For he knew that just a moment earlier he had overstepped the newly redrawn boundaries of their father-son relationship. And he was afraid of Danny’s anger.
“With everyone’s permission,” said Gisela Rossi, “I would like very much to drink a toast to someone who was here tonight only in spirit.”
Danny nodded and they raised their glasses.
“To Frank Rossi —” his father began.
And then suddenly stopped himself as he heard his younger son whisper, with supreme self-control, “No, Dad, not tonight.”
There was a silence. Then Mrs. Rossi murmured, “To the memory of Gustave Landau. Let us pray that God let Danny’s music go to heaven tonight so such a fine man could take pride.”
They drank somberly.
“That was Danny’s teacher,” she told Maria.
“I know,” she answered softly. “Danny’s told me all about how much he — loved him.”
There was a sudden pause as no one knew what to say next.
At last Maria spoke again. “I don’t want to spoil the party, but it’s kind of late. I think I’d better take a taxi home to Radcliffe.”
“If you can wait a minute,” Danny offered, “I’ll be glad to take you and then have the driver drop me back at Eliot.”
“No, no,” she protested. “I mean, the orchestra’s given you this terrific suite. It will be a lot more fun than just a metal bed in a Harvard house,”
Maria suddenly felt a tinge of embarrassment at the way she had put her last remark. Would that give the elder Rossis the impression that she’d been in Danny’s bedroom?
In any case, before she knew it, Arthur and Gisela had said good night and headed for their own room farther down the corridor.
Danny and Maria stood side by side in the descending elevator, looking straight ahead.
As they were heading for the door, Danny stopped her gently. “Hey, Maria,” he whispered, “let’s not separate tonight. I want to be with you. I mean, I want to share this special night with someone I really love.”
“I’m tired, Danny, honestly I am,” she answered softly.
“Maria, listen,” Danny pleaded, “come upstairs with me. Let’s share that room — and be a couple.”
“Danny,” she responded tenderly, “I know what all this meant to you. But We’really don’t belong together. Especially after tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you change up there. I’m happy for your big success, but you’ve just entered a whole new world where I don’t feel comfortable at all.”
He tried not to be angry, but he couldn’t help it.
“Is that just another excuse for saying you won’t come to bed with me?”
“No,” Maria whispered with emotion in her voice, “I saw tonight that there’s no room for anybody in your life. The spotlight isn’t big enough.”
She turned and started walking through the darkened lobby toward the exit.
“Maria, wait!” he called. His voice echoed slightly in the marble hall.
She stopped and said, “Please, Danny, don’t say any more. I’ll always have the fondest memories of you.”
Then she said barely audibly, “Goodbye.” And disappeared through the revolving door.
Danny Rossi stood in the deserted lobby on the night of his greatest triumph, rent by feelings of elation and a sense of loss. But finally, there in the darkness, he convinced himself that this was the price he had to pay.
For fame.
***
Ted and Sara were now totally inseparable. They took almost all the same courses, and their conversations — except when making love — were mainly about the classics.
They even chose congenial topics for their senior theses. Sara got Professor Whitman to direct her essay on Hellenistic Portrayals of Eros — focusing on Apollonius of Rhodes. And Ted got Finley himself to supervise his dissertation, which compared Homer’s two great antithetical female characterizations, Helen and Penelope.
Every afternoon they sat opposite each other in Widener Library grinding away, punctuating their assiduity by passing silly notes to each other in Latin or Greek.
At about four o’clock they would join the exodus of jocks who were on their way to practice. Only their field of play was in Andrew’s new room.
And yet, since they had returned to Harvard for their senior year, they were both increasingly aware that their entire idyll, like the halcyon days of college, had eventually to reach its conclusion. Or perhaps some sort of consummation.
Ted had applied to Harvard Graduate School in Classics, and Sara was toying with doing the same, although her parents had indicated that they might be willing to subsidize a year of European study.
This was by no means an expression of disapproval of her relationship with Ted. For they had never met him and knew little, if anything, about him.
Sara, on the other hand, had become a regular weekly guest at the Lambros’s Sunday dinners and felt almost a part of the family — which was what Mama Lambros prayed each week she would become.
They were not ambivalent about the future, these passionate lovers of the classics and each other. They never discussed marriage. Not because either of them doubted the other’s will to wed, but simply because they both took it for granted that their commitment to each other was for life. The ceremony would be just a formality.
They both knew that the Greek words for man and woman also meant husband and wife. And thus semantically, as well as spiritually, they were already married.
***
George returned to Eliot House for his senior year feeling as much or more American and Harvardian than his classmates.
Since his need for study was so great, he had amicably separated from his preppie roommates and moved into a single.
“Now you can keep yourself up all night,” Newall had jested.
George felt like an artillery officer. He had spent his junior year at Harvard getting his bearings. He had passed the summer taking aim — selecting an ideal senior thesis. After all, who was better suited to write on “The Hungarian Revolution as Portrayed by the Soviet Press”? As Dr. K. strongly hinted, it could be publishable.
He was now ready to use his newly acquired ammunition to eliminate all barriers in his path to political triumph.
But what, in fact, was he after? This was the question Kissinger asked him the afternoon the seminar ended, as they sat in his air-conditioned office sharing congratulatory glasses of iced tea.
“You could be a professor at Harvard,” Henry assured him.
“I know.” George smiled. “But is that where your ambitions stop, Henry?”
With the tables turned, his mentor laughed uneasily and tried to answer with deflecting jocularity.
“Well,” he laughed, “I of course would not mind becoming the emperor. Would you?”
“I would not even mind being President,” George smiled, “but even you are ineligible for that. There, Henry, we must share similar disappointments. We are fated both of us never to reach the top.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Keller,” Kissinger said, his index finger raised. “You seem to be under the mistaken illusion that the men in the White House actually run the country. Let me quickly disabuse you. They are mostly quarterbacks who rely heavily on their coach’s advice. You and I, George, are both in a position to become indispensable advisers. That would be exciting, don’t you think?”
“You mean what attracts you is sort of the power behind the throne?”
“Not exactly. What interests me is what one can achieve with power. Splendid things, believe me.”
George nodded, with a grin. He raised his glass and toasted, “More power to you, Henry.”
***
Jason Gilbert returned to Cambridge from a summer of Marine Corps training tanned and fit. More muscular than ever.
As soon as he arrived, he headed over to see Eliot and Newall in their new double, free from the mad Hungarian. There was ice-cold beer and tales of love and war to tell. Newall, in the naval ROTC program, had spent the summer touring the Pacific on an aircraft carrier. Before returning home he went, as he put it, “totally berserk” for a week in Honolulu. Which he gleefully recounted in minute detail.
Jason’s summer in the blazing southern sun bad been a little different. First there was the drill sergeant who really had it in for all the Ivy League boys.
At one point, for some petty infraction, the guy had made him jog around the base in combat boots and full pack for a whole hour in the blazing sun.
“That must have killed you,” Eliot remarked while opening a second beer.
“It wasn’t all that bad,” Jason said casually. “I was in shape, remember. But, of course, I acted like I was about to have a heart attack.”
“Good ploy,” said Newall. “I hear those Marine types can be sadists anyway.”
“I actually felt sorry for the guy,” Jason said unexpectedly.
“How come?” Newall asked.
“I kind of understand why he was riding us so hard in camp,” he explained, somewhat subdued, “ ’cause off the base, life in Virginia isn’t all that great if you’re not white.
“One Saturday when we were off, the guys went into town to gorge ourselves on ice cream. We were sitting there in Howard Johnson’s when this sergeant happened to pass by. And, asshole that I am, I waved to him to come and join us.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Andrew.
“You won’t believe this, but he just stood out there and gave us all the finger. And on Monday we were doing so damn many push-ups we were almost living on the ground.”
“I don’t get it,” Andrew said. “I mean, you guys were only being friendly, weren’t you?”
“Of course, but naive Jason Gilbert hadn’t clicked that off the base, the town of Quantico is segregated like before the Civil War. Can you believe this member of the U.S. military was not allowed to have an ice cream in that place with us? That’s why he was so pissed off. He thought that we were mocking him.”
“No shit,” said Newall. “That’s amazing in this day and age. Christ, Gilbert, bet that made you happy that you’re only Jewish.”
Jason, staring at his teammate and supposed friend, deflected the unwitting insult like a skillful boxer. “Newall, I’ll forgive that last remark because I know you’re congenitally stupid.”
The eternal mediator, Andrew Eliot, deftly changed the subject. “Hey, listen, guys, I’ve got the latest Freshman Register. Why don’t we check out the new crop and get our bids in early, huh?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Newall, happy to move back to neutral ground. “What do you say, old Gilbert? Shall we cast our eyes upon the lovelies of the Class of ’61?”
Jason smiled. “At least you’re consistent, Newall,” he jibed, “always last man off the mark. I did my homework yesterday. The pick of the new talent is Maureen McCabe. And I’m taking her to Norumbega Park tonight.”
August 8, 1957
All summer I had one foot in the future and the other in the past (don’t ask me which I like better).
Since — with any luck — I’ll be graduating next June, Father thought it best that I forgo the usual physical labor this year. And instead begin to get acquainted with the family banking business.
Naturally he was in Maine, running things by phone. So he put me into the charge of “good old Johnny Winthrop,” an officer quite accurately described by both those adjectives.
“Just keep your eyes and ears open, lad,” he explained at the beginning of my very first day. “Watch when I buy, watch when I sell, watch when I hold. You’ll quickly get the knack of it. Now why don’t you get us both a nice cup of tea?”
Our offices in downtown Boston are just a short walk across the Common from the Historical Society. This is where I did my real learning, as I delved into the diaries of the Reverend Andrew Eliot, Class of 1737, and his son, John, 1772.
They gave me a real sense of our country’s (and my family’s) history. And also that, give or take a few improvements in the plumbing, Harvard life seems to have been the same since the beginning.
I photostated some juicy tidbits from John Eliot’s freshman diary.
Item. September 2, 1768. John leaves for college. Packs his vital gear. Required blue coat, three-cornered hat, and gown. Also fork, spoon, and chamberpot (freshmen had to bring their own).
Item. Dad insists he take Charlestown ferry. Cheapest way. And — most important — Harvard gets the proceeds.
Item. Tuition can be paid in kind, e.g., potatoes or firewood. One guy brought a sheep.
Item. College punch called “flip.” Two-thirds beer, molasses, spiked with rum. Served in huge, tall mugs (called “bumpers”).
Item. September 6, 1768. Describes wretched food in Commons.
“Each undergraduate receives one pound of meat a day,” John wrote. “But since it has no taste at all, one cannot tell what animal it comes from. Now and then there are some greens. On great occasions, dandelions. The butter is unspeakable and several times has been the cause of violent student demonstrations.
“At least we shall not die of thirst. For the supply of cider is unlimited. Each table has large pewter cans which we pass from mouth to mouth, just like the English wassail-bowl.”
Except for the presence of cider, this could well have been the description of an Eliot House dinner. Especially their table talk. There’s a certain eternal quality to undergraduate bullshit.
Not all was fun and games. As the situation with Britain deteriorated, the campus atmosphere grew tense. There were bloody fights between rebel and loyalist students. And then the war broke out.
In late 1773, just after the Boston Tea Party, there was a violent riot in the dining hall between patriots and Tories. No simple food fight, but a deadly battle. Tutors struggled to halt bloodshed.
One afternoon, I discovered something fascinating. I learned that the British army once intended to wipe Harvard College off the map.
“On the eighteenth of April in seventy-five,” as Professor Longfellow’s famous poem goes, Paul Revere galloped through the night to alert the citizens of Lexington and Concord that the redcoats were coming.
But another part of their forces was heading toward Cambridge. John Eliot’s diary of April 19 tells of the panic at Harvard. For it was well known that the English considered the college “a hotbed of sedition.”
Fearing that the enemy might arrive via the great bridge over the Charles River, a group of undergraduates dismantled it so that the British would be unable to cross. They then hid in the bushes to see what would happen.
Just after noon, a horde of troops appeared on the western bank led by Lord Percy himself, splendidly attired, mounted on a beautiful white horse.
When he saw what we — I mean the Harvard guys — had done to thwart him, he was pretty ticked off. But the canny British bastard had brought along some carpenters, who repaired the bridge in less than an hour.
They then marched straight through the center of the town, whose windows all were shuttered tight.
Percy was en route to reinforce the troops already out in Lexington. But he did not know the way. And so he headed for the most likely source of information-Harvard College. He led some of his men right into the center of the Yard and shouted at the seemingly deserted buildings for someone to come out immediately and give him directions.
No one ventured forth. Those undergraduates had guts.
John Eliot and his roommates were peering anxiously through the slats of his shutters, fearing Percy might order his troops to start shooting. And well he might, but first he tried a different ploy. He asked again — in Latin.
Then Tutor Isaac Smith suddenly appeared from Hollis Hall and approached the Englishman.
The students couldn’t hear them speak, but saw Smith motion toward Lexington. Percy waved, and all then galloped off.
Almost instantly the tutor was bombarded by shouts of, “grubstreet lobster-loving idiot.”
The man was quite bewildered. He was of that breed who can quote all of Cicero and Plato without book, yet can’t recall a student’s name.
He stuttered that the information had been requested in the king’s name. So how could he, as a loyal subject, have refused? He added that Lord Percy planned to honor Harvard with another visit.
The students were outraged. It seems the general had told Tutor Smith they’d have “a glass of good Madeira by the fire” later that night. The idiot didn’t realize that by “fire” the redcoat had meant conflagration. Some wanted to tar and feather this overeducated simpleton. But, typical of Harvard, everyone proposed a different course of action.
And while they were haranguing one another, Tutor Smith slipped quietly away. He was never seen again.
That evening Paul Revere rode into Cambridge with the awesome news of Lexington and Concord.
Some of the students joined the minutemen who had hastily built barricades on Cambridge Common, preparing for the British to attack.
They never came.
The Brookline militia, led by Isaac Gardner ’47, ambushed the approaching redcoats at Watson’s Corner. Though Isaac fell, his brave charge made the British scatter, thinking that the route to Cambridge teemed with patriots as fierce as he.
Thanks to men like him, there was no battle fought in Harvard Yard.
That steamy afternoon when I first read John Eliot’s words, I couldn’t help but wonder how we modern undergraduates would have responded if the university was under siege of arms. What would we do — hurl Frisbees at the enemy?
It was nearly five when I got back from “lunch.” I went straight to Mr. Winthrop to apologize. He looked up from his desk and said he hadn’t even noticed I was gone.
That is the story of my life.
When The Class of ’58 returned to Cambridge for their final year, they all were painfully aware that very little sand remained in the hourglass of their college lives. For in precisely nine months, they would be cast from the comfortable womb of Harvard into the cold, harsh world.
Everything seems to speed up at a frighteningly rapid pace. The seniors are like downhill skiers, some of whom are frightened by the gathering momentum and, although the end is manifestly near, still cannot keep their balance.
The Class had thus far had three suicides, all more or less precipitated by the pressures of trying to remain at Harvard. Now in this final year, two more of them would take their lives. But this time out of fear of leaving.
The final act is sad in other ways as well. The cynicism that is so endemic in the first three years turns slowly and surprisingly into nostalgia. Which by June creates an embryonic feeling of regret. Of wasted time. Of chances lost. Of carefree feelings none of them will ever know again.
There are exceptions. Those who can survive this senior crucible are usually the ones most likely to bring glory to The Class.
Not the least of them made his debut as piano soloist with the Boston Symphony on October 12, 1957.
Yet, the Danny Rossi who walked nervously to the keyboard in the crowded, venerable auditorium was different physically from the bespectacled young man who had left Eliot House the previous spring.
He was no longer wearing glasses.
Not that his vision had improved — although his appearance most dramatically had.
He owed his metamorphosis to the suggestion of an amorous admirer from last summer’s Tanglewood Festival staff. Seeing his face under circumstances when he did not need glasses to function, she remarked on the appeal of his piercing gray-green eyes — and what a pity it was that his spectacles hid them from the audience’s view, The next day he went out and was fitted for contact lenses.
The minute he appeared on stage of Symphony Hal! Danny could sense how right his inamorata’s advice had been. Amid the polite, friendly applause, he could perceive remarks like, “Oh, he’s cute.”
His performance was almost flawless. He was always passionate. And in the final movement some of his front locks fell across his forehead.
A standing ovation.
He had no notion of how long the public adoration lasted. In fact, Danny was swept up in its tidal wave and had lost all sense of time. He would have stayed on stage forever had not Munch, a friendly arm around his shoulder, led him to the wings.
Shortly after he got to his dressing room, his parents appeared. And, hard upon their heels, new planets that began to spin around the sun of Danny Rossi — journalists.
First the flashbulbs popping at him shaking hands with Munch. Then several with his mom and dad. And then a series with dignitaries of the music world, many of whom had come up from New York.
Finally, even Danny had had enough.
“Hey, guys,” he pleaded, “I’ve just started to feel very tired. As you can imagine, I didn’t get too much sleep last night. So can I ask you to pack up and go? I mean, if you’ve got all you want.”
Most of the press was satisfied and started to retreat. But one of the photographers realized that a single commercial picture yet remained untaken.
“Danny,” he cried out, “how about one with you kissing your girlfriend?”
Danny glanced toward the corner where Maria, dressed sedately, had been all but hiding. (It had taken weeks of persuasion to get her to go to the concert just as a “friend.”) He motioned to her to come forward. But she shook her head.
“No, Danny, please. I don’t want to be photographed. Besides, this is your night. I’m just here as a member of the audience.”
Doubly disappointed, for he would have liked the world to see him with a really sexy girl, Danny acquiesced and told the journalists, “She isn’t used to this.
Another time, okay?”
Reluctantly, the Fourth Estate departed. And the Rossis and Maria headed toward the limousine to drive down to The Ritz, where a suite had been reserved by the Symphony management.
Danny rode to the hotel half in a dream. Cocooned within the leather plushness of the chauffeured car, he inwardly repeated to himself, I can’t believe it, I’m a star. A goddamn star.
Never having imagined he would be feeling such euphoria, Danny had deliberately requested that his parents keep the party small. For he thought that after the performance he would be consumed with sadness at the absence of the man who was responsible for bringing him so far. But the night’s ovation had been so intoxicating that for the moment he could think of no one but himself.
Munch and the concertmaster dropped by for a single glass of champagne and quickly left. They had a matinee the next afternoon and needed to get home to rest. The managing director of the B.S.O. had brought along a most distinguished gentleman who absolutely would not wait even a day to talk to Danny.
The unexpected guest was none other than S. Hurok, the world’s most famous concert manager. He told the young pianist not only how much he admired his performance, but that he hoped Danny would consider allowing his office to represent him. He went as far as to promise Danny the chance to play with major orchestras as early as next year.
“But, Mr. Hurok, I’m a total unknown.”
“Ah,” the old man smiled, “but I am not. And most of all, the symphony directors I will contact trust their ears.”
“You mean there were some in the audience tonight?”
“No,” Hurok smiled, “but Maître Munch thought it might be useful if he had this evening’s concert taped. With your permission, I could make very good use of those reels.”
“Gosh —”
“Hi, Mr. Hurok,” Arthur Rossi interposed. “I’m Danny’s dad. If you would like, we could have breakfast in the morning.”
Danny shot a withering glance at his father, and then turned back to the impresario. “I’m very flattered, sir. If we could talk some other time —”
“Of course, of course,” Hurok said with enthusiastic understanding. “We’ll chat again when you’re less busy.”
He then politely said good night and left with the director. Now there were only four of them. Danny, his parents, and Maria.
“Well,” Arthur Rossi jested, smiling at Maria, “here we are, just us Italians.”
He was avoiding Danny’s gaze. For he knew that just a moment earlier he had overstepped the newly redrawn boundaries of their father-son relationship. And he was afraid of Danny’s anger.
“With everyone’s permission,” said Gisela Rossi, “I would like very much to drink a toast to someone who was here tonight only in spirit.”
Danny nodded and they raised their glasses.
“To Frank Rossi —” his father began.
And then suddenly stopped himself as he heard his younger son whisper, with supreme self-control, “No, Dad, not tonight.”
There was a silence. Then Mrs. Rossi murmured, “To the memory of Gustave Landau. Let us pray that God let Danny’s music go to heaven tonight so such a fine man could take pride.”
They drank somberly.
“That was Danny’s teacher,” she told Maria.
“I know,” she answered softly. “Danny’s told me all about how much he — loved him.”
There was a sudden pause as no one knew what to say next.
At last Maria spoke again. “I don’t want to spoil the party, but it’s kind of late. I think I’d better take a taxi home to Radcliffe.”
“If you can wait a minute,” Danny offered, “I’ll be glad to take you and then have the driver drop me back at Eliot.”
“No, no,” she protested. “I mean, the orchestra’s given you this terrific suite. It will be a lot more fun than just a metal bed in a Harvard house,”
Maria suddenly felt a tinge of embarrassment at the way she had put her last remark. Would that give the elder Rossis the impression that she’d been in Danny’s bedroom?
In any case, before she knew it, Arthur and Gisela had said good night and headed for their own room farther down the corridor.
Danny and Maria stood side by side in the descending elevator, looking straight ahead.
As they were heading for the door, Danny stopped her gently. “Hey, Maria,” he whispered, “let’s not separate tonight. I want to be with you. I mean, I want to share this special night with someone I really love.”
“I’m tired, Danny, honestly I am,” she answered softly.
“Maria, listen,” Danny pleaded, “come upstairs with me. Let’s share that room — and be a couple.”
“Danny,” she responded tenderly, “I know what all this meant to you. But We’really don’t belong together. Especially after tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you change up there. I’m happy for your big success, but you’ve just entered a whole new world where I don’t feel comfortable at all.”
He tried not to be angry, but he couldn’t help it.
“Is that just another excuse for saying you won’t come to bed with me?”
“No,” Maria whispered with emotion in her voice, “I saw tonight that there’s no room for anybody in your life. The spotlight isn’t big enough.”
She turned and started walking through the darkened lobby toward the exit.
“Maria, wait!” he called. His voice echoed slightly in the marble hall.
She stopped and said, “Please, Danny, don’t say any more. I’ll always have the fondest memories of you.”
Then she said barely audibly, “Goodbye.” And disappeared through the revolving door.
Danny Rossi stood in the deserted lobby on the night of his greatest triumph, rent by feelings of elation and a sense of loss. But finally, there in the darkness, he convinced himself that this was the price he had to pay.
For fame.
Ted and Sara were now totally inseparable. They took almost all the same courses, and their conversations — except when making love — were mainly about the classics.
They even chose congenial topics for their senior theses. Sara got Professor Whitman to direct her essay on Hellenistic Portrayals of Eros — focusing on Apollonius of Rhodes. And Ted got Finley himself to supervise his dissertation, which compared Homer’s two great antithetical female characterizations, Helen and Penelope.
Every afternoon they sat opposite each other in Widener Library grinding away, punctuating their assiduity by passing silly notes to each other in Latin or Greek.
At about four o’clock they would join the exodus of jocks who were on their way to practice. Only their field of play was in Andrew’s new room.
And yet, since they had returned to Harvard for their senior year, they were both increasingly aware that their entire idyll, like the halcyon days of college, had eventually to reach its conclusion. Or perhaps some sort of consummation.
Ted had applied to Harvard Graduate School in Classics, and Sara was toying with doing the same, although her parents had indicated that they might be willing to subsidize a year of European study.
This was by no means an expression of disapproval of her relationship with Ted. For they had never met him and knew little, if anything, about him.
Sara, on the other hand, had become a regular weekly guest at the Lambros’s Sunday dinners and felt almost a part of the family — which was what Mama Lambros prayed each week she would become.
They were not ambivalent about the future, these passionate lovers of the classics and each other. They never discussed marriage. Not because either of them doubted the other’s will to wed, but simply because they both took it for granted that their commitment to each other was for life. The ceremony would be just a formality.
They both knew that the Greek words for man and woman also meant husband and wife. And thus semantically, as well as spiritually, they were already married.
George returned to Eliot House for his senior year feeling as much or more American and Harvardian than his classmates.
Since his need for study was so great, he had amicably separated from his preppie roommates and moved into a single.
“Now you can keep yourself up all night,” Newall had jested.
George felt like an artillery officer. He had spent his junior year at Harvard getting his bearings. He had passed the summer taking aim — selecting an ideal senior thesis. After all, who was better suited to write on “The Hungarian Revolution as Portrayed by the Soviet Press”? As Dr. K. strongly hinted, it could be publishable.
He was now ready to use his newly acquired ammunition to eliminate all barriers in his path to political triumph.
But what, in fact, was he after? This was the question Kissinger asked him the afternoon the seminar ended, as they sat in his air-conditioned office sharing congratulatory glasses of iced tea.
“You could be a professor at Harvard,” Henry assured him.
“I know.” George smiled. “But is that where your ambitions stop, Henry?”
With the tables turned, his mentor laughed uneasily and tried to answer with deflecting jocularity.
“Well,” he laughed, “I of course would not mind becoming the emperor. Would you?”
“I would not even mind being President,” George smiled, “but even you are ineligible for that. There, Henry, we must share similar disappointments. We are fated both of us never to reach the top.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Keller,” Kissinger said, his index finger raised. “You seem to be under the mistaken illusion that the men in the White House actually run the country. Let me quickly disabuse you. They are mostly quarterbacks who rely heavily on their coach’s advice. You and I, George, are both in a position to become indispensable advisers. That would be exciting, don’t you think?”
“You mean what attracts you is sort of the power behind the throne?”
“Not exactly. What interests me is what one can achieve with power. Splendid things, believe me.”
George nodded, with a grin. He raised his glass and toasted, “More power to you, Henry.”
Jason Gilbert returned to Cambridge from a summer of Marine Corps training tanned and fit. More muscular than ever.
As soon as he arrived, he headed over to see Eliot and Newall in their new double, free from the mad Hungarian. There was ice-cold beer and tales of love and war to tell. Newall, in the naval ROTC program, had spent the summer touring the Pacific on an aircraft carrier. Before returning home he went, as he put it, “totally berserk” for a week in Honolulu. Which he gleefully recounted in minute detail.
Jason’s summer in the blazing southern sun bad been a little different. First there was the drill sergeant who really had it in for all the Ivy League boys.
At one point, for some petty infraction, the guy had made him jog around the base in combat boots and full pack for a whole hour in the blazing sun.
“That must have killed you,” Eliot remarked while opening a second beer.
“It wasn’t all that bad,” Jason said casually. “I was in shape, remember. But, of course, I acted like I was about to have a heart attack.”
“Good ploy,” said Newall. “I hear those Marine types can be sadists anyway.”
“I actually felt sorry for the guy,” Jason said unexpectedly.
“How come?” Newall asked.
“I kind of understand why he was riding us so hard in camp,” he explained, somewhat subdued, “ ’cause off the base, life in Virginia isn’t all that great if you’re not white.
“One Saturday when we were off, the guys went into town to gorge ourselves on ice cream. We were sitting there in Howard Johnson’s when this sergeant happened to pass by. And, asshole that I am, I waved to him to come and join us.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Andrew.
“You won’t believe this, but he just stood out there and gave us all the finger. And on Monday we were doing so damn many push-ups we were almost living on the ground.”
“I don’t get it,” Andrew said. “I mean, you guys were only being friendly, weren’t you?”
“Of course, but naive Jason Gilbert hadn’t clicked that off the base, the town of Quantico is segregated like before the Civil War. Can you believe this member of the U.S. military was not allowed to have an ice cream in that place with us? That’s why he was so pissed off. He thought that we were mocking him.”
“No shit,” said Newall. “That’s amazing in this day and age. Christ, Gilbert, bet that made you happy that you’re only Jewish.”
Jason, staring at his teammate and supposed friend, deflected the unwitting insult like a skillful boxer. “Newall, I’ll forgive that last remark because I know you’re congenitally stupid.”
The eternal mediator, Andrew Eliot, deftly changed the subject. “Hey, listen, guys, I’ve got the latest Freshman Register. Why don’t we check out the new crop and get our bids in early, huh?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Newall, happy to move back to neutral ground. “What do you say, old Gilbert? Shall we cast our eyes upon the lovelies of the Class of ’61?”
Jason smiled. “At least you’re consistent, Newall,” he jibed, “always last man off the mark. I did my homework yesterday. The pick of the new talent is Maureen McCabe. And I’m taking her to Norumbega Park tonight.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 24, 1957
We start our college lives, symbolically as well as literally, in the ignominy of the End Zone. But our progress brings us to the happy culmination. In senior year, we get to sit right on the fifty-yard line near the President and the most distinguished alumni, whom the college honors with this pride of place.
Ironically of course, as first-year grads we’ll be back in the End Zone come next fall. So a gang of us decided to make this year’s Harvard-Yale game into a gigantic farewell blast.
Newall and I contacted some of our old prep school buddies down in New Haven and arranged for floors and couches for us all to sack out on.
We even got a place for Gilbert, who reciprocated by having his sister Julie fix us up with some of her more desirable (and we hoped pliable) girlfriends from Briarcliff.
Julie’s Cliff, unlike the one in Cambridge, Mass., is a much more pragmatic ladies’ college that puts the emphasis where it belongs — on pulchritude and charm. I mean, brains are okay for a girl in moderation, but the Radcliffe types are so goddamn intellectual — and competitive — that they sometimes make you forget why the Lord created women.
Not that I have anything against Radcliffe. If I ever had a daughter, I’d want her to go there. It’s just that when it comes to marriage, I think I’m much better off in the Briar patch.
Julie Gilbert came through with real dishes for Newall and myself. And we fixed her up with our Yale host, Charlie Cushing, a really sweet fellow. Which is a polite way of saying he’s got perfect manners but not a brain in his head (I mean, he makes me look like Einstein).
Our seats in Yale Bowl were indeed sensational. We sat on the fifty-yard line with luminaries of the world scattered around us like confetti at a birthday party.
Four rows down from me were President Pusey and the deans, politely clapping when our boys did something good (which was not very often).
Ten yards to my left was our Massachusetts senator, Jack Kennedy, and his neat wife, Jackie. They were less sedate than most of the old grads in that distinguished section, shouting their lungs out for Harvard to score against the wild, hypertrophied, and, alas, all-too-competent Yalies.
Unfortunately, not even the strenuous vociferations of a U.S. senator could help our boys that day. Yale steamrolled over us 54-0.
Oh what the hell, I thought, during the postgame festivities back at Branford College, these Yalies have so little to be proud of, let them at least win the goddamn game.
***
One afternoon in early December, Sara gazed across the pillow and smiled. “Ted, isn’t it about time you asked my parents for my hand?”
“And what if they say no?”
“Then we’ll just set two fewer places at the wedding party,” she replied.
“I don’t get it. Do you care what they think or don’t you?”
“Oh, nothing will keep me from staying this close to you forever,” she answered. And then added with shy sincerity, “But it would make me happy if my father liked you. And I’m sure he will. Mummy wouldn’t approve of anybody I brought home.”
Ted was understandably nervous. For he wanted very much to please Sara by finding favor with her father. Hence, he spent the days prior to their visit trying to learn as much as he could about the man she so admired.
Who’s Who informed him that Philip Harrison was St. Paul’s, Harvard ’33, a decorated naval officer, and one of the most successful merchant bankers in the country.
Moreover, his name appeared at frequent intervals in The New York Times as having paid a visit to advise the current White House resident on some particularly thorny economic issue.
He had sired three sons. But his daughter was the apple of his eye. And to hear Sara tell it, he was the incarnation of every possible virtue.
Boy, thought Ted, if there’s anything to this Oedipal business, I haven’t got a prayer!
*
“I think the blue would be great for Christmas dinner, Ted.”
“How about the gray flannel for dinner and saving the blue for church?”
They were scouring Andrew’s wardrobe for fashionable holiday regalia to help Ted make the best possible impression.
“Look, Lambros, it doesn’t really matter, Old Man Harrison’s not gonna judge you by your clothes.”
“You mean your clothes.” Ted smiled. And then asked nervously, “But what about her mother — or don’t you think I have a chance with her?”
As a friend, Andrew thought it best to free Ted from all illusions. “No, Lambros, she’d probably like you at her daughter’s wedding as a waiter, but definitely not as the groom. I mean, take all my clothes — even my damn club tie, if it’ll make you feel any better. But I’m afraid you couldn’t impress Daisy Harrison unless you had a crown on your head. And that I can’t lend you.”
“You’re doing wonders for my confidence,” Ted grumbled.
Andrew leaned over and grabbed his friend by the shoulders. “Hey, hasn’t three and a half years of Harvard taught you that it’s not who you are, it’s what you are?”
“You can talk, Eliot. You’ve probably still got all the labels from the Mayflower on your suitcase.”
“Come on, Ted, I’d trade places with you any day. What good is it that my ancestors came over if I can’t even get a date for New Year’s Eve. Am I getting through to you?”
“Yeah, I guess …”
“Good. Now pick up your preppie costumes and go snow her parents.”
They took the Merchants Limited on the 23rd of December. Though the overheated train was packed with students chattering gaily or bellowing carols and other spiritual ditties like “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” and “Blue Suede Shoes,” Ted and Sara sat reading quietly, barely exchanging a word.
“Who’s meeting us at Greenwich?” Ted finally asked as they pulled out of Stamford.
“Probably one of my brothers. Daddy usually works late before a holiday.”
“What are the odds of any of them actually liking me?”
“That’s a little too close to call,” Sara answered. “I mean, Phippie and Evan are bound to feel a little jealous of the fact that you’re at Harvard and they both got shot down.”
“No kidding — not even with all your father’s influence?”
“Daddy’s not an alchemist,” Sara smiled, “and their board scores were far from golden. No, Lambros, you and he will be the only Harvard men at table. Does that make you feel a little better?”
“Yeah,” Ted conceded, “it actually does.”
Just after eight, when they clambered down onto the dimly lit platform, Sara scanned the crowd of people waiting for the passengers, trying to find one of her brothers. Then suddenly she emitted a squeal of joy.
“Daddy!”
Ted stood motionless as she sprinted into the arms of a tall gentleman in a sheepskin coat, his silver hair illuminated by the headlights from the parking lot behind. After what seemed like several minutes, they approached him arm in arm.
Philip Harrison held out his hand.
“Good to meet you, Ted. Sara’s told me a lot about you.”
“I hope some of it was good,” Ted replied, trying his best to smile. “I’m very grateful to be invited.”
They drove along the Merritt Parkway, then down narrow wooded lanes, and turned into the drive of what seemed — compared to Ted’s fantasies — a modest white colonial house with green shutters.
Daisy Harrison was at the door to greet them, looking impeccably informal. She kissed her daughter and then turned to their visitor. “You must be Theodore,” she said as they shook hands. “We’ve so looked forward to meeting you.” She was unable, despite herself, to play the script of conventional politeness with any real conviction.
A few moments later Ted found himself holding a hot toddy in front of a fashionably roaring fire, surrounded by the Harrison clan. It was almost like a New Yorker cartoon. They all were wearing countryish Abercrombie & Fitch-style garb, making Ted feel slightly overdressed in his tab collar and Andrew Eliot’s three-piece suit.
The two elder brothers seemed friendly enough, although Phippie’s “Hi there” and Evan’s “Nice to meet you” were hardly effusive.
Fourteen-year-old Ned’s greeting was a good deal warmer. “Gosh, Ted,” he chirped, “isn’t it awful the way Yale creamed Harvard in football this year!”
This was just the type of dialogue that Ted had mastered by osmosis from his proximity to Eliot House.
“You’ve got to understand, Neddy,” he responded, “we have a kind of social obligation to lose to Yale every so often. I mean, it bolsters their inferiority complex.”
This flagrant Harvardian bullshit completely captivated the youngest Harrison.
“Wow,” Ned exclaimed, “but isn’t losing fifty-four to nothing going a little far?”
“Not at all,” Sara interposed. “The boys in New Haven were feeling really insecure this year. I mean, Harvard killed them in the Rhodes Scholarship department.”
“Which is a little more important than football,” added an amused Philip Harrison ’33.
“Actually, Ted,” remarked Mrs. Harrison with a sweetness that would put a diabetic into shock, “all my family is Yale. Is yours all Harvard?”
“Absolutely,” replied the well-prepared Ted Lambros.
Sara smiled inwardly and thought, The Greeks lead the WASPs one to nothing.
The first night set the pattern for the week that ensued. Mr. Harrison seemed interested and friendly. When they weren’t out chasing local debs, the older boys were offhandedly cordial. Young Ned, whose fondest dream was to be admitted to Harvard, was enchanted by his sister’s guest. And when Ted actually spent an entire hour helping him work on some Virgil, he would gladly have traded his two elder brothers just to have him in the family.
But then there was Daisy…
One night Ted was awakened by the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Harrison from the adjacent room. The conversation was heated and a few decibels above normal. To his discomfort, he was the subject of the argument — though never once referred to by name.
“But, Philip, his family owns a restaurant.”
“Daisy, your grandfather drove a milk wagon.”
“But he put my father through Yale.”
“And he is putting himself through Harvard. I don’t see what’s bothering you. The young man is perfectly —”
“He’s common, Philip. Common, common, common. Don’t you care at all for your daughter’s future?”
“Yes, Daisy,” said Mr. Harrison, lowering his voice, “I care very much.”
Their conversation then became inaudible, leaving Ted Lambros bewildered in the darkness of his bedroom.
On New Year’s morning, which would be their very last before returning to Cambridge, Philip Harrison asked Ted to join him for a walk in the woods.
“I think we should be frank with each other,” he began.
“Yes, sir,” Ted replied apprehensively.
“I’m not unaware of how my daughter feels about you. But I’m sure you’ve sensed that Mrs. Harrison is —”
“Dead against it,” Ted said quietly.
“Well, that’s putting it a bit strongly. Let’s say Daisy’s a bit reluctant to see Sara commit herself so soon.”
“Uh — that’s understandable,” Ted replied, careful not to say anything disloyal.
They walked a few paces in silence as Ted worked up the courage to ask, “How do you feel, sir?”
“Personally, Ted, I think you’re a bright, decent, and mature young man. But my opinion should have no bearing on the matter. Sara’s told me she loves you and wants to marry you. That’s good enough for me.”
He paused, then continued slowly, his voice shaking slightly, “My daughter is the most precious thing I have in the world. All I want in life is for her to be happy….”
“I’ll do my very best, sir.”
“Ted,” Mr. Harrison persisted, “I want you to swear that you’ll never hurt my little girl.”
Ted nodded, almost unable to speak.
“Yes, sir,” he said softly, “I promise.”
The two stood facing each other. And then, though neither moved, both men embraced in their imagination.
November 24, 1957
We start our college lives, symbolically as well as literally, in the ignominy of the End Zone. But our progress brings us to the happy culmination. In senior year, we get to sit right on the fifty-yard line near the President and the most distinguished alumni, whom the college honors with this pride of place.
Ironically of course, as first-year grads we’ll be back in the End Zone come next fall. So a gang of us decided to make this year’s Harvard-Yale game into a gigantic farewell blast.
Newall and I contacted some of our old prep school buddies down in New Haven and arranged for floors and couches for us all to sack out on.
We even got a place for Gilbert, who reciprocated by having his sister Julie fix us up with some of her more desirable (and we hoped pliable) girlfriends from Briarcliff.
Julie’s Cliff, unlike the one in Cambridge, Mass., is a much more pragmatic ladies’ college that puts the emphasis where it belongs — on pulchritude and charm. I mean, brains are okay for a girl in moderation, but the Radcliffe types are so goddamn intellectual — and competitive — that they sometimes make you forget why the Lord created women.
Not that I have anything against Radcliffe. If I ever had a daughter, I’d want her to go there. It’s just that when it comes to marriage, I think I’m much better off in the Briar patch.
Julie Gilbert came through with real dishes for Newall and myself. And we fixed her up with our Yale host, Charlie Cushing, a really sweet fellow. Which is a polite way of saying he’s got perfect manners but not a brain in his head (I mean, he makes me look like Einstein).
Our seats in Yale Bowl were indeed sensational. We sat on the fifty-yard line with luminaries of the world scattered around us like confetti at a birthday party.
Four rows down from me were President Pusey and the deans, politely clapping when our boys did something good (which was not very often).
Ten yards to my left was our Massachusetts senator, Jack Kennedy, and his neat wife, Jackie. They were less sedate than most of the old grads in that distinguished section, shouting their lungs out for Harvard to score against the wild, hypertrophied, and, alas, all-too-competent Yalies.
Unfortunately, not even the strenuous vociferations of a U.S. senator could help our boys that day. Yale steamrolled over us 54-0.
Oh what the hell, I thought, during the postgame festivities back at Branford College, these Yalies have so little to be proud of, let them at least win the goddamn game.
One afternoon in early December, Sara gazed across the pillow and smiled. “Ted, isn’t it about time you asked my parents for my hand?”
“And what if they say no?”
“Then we’ll just set two fewer places at the wedding party,” she replied.
“I don’t get it. Do you care what they think or don’t you?”
“Oh, nothing will keep me from staying this close to you forever,” she answered. And then added with shy sincerity, “But it would make me happy if my father liked you. And I’m sure he will. Mummy wouldn’t approve of anybody I brought home.”
Ted was understandably nervous. For he wanted very much to please Sara by finding favor with her father. Hence, he spent the days prior to their visit trying to learn as much as he could about the man she so admired.
Who’s Who informed him that Philip Harrison was St. Paul’s, Harvard ’33, a decorated naval officer, and one of the most successful merchant bankers in the country.
Moreover, his name appeared at frequent intervals in The New York Times as having paid a visit to advise the current White House resident on some particularly thorny economic issue.
He had sired three sons. But his daughter was the apple of his eye. And to hear Sara tell it, he was the incarnation of every possible virtue.
Boy, thought Ted, if there’s anything to this Oedipal business, I haven’t got a prayer!
“I think the blue would be great for Christmas dinner, Ted.”
“How about the gray flannel for dinner and saving the blue for church?”
They were scouring Andrew’s wardrobe for fashionable holiday regalia to help Ted make the best possible impression.
“Look, Lambros, it doesn’t really matter, Old Man Harrison’s not gonna judge you by your clothes.”
“You mean your clothes.” Ted smiled. And then asked nervously, “But what about her mother — or don’t you think I have a chance with her?”
As a friend, Andrew thought it best to free Ted from all illusions. “No, Lambros, she’d probably like you at her daughter’s wedding as a waiter, but definitely not as the groom. I mean, take all my clothes — even my damn club tie, if it’ll make you feel any better. But I’m afraid you couldn’t impress Daisy Harrison unless you had a crown on your head. And that I can’t lend you.”
“You’re doing wonders for my confidence,” Ted grumbled.
Andrew leaned over and grabbed his friend by the shoulders. “Hey, hasn’t three and a half years of Harvard taught you that it’s not who you are, it’s what you are?”
“You can talk, Eliot. You’ve probably still got all the labels from the Mayflower on your suitcase.”
“Come on, Ted, I’d trade places with you any day. What good is it that my ancestors came over if I can’t even get a date for New Year’s Eve. Am I getting through to you?”
“Yeah, I guess …”
“Good. Now pick up your preppie costumes and go snow her parents.”
They took the Merchants Limited on the 23rd of December. Though the overheated train was packed with students chattering gaily or bellowing carols and other spiritual ditties like “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog” and “Blue Suede Shoes,” Ted and Sara sat reading quietly, barely exchanging a word.
“Who’s meeting us at Greenwich?” Ted finally asked as they pulled out of Stamford.
“Probably one of my brothers. Daddy usually works late before a holiday.”
“What are the odds of any of them actually liking me?”
“That’s a little too close to call,” Sara answered. “I mean, Phippie and Evan are bound to feel a little jealous of the fact that you’re at Harvard and they both got shot down.”
“No kidding — not even with all your father’s influence?”
“Daddy’s not an alchemist,” Sara smiled, “and their board scores were far from golden. No, Lambros, you and he will be the only Harvard men at table. Does that make you feel a little better?”
“Yeah,” Ted conceded, “it actually does.”
Just after eight, when they clambered down onto the dimly lit platform, Sara scanned the crowd of people waiting for the passengers, trying to find one of her brothers. Then suddenly she emitted a squeal of joy.
“Daddy!”
Ted stood motionless as she sprinted into the arms of a tall gentleman in a sheepskin coat, his silver hair illuminated by the headlights from the parking lot behind. After what seemed like several minutes, they approached him arm in arm.
Philip Harrison held out his hand.
“Good to meet you, Ted. Sara’s told me a lot about you.”
“I hope some of it was good,” Ted replied, trying his best to smile. “I’m very grateful to be invited.”
They drove along the Merritt Parkway, then down narrow wooded lanes, and turned into the drive of what seemed — compared to Ted’s fantasies — a modest white colonial house with green shutters.
Daisy Harrison was at the door to greet them, looking impeccably informal. She kissed her daughter and then turned to their visitor. “You must be Theodore,” she said as they shook hands. “We’ve so looked forward to meeting you.” She was unable, despite herself, to play the script of conventional politeness with any real conviction.
A few moments later Ted found himself holding a hot toddy in front of a fashionably roaring fire, surrounded by the Harrison clan. It was almost like a New Yorker cartoon. They all were wearing countryish Abercrombie & Fitch-style garb, making Ted feel slightly overdressed in his tab collar and Andrew Eliot’s three-piece suit.
The two elder brothers seemed friendly enough, although Phippie’s “Hi there” and Evan’s “Nice to meet you” were hardly effusive.
Fourteen-year-old Ned’s greeting was a good deal warmer. “Gosh, Ted,” he chirped, “isn’t it awful the way Yale creamed Harvard in football this year!”
This was just the type of dialogue that Ted had mastered by osmosis from his proximity to Eliot House.
“You’ve got to understand, Neddy,” he responded, “we have a kind of social obligation to lose to Yale every so often. I mean, it bolsters their inferiority complex.”
This flagrant Harvardian bullshit completely captivated the youngest Harrison.
“Wow,” Ned exclaimed, “but isn’t losing fifty-four to nothing going a little far?”
“Not at all,” Sara interposed. “The boys in New Haven were feeling really insecure this year. I mean, Harvard killed them in the Rhodes Scholarship department.”
“Which is a little more important than football,” added an amused Philip Harrison ’33.
“Actually, Ted,” remarked Mrs. Harrison with a sweetness that would put a diabetic into shock, “all my family is Yale. Is yours all Harvard?”
“Absolutely,” replied the well-prepared Ted Lambros.
Sara smiled inwardly and thought, The Greeks lead the WASPs one to nothing.
The first night set the pattern for the week that ensued. Mr. Harrison seemed interested and friendly. When they weren’t out chasing local debs, the older boys were offhandedly cordial. Young Ned, whose fondest dream was to be admitted to Harvard, was enchanted by his sister’s guest. And when Ted actually spent an entire hour helping him work on some Virgil, he would gladly have traded his two elder brothers just to have him in the family.
But then there was Daisy…
One night Ted was awakened by the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Harrison from the adjacent room. The conversation was heated and a few decibels above normal. To his discomfort, he was the subject of the argument — though never once referred to by name.
“But, Philip, his family owns a restaurant.”
“Daisy, your grandfather drove a milk wagon.”
“But he put my father through Yale.”
“And he is putting himself through Harvard. I don’t see what’s bothering you. The young man is perfectly —”
“He’s common, Philip. Common, common, common. Don’t you care at all for your daughter’s future?”
“Yes, Daisy,” said Mr. Harrison, lowering his voice, “I care very much.”
Their conversation then became inaudible, leaving Ted Lambros bewildered in the darkness of his bedroom.
On New Year’s morning, which would be their very last before returning to Cambridge, Philip Harrison asked Ted to join him for a walk in the woods.
“I think we should be frank with each other,” he began.
“Yes, sir,” Ted replied apprehensively.
“I’m not unaware of how my daughter feels about you. But I’m sure you’ve sensed that Mrs. Harrison is —”
“Dead against it,” Ted said quietly.
“Well, that’s putting it a bit strongly. Let’s say Daisy’s a bit reluctant to see Sara commit herself so soon.”
“Uh — that’s understandable,” Ted replied, careful not to say anything disloyal.
They walked a few paces in silence as Ted worked up the courage to ask, “How do you feel, sir?”
“Personally, Ted, I think you’re a bright, decent, and mature young man. But my opinion should have no bearing on the matter. Sara’s told me she loves you and wants to marry you. That’s good enough for me.”
He paused, then continued slowly, his voice shaking slightly, “My daughter is the most precious thing I have in the world. All I want in life is for her to be happy….”
“I’ll do my very best, sir.”
“Ted,” Mr. Harrison persisted, “I want you to swear that you’ll never hurt my little girl.”
Ted nodded, almost unable to speak.
“Yes, sir,” he said softly, “I promise.”
The two stood facing each other. And then, though neither moved, both men embraced in their imagination.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
February 2, 1958
Maybe I do have a future as something after all. I could be a matchmaker. At least the one fix-up I have engineered in my life has resulted in marriage.
The ceremony took place this past Saturday at the First Unitarian Church of Syosset, Long Island. The bride — looking lovely — was none other than my buddy Jason Gilbert’s sister, Julie. The lucky guy was my old classmate Charlie Gushing, whom I had heretofore regarded as totally useless.
Obviously I was wrong about that, because he had succeeded in getting Julie pregnant the very first time they went to bed together.
Happily, the impending maternity was discovered at a very early stage so that things could be done comme il faut. She got her picture in The New York Times and Mrs. Gilbert arranged a lavish celebration with such grace — and speed — that her grandchild would be able to arrive “prematurely” without too many local tongues wagging.
Actually, invisible shotgun or not, I think the two of them suit each other. Julie is cute, but she’s not exactly Madame Curie. She was probably majoring in husband catching at Briarcliff anyway. And one may say she’s graduating with highest honors.
After all, “the Cush,” as we affectionately referred to him in prep school, is a real Boston Brahmin, with a pedigree extending back to colonial times. And the Gilberts make up in dynamism what they lack in patina. Jason’s dad is a real pioneer in the television industry and flies to Washington almost as often as the Eastern shuttle.
Moreover, if there was any tension on the part of either family because of the circumstances surrounding the nuptials, it was certainly not apparent. They made a handsome couple, and to their delight, old man Gilbert set them up in a very comfortable house in Woodbridge, so the Cush could finish his Yale studies in style.
What totally surprised me was that I kind of choked up at the wedding. I mean, Gush was the first one of our gang to go. Which made me think that maybe someday I might even take the plunge. Although what sensible girl would want to marry me?
***
Newall and Andrew were squeezed into Jason’s Corvette during the swift postnuptial ride back to Cambridge. Gradually, Andrew began to notice that Jason seemed gloomy. In fact, he had not smiled much during the whole affair.
“Hey, Gilbert,” Andrew said as they neared the Hartford Bridge, “you seemed pissed off.”
“I am,” Jason replied laconically, and accelerated.
“From that I understand you disapprove of the match.”
“You might say so,” he commented, gritting his teeth.
“On what grounds?” Newall inquired.
“On the grounds that Cushing is the closest thing to a total asshole that I’ve ever encountered.”
“Hey, Jace,” Newall remonstrated, “aren’t you being a bit severe?”
“Hell no,” he answered. “My sister’s barely eighteen. Couldn’t that dingbat have been a little more careful?”
“Maybe they love each other,” Andrew offered, his role in life being to discover silver linings in the cloudiest situations.
“Ah, come on,” Jason exploded, punching the dashboard with one hand, “they hardly know each other.”
“I think both parents were pleased,” Newall suggested.
“Sure,” Jason responded. “The one thing they have in common is an allergy to scandal.”
“Unless my eyes deceived me,” Newall said, “your dad really likes the Gush.”
“Yeah,” Jason answered sarcastically, “but mostly because his ancestors fought at Bunker Hill.”
“So did mine,” Newall added. “Is that why you like me, Gilbert?”
“No,” he replied, only half-joking. “I don’t like you at all, actually.”
***
“Danny, I think you’re making a very big mistake.”
Professor Piston had asked his prize pupil to come by the office to discuss his plans for next year.
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I just can’t see going through another year of studying.”
“But with Nadia Boulanger, Danny, that is hardly what you call drudgery. One might even say that woman is modern music. Remember, most of the major composers of our time have studied at the ‘Boulangerie.’ ”
“But what if I just put it off for, say, a year or so? I mean, Mr. Hurok has got all these fantastic offers for me from major orchestras —”
“Aha, so you’re hungry for the sound of applause, Danny,” Piston answered knowingly. “I wish you wouldn’t be so impetuous. Once you start traveling on that circuit, you’ll be caught up in the whirlwind and never slow down again to study.”
“But that’s a chance I’m willing to take. Anyway, even if this sounds a little arrogant, I think I could start writing on my own.”
The music chairman hesitated. But Danny sensed that he was holding back, and forced the issue.
“Do I take it, sir, that you don’t think I’m ready as a composer?”
“Well,” Piston said slowly, searching for the words that would put it most delicately, “most of the people who went to Nadia, Copland for instance, were already full-blown artists. Yet she brought out something more in them, enriching everything they wrote thereafter …”
“I don’t think you quite answered my question,” Danny said politely.
“Well,” Piston replied, lowering his gaze, “I think a teacher’s obligation is to tell the truth. That is an imperative of education.”
He paused and then pronounced his verdict.
“Danny, that you are a great pianist everybody knows. And that with the years you’ll grow into a fine conductor I have not the slightest doubt. But at this stage, your compositions are still — how can I put it? — raw material. I mean, fine ideas, but without sufficient discipline. That’s why I feel so strongly that you spend a year with Nadia.”
Danny’s ego was jolted. The professor was talking almost like that Crimson reviewer.
He looked at Walter Piston and thought inwardly, What good did Boulanger do you?
Your symphonies aren’t that great. And when’s the last time that an orchestra asked you to be their soloist? No, Walter, I think you’re just a little jealous.
I’m going to give the Boulangerie a miss.
“I’m sure I’ve hurt your feelings,” Piston said solicitously.
“No, no. Not at all. You told me what you thought, and I appreciate your being honest with me.”
“Then will you think about it once again?” the chairman asked.
“Of course,” Danny said diplomatically. Then rose and walked from the office.
He could not even wait to get back to his room and so he called New York from a booth in Harvard Square.
“Mr. Hurok, you can book me anyplace on earth as long as the piano’s tuned.”
“Bravo,” the impresario exulted. “I’ll fix you one exciting year.”
And thus, whether courageous or foolhardy, Danny Rossi had chosen to lead The Class. To be the first to dive from the cozy, amniotic safety of Harvard into the icy, shark-infested waters of the Real World.
***
Like the stretto in a fugue, spring term accelerated the tempo of a melody already racing to its conclusion. May seemed to enter even before April ended. Those who had just completed senior theses barely had time to catch their breaths before taking General Examinations.
Some of The Class availed themselves of this, their final opportunity to have a nervous breakdown.
On the afternoon of his General Exams in History and Lit., Norman Gordon of Seattle, Washington, was found wandering on the banks of the Charles — providentially by his own tutor.
“Hey, Norm, did you finish writing this early?”
“No,” replied the senior who had kept a straight-A average till now, a manic glow in his eyes. “I’ve decided that I don’t like my major at all, In fact, I’m planning not to graduate. I’m going out west to start a cattle ranch.”
“Oh,” said the tutor, then gently led him to the Health Department.
And psychiatry picked up where education had left off.
But in a sense young Gordon had succeeded in his unconscious aspiration: he had managed to avoid having to leave the four-walled shelter of a paternal institution.
“It was a brilliant piece of work,” said Cedric Whitman, as he met with Sara in Boylston Hall for their last tutorial. “I don’t think I’m being indiscreet if I tell you that my view is shared by everyone in the department who read it. Actually, I’d go as far as to say it’s got the makings of a doctoral dissertation.”
“Thank you.” Sara smiled shyly. “But, as you know, I’m not going to graduate school.”
“That’s a pity,” Whitman replied. “You’ve got a really original mind.”
“I think one classicist in the family is enough.”
“What do you intend to do then, Sara?”
“Be a wife — and a mother, eventually.”
“Does that exclude everything else?”
“Well, I feel I should be helping Ted as much as I can. And it would be easier if I had some kind of nondemanding job. I’ll — be studying shorthand at Katie Gibbs this summer.”
Whitman could not fully mask his disappointment.
Sara sensed this and was slightly defensive.
“It isn’t that Ted would mind,” she offered. “It’s just that —”
“Please, Sara,” the professor responded, “you don’t have to explain. I understand completely.” And inwardly he thought, It’s obvious that Ted would mind.
He rose to shake hands and wish her well.
“It’s a nice thing to know that you and Ted will still be around Cambridge.
Perhaps we will have a chance to have you over to the house. In any case, I’ll venture a sibylline prediction. I’d say you’ll both soon be wearing a Phi Beta Kappa key.”
Whitman’s prediction proved accurate. For on May 28, when America’s oldest academic-honor society announced its annually elected senior members, Ted and Sara were among the chosen.
So was Danny Rossi (no surprise, for he would be graduating summa), and George Keller, for whom certain of the normal criteria had been waived. But then his senior thesis had won the Eliot (sic) Prize as best essay of the year in social sciences. And Dr. K. had composed a most persuasive letter emphasizing George’s staggering achievements in so short a time.
Jason Gilbert won no academic kudos. But he continued his distinguished career on the tennis court. He inspired his charges to trample Yale for the third year in a row. And, as an index of the relative significance of sport and intellectual achievement, Jason was elected by a landslide to be senior-class marshal. As such he would lead their procession on Commencement Day.
He also won the Bingham Prize as the most courageous athlete.
But the notion of a surfeit when it comes to honors is unthinkable for Harvard men. And thus to no one’s great surprise Jason won a Sheldon Fellowship as well, an award given to students for specialized achievements. It subsidizes a year of travel — with the proviso that the recipient do no formal studying. Mr. Sheldon knew how to fulfill an undergraduate’s fantasy.
Even the Marine Corps was impressed with all the decorations Jason had received and willingly postponed his tour of duty so he could enjoy the Sheldon first.
(“Actually, it’s a pretty convenient time,” his commanding officer jested. “We seem to be between wars at the moment.”)
All this heightened prominence brought Jason’s name to the attention of some undergraduates who normally would never read the Crimson sports page. It even caused an unexpected visitor to knock on his door early one evening.
“Yeah, can I help you?”
“Hey, what brings the Human Dictionary to my room? Run out of words?”
“Don’t be derisive,” George Keller retorted. “I have come to make a small request of you.”
“Me? But, George, I’m just a dumb old jock.”
“I know,” said Keller with the tiniest of smiles. “That’s exactly how you can assist me.”
“How?” asked Jason.
“Could you teach me tennis, Gilbert? I’d be most appreciative.”
Jason looked somewhat baftled. “Why tennis? And why me?
“It’s obvious,” said George. “Last summer proved to me that it is the most — how shall I put it? — socially advantageous sport. And you, of course, are the most skilled practitioner of it at Harvard.”
“I’m deeply flattered, Keller. But, unfortunately, I’m committed to beating the shit out of all the guys who’ll be gunning for me in the NCAAs next week. I really haven’t got the time.”
George Keller’s look of expectation turned to one of disappointment. “I’d be glad to pay you, Jason. Anything you say.”
“It isn’t the money. I’d teach you free —”
“When?” George quickly asked.
“Hell, I don’t know,” said Jason, feeling cornered, “maybe sometime during Graduation Week.”
“Sunday the eighth — at five o’clock? I know there is nothing planned for then.” The guy knew the entire schedule by heart!
“Okay,” Jason capitulated with a sigh. “Do you have a racket?”
“Of course,” said George, “and I have balls.”
“I knew that without asking,” Jason murmured as he shut his door.
George Keller stood there beaming with satisfaction. The sarcasm had escaped even the magniloquent new master of the English language.
-*-
Andrew Eliot was already waiting outside the History Department when the General-Exam grades were posted. For one of the rare times of his life off the athletic field, he was perspiring.
A swarm of students rushed forward as the department secretary came out of the chairman’s office to pin the results on the bulletin board.
Fortunately, Andrew was tall enough to see over the heads of the mob. What he read astonished him. He walked numbly back to Eliot House and phoned his father.
“What in blazes is the matter, son? It’s still expensive-calling hours.”
“Dad,” Andrew mumbled in a haze, “Dad, I just wanted you to be the first to know …”
The young man hesitated.
“Come on, my boy, speak up. This is costing you a fortune.”
“Dad, you won’t believe this but — I passed my Generals. I’m going to graduate.”
The announcement at first struck Andrew’s father speechless.
Finally he said, “Son, that is good news. I frankly never thought you’d do it.”
February 2, 1958
Maybe I do have a future as something after all. I could be a matchmaker. At least the one fix-up I have engineered in my life has resulted in marriage.
The ceremony took place this past Saturday at the First Unitarian Church of Syosset, Long Island. The bride — looking lovely — was none other than my buddy Jason Gilbert’s sister, Julie. The lucky guy was my old classmate Charlie Gushing, whom I had heretofore regarded as totally useless.
Obviously I was wrong about that, because he had succeeded in getting Julie pregnant the very first time they went to bed together.
Happily, the impending maternity was discovered at a very early stage so that things could be done comme il faut. She got her picture in The New York Times and Mrs. Gilbert arranged a lavish celebration with such grace — and speed — that her grandchild would be able to arrive “prematurely” without too many local tongues wagging.
Actually, invisible shotgun or not, I think the two of them suit each other. Julie is cute, but she’s not exactly Madame Curie. She was probably majoring in husband catching at Briarcliff anyway. And one may say she’s graduating with highest honors.
After all, “the Cush,” as we affectionately referred to him in prep school, is a real Boston Brahmin, with a pedigree extending back to colonial times. And the Gilberts make up in dynamism what they lack in patina. Jason’s dad is a real pioneer in the television industry and flies to Washington almost as often as the Eastern shuttle.
Moreover, if there was any tension on the part of either family because of the circumstances surrounding the nuptials, it was certainly not apparent. They made a handsome couple, and to their delight, old man Gilbert set them up in a very comfortable house in Woodbridge, so the Cush could finish his Yale studies in style.
What totally surprised me was that I kind of choked up at the wedding. I mean, Gush was the first one of our gang to go. Which made me think that maybe someday I might even take the plunge. Although what sensible girl would want to marry me?
Newall and Andrew were squeezed into Jason’s Corvette during the swift postnuptial ride back to Cambridge. Gradually, Andrew began to notice that Jason seemed gloomy. In fact, he had not smiled much during the whole affair.
“Hey, Gilbert,” Andrew said as they neared the Hartford Bridge, “you seemed pissed off.”
“I am,” Jason replied laconically, and accelerated.
“From that I understand you disapprove of the match.”
“You might say so,” he commented, gritting his teeth.
“On what grounds?” Newall inquired.
“On the grounds that Cushing is the closest thing to a total asshole that I’ve ever encountered.”
“Hey, Jace,” Newall remonstrated, “aren’t you being a bit severe?”
“Hell no,” he answered. “My sister’s barely eighteen. Couldn’t that dingbat have been a little more careful?”
“Maybe they love each other,” Andrew offered, his role in life being to discover silver linings in the cloudiest situations.
“Ah, come on,” Jason exploded, punching the dashboard with one hand, “they hardly know each other.”
“I think both parents were pleased,” Newall suggested.
“Sure,” Jason responded. “The one thing they have in common is an allergy to scandal.”
“Unless my eyes deceived me,” Newall said, “your dad really likes the Gush.”
“Yeah,” Jason answered sarcastically, “but mostly because his ancestors fought at Bunker Hill.”
“So did mine,” Newall added. “Is that why you like me, Gilbert?”
“No,” he replied, only half-joking. “I don’t like you at all, actually.”
“Danny, I think you’re making a very big mistake.”
Professor Piston had asked his prize pupil to come by the office to discuss his plans for next year.
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I just can’t see going through another year of studying.”
“But with Nadia Boulanger, Danny, that is hardly what you call drudgery. One might even say that woman is modern music. Remember, most of the major composers of our time have studied at the ‘Boulangerie.’ ”
“But what if I just put it off for, say, a year or so? I mean, Mr. Hurok has got all these fantastic offers for me from major orchestras —”
“Aha, so you’re hungry for the sound of applause, Danny,” Piston answered knowingly. “I wish you wouldn’t be so impetuous. Once you start traveling on that circuit, you’ll be caught up in the whirlwind and never slow down again to study.”
“But that’s a chance I’m willing to take. Anyway, even if this sounds a little arrogant, I think I could start writing on my own.”
The music chairman hesitated. But Danny sensed that he was holding back, and forced the issue.
“Do I take it, sir, that you don’t think I’m ready as a composer?”
“Well,” Piston said slowly, searching for the words that would put it most delicately, “most of the people who went to Nadia, Copland for instance, were already full-blown artists. Yet she brought out something more in them, enriching everything they wrote thereafter …”
“I don’t think you quite answered my question,” Danny said politely.
“Well,” Piston replied, lowering his gaze, “I think a teacher’s obligation is to tell the truth. That is an imperative of education.”
He paused and then pronounced his verdict.
“Danny, that you are a great pianist everybody knows. And that with the years you’ll grow into a fine conductor I have not the slightest doubt. But at this stage, your compositions are still — how can I put it? — raw material. I mean, fine ideas, but without sufficient discipline. That’s why I feel so strongly that you spend a year with Nadia.”
Danny’s ego was jolted. The professor was talking almost like that Crimson reviewer.
He looked at Walter Piston and thought inwardly, What good did Boulanger do you?
Your symphonies aren’t that great. And when’s the last time that an orchestra asked you to be their soloist? No, Walter, I think you’re just a little jealous.
I’m going to give the Boulangerie a miss.
“I’m sure I’ve hurt your feelings,” Piston said solicitously.
“No, no. Not at all. You told me what you thought, and I appreciate your being honest with me.”
“Then will you think about it once again?” the chairman asked.
“Of course,” Danny said diplomatically. Then rose and walked from the office.
He could not even wait to get back to his room and so he called New York from a booth in Harvard Square.
“Mr. Hurok, you can book me anyplace on earth as long as the piano’s tuned.”
“Bravo,” the impresario exulted. “I’ll fix you one exciting year.”
And thus, whether courageous or foolhardy, Danny Rossi had chosen to lead The Class. To be the first to dive from the cozy, amniotic safety of Harvard into the icy, shark-infested waters of the Real World.
Like the stretto in a fugue, spring term accelerated the tempo of a melody already racing to its conclusion. May seemed to enter even before April ended. Those who had just completed senior theses barely had time to catch their breaths before taking General Examinations.
Some of The Class availed themselves of this, their final opportunity to have a nervous breakdown.
On the afternoon of his General Exams in History and Lit., Norman Gordon of Seattle, Washington, was found wandering on the banks of the Charles — providentially by his own tutor.
“Hey, Norm, did you finish writing this early?”
“No,” replied the senior who had kept a straight-A average till now, a manic glow in his eyes. “I’ve decided that I don’t like my major at all, In fact, I’m planning not to graduate. I’m going out west to start a cattle ranch.”
“Oh,” said the tutor, then gently led him to the Health Department.
And psychiatry picked up where education had left off.
But in a sense young Gordon had succeeded in his unconscious aspiration: he had managed to avoid having to leave the four-walled shelter of a paternal institution.
“It was a brilliant piece of work,” said Cedric Whitman, as he met with Sara in Boylston Hall for their last tutorial. “I don’t think I’m being indiscreet if I tell you that my view is shared by everyone in the department who read it. Actually, I’d go as far as to say it’s got the makings of a doctoral dissertation.”
“Thank you.” Sara smiled shyly. “But, as you know, I’m not going to graduate school.”
“That’s a pity,” Whitman replied. “You’ve got a really original mind.”
“I think one classicist in the family is enough.”
“What do you intend to do then, Sara?”
“Be a wife — and a mother, eventually.”
“Does that exclude everything else?”
“Well, I feel I should be helping Ted as much as I can. And it would be easier if I had some kind of nondemanding job. I’ll — be studying shorthand at Katie Gibbs this summer.”
Whitman could not fully mask his disappointment.
Sara sensed this and was slightly defensive.
“It isn’t that Ted would mind,” she offered. “It’s just that —”
“Please, Sara,” the professor responded, “you don’t have to explain. I understand completely.” And inwardly he thought, It’s obvious that Ted would mind.
He rose to shake hands and wish her well.
“It’s a nice thing to know that you and Ted will still be around Cambridge.
Perhaps we will have a chance to have you over to the house. In any case, I’ll venture a sibylline prediction. I’d say you’ll both soon be wearing a Phi Beta Kappa key.”
Whitman’s prediction proved accurate. For on May 28, when America’s oldest academic-honor society announced its annually elected senior members, Ted and Sara were among the chosen.
So was Danny Rossi (no surprise, for he would be graduating summa), and George Keller, for whom certain of the normal criteria had been waived. But then his senior thesis had won the Eliot (sic) Prize as best essay of the year in social sciences. And Dr. K. had composed a most persuasive letter emphasizing George’s staggering achievements in so short a time.
Jason Gilbert won no academic kudos. But he continued his distinguished career on the tennis court. He inspired his charges to trample Yale for the third year in a row. And, as an index of the relative significance of sport and intellectual achievement, Jason was elected by a landslide to be senior-class marshal. As such he would lead their procession on Commencement Day.
He also won the Bingham Prize as the most courageous athlete.
But the notion of a surfeit when it comes to honors is unthinkable for Harvard men. And thus to no one’s great surprise Jason won a Sheldon Fellowship as well, an award given to students for specialized achievements. It subsidizes a year of travel — with the proviso that the recipient do no formal studying. Mr. Sheldon knew how to fulfill an undergraduate’s fantasy.
Even the Marine Corps was impressed with all the decorations Jason had received and willingly postponed his tour of duty so he could enjoy the Sheldon first.
(“Actually, it’s a pretty convenient time,” his commanding officer jested. “We seem to be between wars at the moment.”)
All this heightened prominence brought Jason’s name to the attention of some undergraduates who normally would never read the Crimson sports page. It even caused an unexpected visitor to knock on his door early one evening.
“Yeah, can I help you?”
“Hey, what brings the Human Dictionary to my room? Run out of words?”
“Don’t be derisive,” George Keller retorted. “I have come to make a small request of you.”
“Me? But, George, I’m just a dumb old jock.”
“I know,” said Keller with the tiniest of smiles. “That’s exactly how you can assist me.”
“How?” asked Jason.
“Could you teach me tennis, Gilbert? I’d be most appreciative.”
Jason looked somewhat baftled. “Why tennis? And why me?
“It’s obvious,” said George. “Last summer proved to me that it is the most — how shall I put it? — socially advantageous sport. And you, of course, are the most skilled practitioner of it at Harvard.”
“I’m deeply flattered, Keller. But, unfortunately, I’m committed to beating the shit out of all the guys who’ll be gunning for me in the NCAAs next week. I really haven’t got the time.”
George Keller’s look of expectation turned to one of disappointment. “I’d be glad to pay you, Jason. Anything you say.”
“It isn’t the money. I’d teach you free —”
“When?” George quickly asked.
“Hell, I don’t know,” said Jason, feeling cornered, “maybe sometime during Graduation Week.”
“Sunday the eighth — at five o’clock? I know there is nothing planned for then.” The guy knew the entire schedule by heart!
“Okay,” Jason capitulated with a sigh. “Do you have a racket?”
“Of course,” said George, “and I have balls.”
“I knew that without asking,” Jason murmured as he shut his door.
George Keller stood there beaming with satisfaction. The sarcasm had escaped even the magniloquent new master of the English language.
Andrew Eliot was already waiting outside the History Department when the General-Exam grades were posted. For one of the rare times of his life off the athletic field, he was perspiring.
A swarm of students rushed forward as the department secretary came out of the chairman’s office to pin the results on the bulletin board.
Fortunately, Andrew was tall enough to see over the heads of the mob. What he read astonished him. He walked numbly back to Eliot House and phoned his father.
“What in blazes is the matter, son? It’s still expensive-calling hours.”
“Dad,” Andrew mumbled in a haze, “Dad, I just wanted you to be the first to know …”
The young man hesitated.
“Come on, my boy, speak up. This is costing you a fortune.”
“Dad, you won’t believe this but — I passed my Generals. I’m going to graduate.”
The announcement at first struck Andrew’s father speechless.
Finally he said, “Son, that is good news. I frankly never thought you’d do it.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 10, 1958
As a kind of anodyne for the trauma of our symbolic rebirth, Harvard arranges a series of assorted ceremonies for Senior Week, culminating in Thursday morning’s sacred laying on of hands.
The Baccalaureate Service on Sunday in Memorial Church was a pretty desultory affair. At least, that’s what I heard from one of the guys who actually went. It wasn’t exactly a big draw.
Monday’s formal dance — for some reason called the Senior Spread — was much better attended. About half The Class filled the Lowell House courtyard, clad in rented white dinner jackets, dancing into the wee hours to the mellow saxophone sounds of Les and Larry Elgart’s orchestra.
I guess if it had an educational purpose, which I assume everything at Harvard does, it was to give us a preview of what it would be like to be middle-aged.
The band gave an occasional nod to musical modernity with one or two cha-cha-chas — the current terpsichorean vogue — and also some Elvis tunes. But it was soft and gentle stuff like “Love Me Tender.”
Oh yes, we did have dates. I blush to say that Newall and I had a social arrangement with Jason, somewhat analogous to my sartorial-exchange policy with Ted Lambros. We got his hand-me-downs.
But, of course, when you get an ex from Gilbert, they are still in exceptionally fine condition. As Joe Keezer might put it, “hardly worn.” The only problem is they still have this vestigial attachment to Jason.
The result being that while he was dancing with this incredible blonde (a tennis journalist he’d picked up at some tournament), Lucy, my so-called date, and Melissa, who was supposed to be with Newall, kept angling to stay in his line of vision in hopes they could scrounge a single dance with our Class Leader.
Needless to say, even with our own considerable charm, Dickie and I didn’t get to first base with either of our girls. But at least we had a lovely on our arms, which I suspect was the motivation for a lot of the pairings that evening. I think that Ted and Sara were among the maybe dozen or so couples who were actually involved romantically.
Tomorrow night we have yet another jolly event — for which Gilbert has already obtained me an escort — a moonlight cruise in Boston Harbor. Newall is going to pass on that one since, for some irrational reason, he’s afraid he might get seasick. And how would that look the next morning, when he’s due to be commissioned as a naval officer?
But as this artificial carnival continues, I keep wondering more and more why no one really seems to be enjoying it.
And I’ve come to what I think is a profound conclusion. The Class is really not a class. I mean, we’re not a brotherhood — or anything at all cohesive for that matter.
In fact, the time we spent here was a kind of truce. A cease-fire in the war for fame and power. And in two more days the guns come out again.
***
Though it had rained intermittently throughout the earlier part of Commencement Week, Harvard’s apparent connections in Very High Places succeeded in making Thursday, June 12, 1958, a hot and sunny day, perfect for the university’s 322d Commencement Ceremony.
Everyone seemed to be in costume. From the rented black caps and gowns of the undergraduates to the electric pink of the doctoral candidates. Or the eighteenth-century garb of the sheriff of Middlesex County, who rode in on horseback to open the proceedings.
Led by Jason Gilbert and the two other marshals, The Class of ’58 marched through the Yard, around University Hall, and into the vast area between Memorial Church and Widener Library. For a few hours every year, rows of wooden seats spring up and this sylvan space is magically transformed into “Tercentenary Theater.”
As had been the practice for three centuries, the solemnities began with an oration in Latin — which perhaps sixteen people understood and everybody else pretended to.
This year’s speaker, selected two weeks earlier by the Classics Department, was Theodore Lambros of Cambridge, Massachusetts. His speech was entitled “De optimo genere felicitatis” — on the noblest form of happiness.
The Latin salutatorian’s task is, as the word suggests, to greet the dignitaries present in hierarchical order. First President Pusey, then the governor of Massachusetts, deans, pastors, and so forth.
But the crowd is really waiting for the traditional greetings to the Radcliffe girls (who, of course, come at the very end).
Nec vos ommittamus, puellae pulcherrimae
Radcliffianae, quas socias studemus vivendi,
ridendi, bibendi …
Nor shall we overlook you, Most exquisite Radcliffe maidens, Whom we zealously pursue as companions for Living, laughing, and quaffing …
Twenty thousand pairs of hands applauded. But none more vigorously than those of the proud Lambros family.
After all the salutations, the orator is supposed to pronounce a small homily. And Ted had chosen as his message the fact that the highest form of happiness was to be found in truly unselfish friendship toward one’s fellow man.
It was not long thereafter that President Pusey bade The Class of ’58 rise to its feet and its representatives mount the steps of Memorial Church to join “the fellowship of educated men.”
First Marshal Jason Gilbert walked to the podium to accept the symbolic diploma for all of them.
Sitting near the stage in a section reserved for relatives of the participants, Jason’s father overheard a female voice exclaim, “He looks just like something out of Scott Fitzgerald.”
Mr. Gilbert turned to caution his wife not to speak so loudly. But in doing so, he realized that Betsy was crying and the compliment had been articulated by another woman sitting in their row. And he smiled and thought, There’s no prouder father in this whole damn place.
He was not correct, of course. There were nearly a thousand fathers of The Glass of ’58 among those present, all of whom were sharing what they thought was the zenith of euphoria and pride.
Four years earlier, 1,162 young men had entered Harvard with The Class of ’58. Today, 1,031 of them received diplomas. Just over ten percent had failed to stay the course. In ancient Roman terms, they had been decimated.
Some who had flunked out along the way might perhaps come back in a later year and finish their degrees. Still others had surrendered their ambition to be Harvard men either by giving up their sanity or taking their own lives. But no one thought of them today, for this was a time for congratulation, not compassion.
Not even Jason gave a thought to David Davidson, his freshman roommate, who was still resident in Massachusetts Mental Hospital, undaunted by his temporary setback, still dreaming of future scientific glory.
Half an hour later, The Class broke into smaller groups to have luncheon in their houses.
-*-
Back at Eliot, Art and Gisela Rossi’s meal with Danny would be simultaneously a farewell. For he’d be leaving the next morning to return to Tanglewood — as soloist this summer. And after that to Europe to begin the concert tour that Hurok had arranged.
His mother couldn’t keep from asking why Maria was not there. For she had really liked the girl.
Art Rossi was more understanding. “Come on, honey,” he whispered, “she was probably just a passing fancy. Dan’s too young and clever to let himself get hooked so soon.”
Danny kept up the charade and smiled. Though inwardly he was aggrieved that when he’d asked her to be his date “just for old times’ sake,” Maria had declined.
-*-
George Keller had resigned himself to eating lunch alone on a courtyard step. Clearly, no one near and dear to him was that day present. Then Andrew Eliot approached him. “Hey, George,” he said good-naturedly, “do me a favor, huh? Come on over to our table and talk to some of my stepsisters. I mean, I can’t remember half their names but some of them are cute.”
“Thank you, Andrew, that is most cordial. I’d be ravished to join you.”
As George rose to walk to the Eliot family table in the courtyard of the house called Eliot, with his classmate Andrew of that same name, the latter whispered to him, “George, your English is terrific. But don’t say ‘ravished.’ Say my sister — any one of them — is ravishing.”
-*-
Later in the afternoon, the separation was complete. They now divided into a thousand atoms, going off at varied speeds in differing directions.
Would they ever come together as a unity again?
Had they ever been one?
June 10, 1958
As a kind of anodyne for the trauma of our symbolic rebirth, Harvard arranges a series of assorted ceremonies for Senior Week, culminating in Thursday morning’s sacred laying on of hands.
The Baccalaureate Service on Sunday in Memorial Church was a pretty desultory affair. At least, that’s what I heard from one of the guys who actually went. It wasn’t exactly a big draw.
Monday’s formal dance — for some reason called the Senior Spread — was much better attended. About half The Class filled the Lowell House courtyard, clad in rented white dinner jackets, dancing into the wee hours to the mellow saxophone sounds of Les and Larry Elgart’s orchestra.
I guess if it had an educational purpose, which I assume everything at Harvard does, it was to give us a preview of what it would be like to be middle-aged.
The band gave an occasional nod to musical modernity with one or two cha-cha-chas — the current terpsichorean vogue — and also some Elvis tunes. But it was soft and gentle stuff like “Love Me Tender.”
Oh yes, we did have dates. I blush to say that Newall and I had a social arrangement with Jason, somewhat analogous to my sartorial-exchange policy with Ted Lambros. We got his hand-me-downs.
But, of course, when you get an ex from Gilbert, they are still in exceptionally fine condition. As Joe Keezer might put it, “hardly worn.” The only problem is they still have this vestigial attachment to Jason.
The result being that while he was dancing with this incredible blonde (a tennis journalist he’d picked up at some tournament), Lucy, my so-called date, and Melissa, who was supposed to be with Newall, kept angling to stay in his line of vision in hopes they could scrounge a single dance with our Class Leader.
Needless to say, even with our own considerable charm, Dickie and I didn’t get to first base with either of our girls. But at least we had a lovely on our arms, which I suspect was the motivation for a lot of the pairings that evening. I think that Ted and Sara were among the maybe dozen or so couples who were actually involved romantically.
Tomorrow night we have yet another jolly event — for which Gilbert has already obtained me an escort — a moonlight cruise in Boston Harbor. Newall is going to pass on that one since, for some irrational reason, he’s afraid he might get seasick. And how would that look the next morning, when he’s due to be commissioned as a naval officer?
But as this artificial carnival continues, I keep wondering more and more why no one really seems to be enjoying it.
And I’ve come to what I think is a profound conclusion. The Class is really not a class. I mean, we’re not a brotherhood — or anything at all cohesive for that matter.
In fact, the time we spent here was a kind of truce. A cease-fire in the war for fame and power. And in two more days the guns come out again.
Though it had rained intermittently throughout the earlier part of Commencement Week, Harvard’s apparent connections in Very High Places succeeded in making Thursday, June 12, 1958, a hot and sunny day, perfect for the university’s 322d Commencement Ceremony.
Everyone seemed to be in costume. From the rented black caps and gowns of the undergraduates to the electric pink of the doctoral candidates. Or the eighteenth-century garb of the sheriff of Middlesex County, who rode in on horseback to open the proceedings.
Led by Jason Gilbert and the two other marshals, The Class of ’58 marched through the Yard, around University Hall, and into the vast area between Memorial Church and Widener Library. For a few hours every year, rows of wooden seats spring up and this sylvan space is magically transformed into “Tercentenary Theater.”
As had been the practice for three centuries, the solemnities began with an oration in Latin — which perhaps sixteen people understood and everybody else pretended to.
This year’s speaker, selected two weeks earlier by the Classics Department, was Theodore Lambros of Cambridge, Massachusetts. His speech was entitled “De optimo genere felicitatis” — on the noblest form of happiness.
The Latin salutatorian’s task is, as the word suggests, to greet the dignitaries present in hierarchical order. First President Pusey, then the governor of Massachusetts, deans, pastors, and so forth.
But the crowd is really waiting for the traditional greetings to the Radcliffe girls (who, of course, come at the very end).
Nec vos ommittamus, puellae pulcherrimae
Radcliffianae, quas socias studemus vivendi,
ridendi, bibendi …
Nor shall we overlook you, Most exquisite Radcliffe maidens, Whom we zealously pursue as companions for Living, laughing, and quaffing …
Twenty thousand pairs of hands applauded. But none more vigorously than those of the proud Lambros family.
After all the salutations, the orator is supposed to pronounce a small homily. And Ted had chosen as his message the fact that the highest form of happiness was to be found in truly unselfish friendship toward one’s fellow man.
It was not long thereafter that President Pusey bade The Class of ’58 rise to its feet and its representatives mount the steps of Memorial Church to join “the fellowship of educated men.”
First Marshal Jason Gilbert walked to the podium to accept the symbolic diploma for all of them.
Sitting near the stage in a section reserved for relatives of the participants, Jason’s father overheard a female voice exclaim, “He looks just like something out of Scott Fitzgerald.”
Mr. Gilbert turned to caution his wife not to speak so loudly. But in doing so, he realized that Betsy was crying and the compliment had been articulated by another woman sitting in their row. And he smiled and thought, There’s no prouder father in this whole damn place.
He was not correct, of course. There were nearly a thousand fathers of The Glass of ’58 among those present, all of whom were sharing what they thought was the zenith of euphoria and pride.
Four years earlier, 1,162 young men had entered Harvard with The Class of ’58. Today, 1,031 of them received diplomas. Just over ten percent had failed to stay the course. In ancient Roman terms, they had been decimated.
Some who had flunked out along the way might perhaps come back in a later year and finish their degrees. Still others had surrendered their ambition to be Harvard men either by giving up their sanity or taking their own lives. But no one thought of them today, for this was a time for congratulation, not compassion.
Not even Jason gave a thought to David Davidson, his freshman roommate, who was still resident in Massachusetts Mental Hospital, undaunted by his temporary setback, still dreaming of future scientific glory.
Half an hour later, The Class broke into smaller groups to have luncheon in their houses.
Back at Eliot, Art and Gisela Rossi’s meal with Danny would be simultaneously a farewell. For he’d be leaving the next morning to return to Tanglewood — as soloist this summer. And after that to Europe to begin the concert tour that Hurok had arranged.
His mother couldn’t keep from asking why Maria was not there. For she had really liked the girl.
Art Rossi was more understanding. “Come on, honey,” he whispered, “she was probably just a passing fancy. Dan’s too young and clever to let himself get hooked so soon.”
Danny kept up the charade and smiled. Though inwardly he was aggrieved that when he’d asked her to be his date “just for old times’ sake,” Maria had declined.
George Keller had resigned himself to eating lunch alone on a courtyard step. Clearly, no one near and dear to him was that day present. Then Andrew Eliot approached him. “Hey, George,” he said good-naturedly, “do me a favor, huh? Come on over to our table and talk to some of my stepsisters. I mean, I can’t remember half their names but some of them are cute.”
“Thank you, Andrew, that is most cordial. I’d be ravished to join you.”
As George rose to walk to the Eliot family table in the courtyard of the house called Eliot, with his classmate Andrew of that same name, the latter whispered to him, “George, your English is terrific. But don’t say ‘ravished.’ Say my sister — any one of them — is ravishing.”
Later in the afternoon, the separation was complete. They now divided into a thousand atoms, going off at varied speeds in differing directions.
Would they ever come together as a unity again?
Had they ever been one?
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