by Erich Segal
He in turn simply sat down and let the army lawnmower relandscape his locks.
Then it was time for the dog tags. The dispensing officer suggested that Jason consider changing his name to something more biblical and more patriotic.
“In Hellenistic times, when the Jews all aspired to be sophisticated Greeks, every Jacob changed his name to Jason. Think about that, soldier.”
After donning their khakis, they were led by their supervising corporal to the tents where they would be staying for the next three days.
Tuvia whispered to Jason, “You can tell who are kibbutzniks, and who are soft boys from the cities, just by the way they look at the sleeping bags. I think some of them expected feather beds.”
After dinner they strolled through the camp to look at the recruiting huts where they would be interviewed for special units. Over one shack a sign boasted THE BRAVE TO THE PARATROOPS.
“That’s where I’ll be at dawn tomorrow,” said Jason.
“You and a thousand others,” replied Tuvia, “including me. Everybody wants to earn his red beret. And stupid as it sounds, I’ve got a better chance than you.”
“Oh yes? What was your grade at the medical exam last month?”
“Ninety-one,” Tuvia answered proudly.
“Well, I got ninety-seven,” Jason retorted confidently. “That’s the highest they give. And when I asked them about the other three points, they said that Superman isn’t Jewish.”
“Listen,” Tuvia smiled, “even if he were, he couldn’t get into the Israeli Paratroops. Because he’s too old.”
By seven the next morning there were already long lines outside the huts of the elite brigades.
Jason passed his time by doing stretching exercises. At last he was admitted to the tent of the paratroop recruiting officer, a wiry, dark-haired man in his middle thirties.
His first words were hardly encouraging: “Beat it, Yankee. I admire your initiative, but you’re over the hill.”
“I’m only twenty-seven and I’ve got two years’ military experience.”
“Twenty-seven means ten years of you that I’ve already lost. Send in the next candidate.”
Jason folded his arms. “With due respect, I’m not leaving until I get a physical test.”
The interviewer stood and leaned his hands on the desk. “Listen, you’d drop dead if you even looked at our training course. Now do I have to throw you out myself?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Fine,” he replied, quickly reaching over and grasping Jason’s collar with a cross-armed grip.
Instinctively the ex-marine broke the hold with an upward motion of his clasped hands and then proceeded to pin the officer down onto his desk.
“Please sir,” said Jason with extreme politeness. “I beg you to reconsider.”
“All right,” he gasped, “you’ll get a try.”
After Jason had left, the interviewer sat rubbing his bruises and wondering whether he should call the Military Police.
No, he thought, let the arrogant bastard collapse on the hills.
“Next!” he shouted hoarsely.
Jason was walking slowly toward the test course when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw that it was Tuvia.
“Well,” Jason smiled, “I see you made it, too. Was he rough on you?”
“Not at all. He took one look at my papers, saw we were from the same kibbutz and signed me on. What was all that noise I heard in there?”
“Just two Jews settling a difference of opinion.” Jason grinned modestly.
It was only two kilometers but it was all uphill. The candidates had to run in groups of four—carrying telephone poles.
Tuvia contrived to be in the same quartet as Jason. But, as they were ascending the final incline, one of their number collapsed and fell to his knees. The other three men stopped dead in their tracks, barely able to hold the huge pole aloft.
“Come on,” Jason encouraged, “you can do it. Just four hundred meters to go.”
“I can’t,” gasped the recruit.
“You’ve got to,” Jason barked. “You’ll mess it up for the rest of us. On your goddamn feet!” His tone—more like that of a commanding officer—shocked the young boy into getting up again.
They completed the course and dropped their gigantic burden to the ground, where it sank a few inches into the mid-winter mud.
Jason and Tuvia, who had done most of the lifting for the other two, struggled for breath and massaged their arms.
One of the recruiting officers approached them. “Not bad,” he said. And then he pointed to the boy who’d fallen. “You’d better go back to the infantry, son. The others can stay on for further testing.”
He looked at Jason. “Okay, grandpa,” he grinned, “are you ready to go again?”
“Right away?” Jason asked, quickly masking his incredulity. “Uh, sure, as soon as you like. The same course?”
“Yes, the same course. The same log. But this time with me on top.”
At the end of two hours they were, like Gideon’s army, a small but select group.
“All right,” the officer barked. “If you thought today was difficult, I suggest you try another brigade. This was child’s play compared to what’s coming. So think it over. You may save yourself a nervous breakdown. Dismissed.”
Jason and Tuvia staggered back to their tent and flopped down onto their mattresses.
“You were the gutsiest one out there,” Tuvia said. “I saw the officers watching you. They were smiling like hell. You were so great that I’m going to share my most precious possession with you.”
Jason felt something being forced into his hand. He looked. It was half a bar of Swiss chocolate.
Twenty-four hours later, candidates for the Paratroop Brigade were loaded into a bus to be taken to the base at Tel Noff. During the journey, a man moved down the aisle and stopped in front of Jason. It was the paratroop recruiting officer.
“Hello, grandpa,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you’re still with us. But I warn you, you won’t stop running for the next six months.”
“That’s okay, sir,” Jason replied.
“And another thing, don’t call me ‘sir.’ My name is Zvi.” All Jason remembered of the next six months was that he even ran in his dreams.
On his first twenty-four-hour leave, he hitched a ride to Vered Ha-Galil. He was happy to see Eva, who understood that what he needed most was sleep.
When he finally awoke she had some news for him.
“Your father’s been phoning. I told him where you were, and he sounded distraught. He made me promise to have you call the moment I saw you.”
Jason got up, went to the kibbutz phone, and called his father collect.
“Look, son,” the elder Gilbert remonstrated, “I’ve been pretty patient with you, but this army business is going a bit too far. I want you to get back where you belong. That’s an order.”
“Father, I only take orders from my commanding officer. As far as being where I belong, that’s a personal matter.”
“What about your career? What about everything you trained for at Harvard?”
“Father, if Harvard taught me one thing, it was to find my own set of values. I feel needed here. I feel useful. I feel good. What the hell else is there in life?”
“Jason, I want you to promise me to see a psychiatrist.”
“I’ll tell you what, Dad. I’ll visit a shrink if you’ll visit Israel. Then we’ll all sit down and decide which of us is crazy.”
“All right, Jason, I don’t want to argue anymore. Just promise you’ll call whenever you can.”
“Sure, Dad. I promise. Love to Mom.”
“We miss you, son. We really miss you.”
“Me too, Dad,” he answered softly.
Jason was among the fifty percent who survived the ordeal and received their wings and red berets.
He immediately entered the advanced course, mastering techniques of helicopter
assaults and learning every inch of the country’s topography. Not from a map. During the next six months, he covered every inch of the Holy Land on foot. He began to enjoy sleeping in the open air.
After that he spent a week at the kibbutz, taking long walks with Eva, and writing a lengthy letter to his parents. Then he entered the Officers’ Candidate School near Petach Tikva. There, the only thing he learned that he did not already know was the Israeli principle of leadership, which could be summed up in two words: “Follow me.” Officers lead all missions from the front.
Eva and Yossi came to the graduation ceremony and saw Jason parade by the chief of staff and salute. Standing right next to the commander was Zvi, his original recruiting officer. As Jason passed, he was whispering something into the general’s ear.
“I guess the nickname’s going to stick,” Jason said when he joined them later. “Now everybody calls me saba—‘grandpa.’ ”
As they were driving back to the kibbutz, Yossi asked Jason how he intended to spend his ten days of freedom before active duty.
“I want to go back and look at every inch of ground I marched over,” he replied. “Only this time I want to do it with a car … and a guide.”
“The Bible is the best thing for that,” Yossi offered.
“I know,” said Jason. And then added shyly, “but I was hoping Eva would be my tour leader.”
In the days that followed, they covered four thousand years of history. From King Solomon’s mines deep in the Negev, up through the stark desert to Beersheba, home of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
As they drove out of Sodom—where the infamous profligacies described in Genesis were now replaced by massive fertilizer works, Jason quipped, “Don’t look back, Eva. Remember Lot’s wife.”
“I never look back,” she answered with a tiny smile.
From there it was north to Ein Gedi, the lowest point on earth, where they swam—or rather floated—in the buoyant salty Dead Sea.
And finally, Jerusalem, the city conquered by King David ten centuries before Christ, and still the spiritual capital of the world.
Its very stones exuded a kind of holiness that even Jason could somehow feel. They were not able to visit the remains of the holy Temple of Solomon as it was on the Jordanian side of the divided city.
“We’ll get to see it some day,” Eva said, “when there’s peace.”
“Will we live that long?” asked Jason.
“I intend to,” Eva replied. And then added, “And even if I don’t, my children will.”
During the entire journey, Jason and Eva had slept within a few feet of each other. First outdoors in the Negev, now in a cheap hostel. Yet, their only physical contact was when he helped her climb a rock or a monument.
Spending days and nights in such spiritual proximity had created a bond between them. And yet their friendship remained platonic.
Toward the end of their first day in Jerusalem, Jason told Eva he was going to the YMCA on King George Street to try to pick up a game of tennis. She said she would take a walk and meet him later for dinner.
It did not occur to her that he had not brought a racket along. She herself was too preoccupied with wanting to make a personal visit.
The afternoon shadows were lengthening as she entered the cemetery on Emek Refaim and walked slowly toward the area where her childhood friend was buried. A hundred yards from the grave she stopped short.
Jason was already there, standing motionless, his head bowed. Even from a distance she could see he was crying.
She turned and walked silently off, deferring her grief to his.
From the “Class Notes” section of the Harvard Alumni Bulletin of October 1965:
1958
Born: to Theodore Lambros and Sara Harrison Lambros (Radcliffe ’58), a son, Theodore Junior, on September 6, 1965. Lambros has recently been promoted to Assistant Professor of Classics at Harvard.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
October 12, 1965
Ironic, isn’t it? Just as Ted and Sarah, my Ideal Couple, are reaching new heights of marital bliss with the birth of their first child, I am becoming a statistic.
Much to the delight and profit of the legal profession, Faith and I are divorcing.
Although it isn’t in anger, it is with what you might call a lot of deeply held indifference. It seems that she never really thought that being married to me was “a fun thing.” Our lawyers are citing “irreconcilable differences,” but that’s because the fact that Faith finds being out here “an utter bore” is not sufficient grounds for divorce.
Actually, I can’t see how she could say her life in the country was dull. She was having so many affairs that her schedule must have bordered on the hectic.
When I first started to suspect that she was branching out into the realm of extramarital dalliance, I was worried what my friends would think. I shouldn’t have. She was having flings with almost all of them.
In some ways I wish I had never found any of this out. Because frankly, I didn’t realize anything was really wrong. I mean, our weekends were pleasant enough. And she seemed to be enjoying herself. But, unfortunately, one of my buddies at The Lunch Club thought it his duty as a fellow Harvardman to let me know, in so many words, that I was the laughing stock of southern Connecticut.
On that all-too-short train ride home, I tried to figure out a way to broach the whole thing with Faith. But when she met me at the door, I didn’t have the guts to confront her.
Hell, I kept telling myself, maybe it isn’t true. And so I went through the motions of drinks and dinner and going to bed. Still, I was awake all night, my heart pounding, wondering what to do.
Finally I understood what was behind my Hamlet-like hesitation. It was not really any doubt of her infidelity. I noticed in retrospect how cozy she had been with so many of the guys at the club during those weekend dances.
What was shaking me to the core was the fact that I knew I’d be losing the children.
I mean, no matter how promiscuous you prove the woman to be, the court inevitably gives her custody. And I can’t bear the thought of not being able to come back at night and hear little Andy shout, “Daddy’s home” as if I were king of the universe. Or to be there when Lizzie speaks her first sentence.
Not only have they given meaning to my life, but I’ve discovered that being a father is actually something I do pretty well.
I grew so desperate thinking about all this, that at around 4:00 A.M. I had the wild notion of grabbing both kids and rushing off in the car somewhere. But, of course, that wouldn’t have solved anything.
The next morning I called in sick (which was not a total lie), so I could have it all out with Faith. She didn’t deny anything. I actually think she wanted me to know. She certainly said a very quick “yes” when I asked her whether she wanted a divorce.
I inquired when it was exactly that she had discovered she didn’t love me anymore. She replied that she never actually had been in love with me but had, at one time, merely thought she was.
Now, having discovered that she was wrong, she deemed it best that we separate. I told her it was pretty irresponsible to have two kids with a guy she didn’t really like.
To which she retorted, “That’s what I can’t stand about you, Andrew. You’re such a sentimental drip.”
She asked if I wouldn’t mind packing a bag and moving out that morning, as she had a very busy day. I retorted that I damn well did mind, and I would stay until Andy got home from nursery school so I could talk to him. She told me to suit myself as long as I was out of the house by dinnertime.
As I mindlessly threw some shirts and ties together in a suitcase, I wondered how the hell you explain to a four-year-old why Daddy is going away. I know you’re not supposed to lie to kids. But saying, “Mummy doesn’t love me,” seemed hardly conducive to the health of his psyche.
By the time the nanny brought him home, I had cooked up a story about having to live in New York to be nearer my work. That he
shouldn’t worry, I would be out to see him and Lizzie every weekend. And I was sure we could still spend the summer together in Maine. Or at least part of it.
I watched the expression on his little face when I recounted this fiction. And I could see that he understood the truth. It broke my heart. Even at four, my son was disappointed that I couldn’t be totally honest with him.
“Can I come with you, Daddy?” he pleaded.
My entire soul ached to steal him. But I told him he’d miss school. And his friends. And now he had to be a good boy and take care of his baby sister.
He promised and—I suspect, to make it easier on me—didn’t cry as he watched me toss my bag into the car to drive to New York. He just stood at the doorway and quietly waved.
Kids are smarter than we think. Which is why we end up hurting them so much.
When the Pulitzer Prizes for 1967 were announced, there was particular joy in the Harvard University news office. While it was hardly novel that two Harvard men won awards in the same year, it was rare—if not a first—that two members of the same class were simultaneously honored.
This was a nice little tidbit they could get out over the wires. For the year’s prizewinner for poetry was Stuart Kingsley ’58, and the recipient for music the already much-honored Danny Rossi of the same rich vintage.
In fact, the two classmates had not known each other at college. Stuart Kingsley spent his years at Harvard as an almost-invisible figure in Adams House. His powerful verse in the Advocate occasionally elicited praise from the reviewers of the Crimson.
Indeed, until the morning he received the phone call from the Pulitzer Committee, Stuart had continued to live in relative obscurity. He and his wife, Nina (Bryn Mawr ’61), and their two kids lived in a high-ceilinged, slightly seedy apartment on Riverside Drive near Columbia, where he taught creative writing.
What excited Stu almost as much as the prize itself was the prospect of finally meeting his illustrious classmate at the award ceremony.
