by Erich Segal
She looked up at him and said with quiet fervor, “Then your father has learned nothing from the history of his people.” And she quickly added, “I’m sorry if that sounded impolite.”
“That’s okay,” he answered sincerely. “But I grew up believing that America is special. A place where everyone really is equal—like it says in our Constitution.”
“Do you still believe that?”
“Sort of,” he said, temporarily forgetting some of the minor setbacks he’d experienced because of his heritage.
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Could you ever be elected President of the United States?”
He hesitated and then replied, “No.”
She smiled. “The difference is—you could be elected President of Israel.”
By the middle of August, Jason had a rudimentary knowledge of the Hebrew language. He also had a collection of increasingly urgent letters from his parents inquiring when exactly he intended to return. He could not reply because he was still unable to decipher his own emotions.
Did he, in fact, want to go back to law school at all? Did he want to leave Israel?
Finally, he came to a decision. He waited up past midnight, when there was a better chance of getting a clear connection to the States, and phoned his parents.
“Look,” he explained, trying to sound both cheerful and rational, “I think I’d like to hold off going back to school for a while.”
“Son,” his father pleaded, “you’ve never let me down before. Can’t you pull yourself together and get over this? You’ve got a brilliant life ahead of you.”
“Look, Dad,” he answered patiently, “I’m a grown-up now. I’m making decisions for myself.”
“Jason, this isn’t fair. I gave you the best of everything.”
“Dad, you did give me the best. But I’m not sure you gave me everything.”
When he hung up and walked out of the secretary’s office, he saw Eva seated at one of the long tables in the empty dining hall. He went over and sat down next to her.
“Want a lemonade?” she asked.
“I’d prefer a beer.”
She got him a bottle from the kitchen and sat down again. “So who won?”
“It was a split decision,” Jason replied. “Let’s just say we both lost.”
“Are you staying?”
“For the next year, anyway. I mean, I might as well finish learning the language, right? Maybe I’ll become the George Keller of Israel.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What is a George Keller?”
“A crazy Hungarian and my Harvard classmate.”
“From what you’ve told me so far, all your Harvard classmates are crazy.”
“That’s true,” he smiled back, “and the proof of it is that here I am, First Marshal of my class, potential U.S. senator, picking oranges in the north of a little Middle Eastern country.”
“On the contrary,” said Eva lightheartedly, “that proves you’re the only sane one.”
For the first time in his life Jason Gilbert became an academic grind.
With Eva’s help he found the most intensive Hebrew-teaching Ulpan in the country. It was at Tel Aviv University, intended for high-powered professionals who needed to master the language quickly.
There were four hours of instruction in the morning, a lunch break, and then another four in the afternoon. After which he would run on the university track, then go back to his room in Beit Brodetsky and study until he could keep awake no longer. The only rest he took was from nine to nine-thirty to watch Mabat, the news broadcast on television.
After a month and a half of this self-inflicted torture, he was heartened to find that he could actually understand what was happening in the outside world.
Sara Lambros was awakened by muffled sounds from the other room. She squinted sleepily at the bedside clock. It was just after 6:00 A.M.
“Ted, what the hell are you doing?”
“Getting dressed, honey. Sorry I disturbed you.”
“Do you know what the time is?”
“Yeah, I’d better hurry.”
“But where are you going at this hour?”
“The Square. Gotta get to the newsstand before any of the students are up.”
“What on earth for?”
Ted came back into the bedroom. He was unshaven, dressed sloppily in a grungy army-surplus jacket with a woolen cap.
“Are you going out like that? You look like a bum.”
“Great, Sara. That’s the whole point. It’s absolutely crucial that nobody recognizes me buying the Confy Guide.”
Sara sat up laughing.
“Is that it? Come on, Ted. You know everybody on the faculty reads it.”
“I know, I know. But have you ever actually seen one in a professor’s hands?”
“No. And I’ll be damned if I can figure out how they get a hold of it. I’ve a strong suspicion they might send their wives. And I’ll gladly shill for you during my lunch hour.”
“God, no, I can’t wait that long. I’ve gotta know the verdict. I’m going now.”
He kissed her quickly on the cheek and headed out. As he strode rapidly toward Harvard Square he began to sweat. After all, this was September, the first day of the new term. And he was dressed for the middle of winter.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the huge pile of shiny black-covered magazines. They had probably just been delivered. First he glanced left and right to make sure the coast was clear. Then he casually picked up a New York Times and swiftly snatched a copy of The Harvard Crimson Confidential Guide to Student Courses, immediately burying it in the paper. Having carried the exact change in his hand, he quickly paid and was off.
Unable to bear the tension of the journey home, he hastened around the kiosk into one of the telephone booths. He pulled out the magazine, his fingers nervously groping for the classics evaluations.
First he looked at Greek A. It was an auspicious start: “Dr. Lambros is a marvelous guide through the intricacies of this difficult language. He makes what could be a boring task an absolute delight.”
Then Latin 2A: “Students taking this course will be well advised to opt for Dr. Lambros’s section. He is arguably the liveliest teacher in the department.”
He closed the book, shoved it back into the Times, and let out an inner whoop of joy. By that afternoon everybody at Harvard would have—just as clandestinely—read those student critiques.
He was made in the shade. If there had been any doubt of his being promoted to assistant professor that spring, this would dispel it. All those hours he’d spent in preparation had not been in vain.
Wait till Sara sees this.
He left the phone booth and began a homeward sprint. Suddenly a familiar voice hailed him.
“Theodore.”
He skidded to a stop and whirled to see that it was John Finley, who—what rotten luck—was probably taking his early-morning constitutional.
“Uh—hello, Professor Finley. I—uh—was just jogging on the river to get fit for the new term.”
“Splendid, splendid,” the great man replied. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“Thanks, sir,” Ted blurted and whirled again to escape.
“Oh, and, Ted,” Finley called after him, “congratulations on your marvelous reviews.”
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
November 23, 1963
I don’t think I’ll ever be the same after yesterday. The newspapers are calling what happened in Dallas a “Greek tragedy,” but to me it’s an American tragedy. In fact, it’s something I feel so closely that I would almost call it a death in the family.
I think everybody—rich and poor, black and white, but especially those of us who had so identified with him because he was young and a Harvard man—is stunned by Jack Kennedy’s assassination.
Here we were just getting set for the upcoming Harvard-Yale game, half-expecting the President himse
lf to show up at the last minute in an army helicopter, and the next thing we know he’s dead.
I’m not alone in looking up to him as some kind of gallant knight. He had a kind of aura that changed the atmosphere of the whole country. He made us feel proud, Dynamic. Full of hope. It looked like the beginning of a new and glorious chapter in our history.
But what really shakes me is that he was killed for no apparent reason. Here was a guy whose ship had been torpedoed in the war and who not only survived but saved one of his crewmen as well. If he had died defending some principle, it might have at least made some sense.
I think from today my whole generation will change its outlook on life. I doubt if success can mean the same to any of them.
Look—Kennedy won every prize. The sweet fruition of an earthly crown. And yet they’ll bury him with fully half a life still left unlived.
Danny Rossi was in Tanglewood when he learned that Maria had given birth to a girl.
He was, of course, planning to be at her bedside and had merely flown off for twenty-four hours to conduct a single concert. But little Sylvie (they had discussed names in advance) decided to arrive early.
Mr. and Mrs. Pastore were already with Maria when Danny entered the hospital room bearing armfuls of flowers.
He exchanged hugs with them, kissed the glowing mother, whispered a few affectionate words in her ear, and hurried to the neonatal ward to peer through the large glass pane at his new daughter.
At first he could not find her. By an unconscious reflex his eyes kept glancing at the cots with blue blankets. At last a helpful nurse picked Sylvie up and brought her to the window. Now he could see traces of Maria—and of himself—in her features.
“Even better than creating a symphony, eh, Mr. Rossi?”
It was their obstetrician, who happened to be passing by on his rounds.
“Oh yes,” Danny quickly agreed as he shook the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for everything. Maria says you were great.”
“My pleasure. And don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
“What?”
“Having a daughter. Most men secretly want boys—at least the first time. But I know Sylvie will bring you a great deal of happiness.”
Danny thought about the doctor’s words and felt relieved. During the flight home he had been unable to suppress the tinges of disappointment that Maria had not produced a son. He had hoped for an heir to continue the musical tradition he was establishing. After all, there were so few world-class women pianists. And the only time a female got to lead musicians was when twirling a baton. He had not considered that a girl might become a prima ballerina.
Sylvie was christened three weeks later and the Rossis had two hundred guests to their home for a champagne brunch. The Philadelphia papers published large photographs of their orchestra’s popular associate director with his lovely wife and new child. Danny was exhilarated. Being a father seemed to elevate him to a new status.
Yet, something puzzled him. Maria didn’t want a nanny. The most she would agree to was a nurse for the first few weeks. After that, she wanted to raise Sylvie on her own.
“Danny, I’ve spent the last nine months reading books about child care. I don’t want some starched-apron biddy telling me I don’t know how to be a mother.”
“But you’ll be exhausted.”
“Not if you help a little.”
“Sure,” he smiled, “but I’ve got a helluva concert schedule.”
“You act as if you’re a slave to your own fate. I mean, you don’t have to make so many guest appearances all over the place, do you?”
How could he make her understand?
“Maria, darling, you know that old chestnut about music being an international language? Well, nowadays it’s an international business. I have to do a certain amount of traveling—just to keep up my contacts.”
Maria looked at him. Her face grew flushed.
“Danny, I thought marriage would change you. And then when it didn’t, I thought at least being a father would. Why the hell can’t you grow up?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why do you keep buzzing around the world like a bee from flower to flower? Do you still need that much adulation? If I’m not enough, there are plenty of local women to worship you.”
Danny did not feel compelled to justify the lifestyle of an artist.
“Maria, I assume this whole outburst is just the product of postpartum depression.”
Then, realizing he had wounded her, Danny came over and knelt by her side.
“Hey, that was shitty of me to say. Please forgive me. I really love you, Maria. Don’t you believe that?”
She nodded. “I just wish it were only me.”
Scarcely five months later, Maria was pregnant again. And the following year gave birth to a second daughter.
This time, Danny was in New York when she went into labor and made it to the hospital before the child arrived.
By January 1964 Jason had completed his six months of language training in the Ulpan. Having exercised the utmost discipline, using English only to write weekly letters to his parents, he found himself reasonably fluent in Hebrew.
The elder Gilberts had exerted frequent epistolary pressure on him to come home for Christmas. Jason had demurred, arguing that his course did not break for anything but the Jewish holidays in September. Now he once again avoided the possibility of returning to the States, even for a short visit, by saying that he was about to undertake “a very important job.”
He discussed it with Eva and Yossi—in Hebrew—on his first visit to the kibbutz since the summer.
“I’m going to join the army,” he announced.
“Good,” the kibbutz secretary exclaimed. “They can use an experienced man like you.”
Eva said nothing.
Yossi noticed the stern expression on her face and asked, “What’s the matter, aren’t you pleased with his decision?”
“I’m glad he’s staying,” she replied. “But I’ve a feeling he’s doing it for the wrong reason.”
“And what may that be?” Jason inquired.
“As a personal vendetta—to revenge Fanny’s death.”
“I don’t care what his reasons are,” Yossi retorted defensively. “Besides, doesn’t the Bible allow us an eye for an eye?”
“That’s primitive and you know it,” Eva countered. “It’s a metaphor, not to be taken literally.”
“The Arabs take it literally,” Yossi interposed.
“Hey, let’s cut the polemics. Do I have your blessings to enlist or not?” Jason asked.
“Not mine,” Eva stated adamantly.
“Well, you have mine,” Yossi countered, “and that of your whole kibbutz.”
“But I’m not a member of the kibbutz,” Jason replied.
“You will be after this week’s meeting,” the secretary responded. “That is, if you want to.”
“Yes. I want very much to belong.”
Though it was winter, Jason spent the next weeks in punishing, self-imposed, pre-basic training: getting up early to run in the freezing rain, lifting weights in the primitive kibbutz exercise room, and then running again before dinner.
He spent a lot of time talking to Eva, trying to convince her that his dedication was sincere. And pleading with her to make him less ignorant about the country’s history. Sometimes, at night, their conversation tentatively approached the personal.
He asked about her childhood. How it had been during the war with Fanny’s family. How she had been able to recover from the trauma of the Holocaust and the discovery that her parents had been slaughtered.
She told him how shattered she had been by the news of her parents’ fate. Still, she now felt she had been luckier than most. During the war, she had been blessed with the loving protection of the van der Post family. And afterward the establishment of Israel meant that her children would never suffer as she had.
Her talk of children led Jason to a
sk hesitantly why she was not married. At first she told him that like so many others, she had emerged from the Holocaust with her emotions deadened. But Jason sensed she was hiding something. And one night Eva told him the truth.
When she was in the army she had known a young officer named Mordechai. They had become very close. He was killed during his last month of active duty. And not by enemy fire, but during a training exercise with live ammunition.
“I’m going to come back,” Jason assured her, assuaging a fear she had not even dared articulate.
“Oh, I know you will,” she said, unconvincingly. “Nobody gets killed working in a clothing depot.”
“What makes you think I’m joining the Quartermaster Corps?” he asked.
“I told you,” she replied. “I’ve been in the army. Most recruits go in at eighteen. A man like you is considered practically senile. You’ll be lucky if they don’t make you check handbags at the cinemas.”
“I was a U.S. Marine,” he said, smiling. “I finished training with the fifth highest grade in my battalion. Want to make a bet?”
“You’d lose,” she smiled, “because you’re about to encounter the best thing in Israel—its army. And the very worst—its bureaucracy.”
On a raw February day, Jason Gilbert stepped off the bus at the Kelet, the army induction center just outside Tel Aviv. The camp was large and sprawling, consisting of corrugated-roofed huts, occasional eucalyptus trees, and a series of tents.
Up north at the local army office, he had enlisted for the mid-winter induction and passed a series of preliminary mental and medical tests.
Now he stood on line with another member of the kibbutz, eighteen-year-old Tuvia Ben-Ami, who was manifestly nervous. Not about the army as much as being away from home for the first time.
“Keep calm, Tuvi,” said Jason, pointing at the long line of adolescents waiting to be processed. “You’re going to find a lot of new friends in this kindergarten.”
When the recruits were assigned to small groups, the young kibbutznik practically held on to Jason’s belt to ensure they would not be separated.
Then they all went to the “butcher’s shop” to have their hair mercilessly sheared. For some of the urban Casanovas, it was the trauma of their lives. Jason had to laugh as he watched them suppress tears as their Elvis-like plumage dropped to the floor.
