by Erich Segal
“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.
e.e. cummings
CLASS OF 1915
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.
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
CLASS OF 1837
All sensible people are selfish.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
CLASS OF 1821
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.