The Class

They began to gather on Sunday, June 5. Advance reservations indicated that over six hundred members of The Class would be coming from every state and even Europe and Asia. Registration was at the Freshman Union, where they had all embarked on their great journey twenty-nine years earlier.

But who were these strange people — balding, bespectacled, overweight, and shy? How had they come to usurp the ball reserved for the firebrands of The Class of ’58? The only clue was the badges that they wore on their lapels.

Paradoxically, most of them were more frightened at the prospect of their return to Harvard than when they first arrived as undergraduates. For now there was one conspicuous item missing from their spiritual luggage — unbounded faith in their potential.

They were no longer like astronauts striding to the launch pad full of hope, ready to fly to the moon and beyond. They were most of them weary travelers whose horizons ended at the office parking lot.

And for all their glittering achievements, their triumphal entries into the pages of Who’s Who, they knew they had suffered the irreparable loss of what was once their most precious gift. Their youth.

The Class of ’58 had come home as grown-ups. The great expectations that once had burned in them had been replaced by ghosts of old ambitions.

The secret word was compromise. Nobody said it outright, but they all could sense it. Yet somehow it was comforting to see that everyone had aged. They had weathered all the storms of harsh reality, and here were seeking shelter in a place where they had once believed no rain could ever fall on them.

They were gazing at one another. Some too timid to approach the old acquaintances they thought they recognized — but were too far away to read the badges.

And yet how different from the looks they had exchanged while waiting on line for that first dinner in their freshman year. They all were adversaries then. Independent, trusting only in themselves. The Union air had been suffused with feelings of omniscience and infallibility.

But now they treated one another with a new affection. There were no hierarchies. They were meeting for the first time as fellow human beings. For they were not there to worship. The Class had gathered to commune.

Gradually they could allow themselves to laugh. And talk of football games and college pranks. The good old times when Ike was in the White House and all was right with the world.

The reunion had begun.

The week officially began with a Thanksgiving and Memorial Service at nine-thirty the next morning.

Considering how few had attended the Baccalaureate Service at graduation in 1958, it was remarkable how many were present in Mem. Church that balmy morning of June 6, 1983.

They all had studied the immense red book, the glorious compendium of their collective achievements. But the entries that had captured everyone’s imagination were the dead. Eminence is no protection in a highway accident. Cancer does not hold a Harvard graduate in awe.

Perhaps they knew that this was the reason they had really come. To be with classmates once again at the midway point in their lives. And though the service was to honor the departed, in so doing, they were all acknowledging their own mortality.

The church was filled only with members of The Class, their families, and — their survivors. Classmates led the service.

At one point the Reverend Lyle Guttu ’58 offered some brief comments.

He emphasized that fear of death is universal. But what lies beneath that fear is the terror of insignificance. Of not being remembered, not counting.

“That is why we are gathered, for ourselves, as much as any other. That is why this building is here, to honor the sacrifice of Harvard sons who died in struggles to defend the dignity of man.”

He then commented on some of the deaths. One classmate had drowned while attempting to save a child. Another had been executed for leading an abortive revolt against the oppressive regime in Haiti. Yet another gave up his life to save more than a hundred hostages.

And finally he stated, “Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living — or that either can be fatal? We are here to remember our classmates. They are not nameless. They are known. They were ours, and shall ever be.”

At this point, another member of The Class rose to read the names of the departed.

As he finished, the bells of Memorial Church began to toll. Once for every name. The dull knelling profoundly shook those standing in the vast white-paneled church.

Forty years of vibrant life reduced to the reverberation of a single bell.

We will all come to this.

ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

Cynics might argue that the Reunion Memorial Service was merely to remind Harvard men that, although they are mortal, the University abideth forever.

At any rate, the rest of the week was dedicated to the impressive demonstration of how much Harvard had done for them. And — with their financial munificence — would be doing for the ages to come.

First, President Derek Bok and Dean Theodore Lambros ’58 led a symposium, “The Future of Harvard.” Their message was that while most American universities were preparing for the twenty-first century, Harvard, with its greater vision, was already looking forward to the twenty-second.

Indeed, in one of his many witty responses during the question period, Dean Lambros said that it would not be Harvard’s policy “to grant tenure to computers.”

The alumni were suitably impressed. And — especially those with teenage children about to apply to college — extremely deferential.

ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

George Keller’s lecture on foreign policy filled the amphitheater to overflowing.

In the space of less than forty-five minutes, he made pithy observations on all the troubled areas of international relations. From nuclear disarmament to whom the White House backed in Central America and why. From the labyrinthine mysteries of Middle Eastern governments’ behavior to a brief character analysis of the new Kremlin leaders.

It was a masterful, pointillistic painting of the whole world’s politics.

During the question period, one of the alumni asked George what he thought of Tom Leighton’s new book, The Prince of Darkness, which makes allegations about Henry Kissinger’s ruthlessness in matters like the Cambodia invasion, Nixon’s pardon, and even the wiretapping of his own staff.

George looked visibly outraged at the mention of this attack on the man to whom he owed so much. And he rose to the occasion with an eloquent defense of his old mentor.

As The Class began to applaud, someone in the back shouted, “What about the Vietnam war, Dr. Keller?”

“What about it, sir?” George answered quietly.

“How can you and Kissinger justify the fact that you strung out those negotiations at the cost of so many lives on both sides?”

He responded calmly, “That isn’t true. Our aim in Paris was to bring the conflict to the speediest possible conclusion — to save lives.”

But the man was not satisfied.

“What about the Christmas saturation bombing when you destroyed targets like the Bach Mai hospital?”

The audience began to grow distinctly uncomfortable. George remained unruffled.

“Sir, that bombing was necessary and, I think, justified because it proved to North Vietnam that we meant business. Hitting that hospital was just a tragic mistake.”

“But don’t you think the whole damn war was a mistake?”

George seemed more puzzled than provoked. “I don’t understand why you pose your questions with such urgency when we’re talking of events that are now history.”

Then the man asked, “Do you have children, Dr. Keller?”

“No,” George replied.

“Well, maybe if you did, like me, and if your only son was killed in Southeast Asia — for reasons that you still can’t understand — even ten years later you’d ask these sorts of questions too.”

There was a collective gasp in the auditorium.

George was silent for a moment and then answered softly.

“I’m truly sorry for engaging in dialectic on a subject that’s so real a tragedy for you. I think I speak for our whole class in saying that we in some small way share your loss.”

“What about the guilt, Dr. Keller? Can you really sleep at night with all that on your conscience?”

George remained poised. Then, after a few minutes of silence, said impassively, “I think we should end the seminar here.”

There was no applause. People were too upset.

The man who’d asked the questions simply walked away, his arm around his wife.

ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

It is a tradition of Harvard reunions that the outstanding musician of The Class is invited to conduct at least a portion of a Boston Pops’ concert. In 1964, for example, Leonard Bernstein ’39 conducted an evening of his own music. In 1983, the same honor was accorded to Daniel Rossi ’58.

The huge organ pipes above the stage of Symphony Hall were festively decked with pink and silver pennants, the massive auditorium packed exclusively with members of The Class.

As he stood in the wings, elegant in tails and perfectly coiffed (even wearing a bit of stage makeup, lest he be thought anything but a perpetual Wunderkind), Danny was suddenly struck by a strange realization.

This was the most important audience he would ever face in his entire life.

All he could remember in this brief flickering of eternity was that during his Harvard years — despite his musical successes — he had been all but disregarded. He had not been athletic. He had not been gregarious. He had not even, at first, been a success with the opposite sex. He had been a wonk.

And after a quarter of a century he still resented the ruthless massacre of his piano.

Now the wheel had come full circle. All those who had persecuted, derided, and ignored him were out there waiting.

He walked on stage.

There was a hush as he mounted the podium, bowed slowly, then turned and raised his baton.

First he led a suite from his Savanarola ballet. Admittedly, this was a bit esoteric for some, But it was Danny Rossi’s music and they still respected it.

Then he got to what they were waiting for: a medley from Manhattan Odyssey. And every time he modulated to a different tune they clapped and sang along.

The biggest ovation was, of course, for “The Stars Are Not Enough” — if not quite a legitimate offspring of The Class, at least an adopted child.

When it was over, he turned and faced them. They were on their feet now, all of them. Cheering and applauding.

Then the first shout came.

“Play the piano, Danny!”

It soon became a tidal wave of chanting, “Play! Play!”

At first he tried to brush it off nonchalantly with a wave of his right hand. But they wouldn’t stop.

The one thing they admired most in him was no longer his to give.

And suddenly he sensed he could not hold back the tears. So he quickly whirled to the musicians and signaled them to begin the concluding medley of Harvard football songs.

Danny had covered his retreat by invoking something they worshipped more than him — Harvard.

ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

On the afternoon of Commencement Day, the various Harvard classes assembled in the Yard to march into Tercentenary Theater for their annual meeting. They were headed by President Derek Bok, with Dean Theodore Lambros, resplendent in his crimson robes, a step behind. They in turn were followed by batallions of the various classes, several thousand strong.

Those having their Twenty-fifth and Fiftieth reunions had the pride of place. And some of their representatives were honored for various reasons by being asked to sit — wearing top hats and morning coats — on the podium.

Both George Keller and Daniel Rossi had been invited, but respectfully declined. Andrew Eliot was likewise honored for his service to the University Fund Raising Campaign — and sat unobtrusively in a corner of the stage.

Also attending, to represent the Class of ’33 (the Fiftieth) was Philip Harrison, former Secretary of the Treasury and Ted’s erstwhile father-in-law.

As the old man climbed the steps, Ted rose to greet him, offering his hand.

“Ah, Dean Lambros,” the old man said tonelessly, “congratulations. I’m very pleased to see you’ve gotten everything you’ve always wanted.”

He then walked to his seat. Because, in truth, that is all they had left to say to each other.

During the ceremony, the gifts of the various classes were announced. Franklin Harvey rose to proclaim that the sum donated by the Twenty-fifth Reunion was a record $8.6 million.

There was an audible gasp.

But Frank raised his hand to postpone any further jubilation until he could add an important comment.

“Needless to say, we feel gratitude to the entire Class. But, if I may, I’d like to single out one individual who’s worked closely with me on this entire campaign for the past five years.

“It’s not just that he’s done yeoman service in raising funds. It’s more than that. His kindness and selflessness demonstrate the best of what a man can offer to the university and to his friends.

“I’d like this individual to stand, so we can show him our appreciation.” He turned and motioned to the honorand, saying, “Mr. Andrew Eliot.”

Andrew was stunned. No one had ever applauded him before. Not even his kids when they were young.

He stood up shyly, lost in the unfamiliarity of public appreciation. Pleased. Surprised. And overcome by this display of real affection.

For, though he had not known it — and perhaps still did not understand — he was, in human terms, the best man in The Class.

ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

When Commencement Day was over, The Class of ’58 returned to the Union one final time. Although champagne was served, the mood was curiously subdued.

After this reunion, they would probably never meet together as a class again — at least not in such numbers. They would spend the next decades reading obituaries of the men who had started out in 1954 as rivals and today were leaving Harvard as brothers.

This was the beginning of the end. They had met once more and just had time enough to learn that they liked one another.

And to say goodbye.