The Class

by Erich Segal

  “No comment,” she pleaded.

  “You don’t have to, because it’s true. I am all of those things.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Cathy smiled. “I think that somewhere underneath that stuffed shirt of yours there beats the heart of Santa Claus.”

  “Thanks for the leap of faith,” said George.

  “Actually, I think the boss is that way too. Henry just likes to make tough noises. That’s why you two get on so well. It’s probably your European backgrounds.”

  “What do you know about my background?”

  “What everybody knows, I guess. I mean, we’re sworn to secrecy about government affairs, so what else can we use for gossip if not our colleagues’ private lives?”

  “But I don’t have a private life,” George retorted.

  “Too bad. You could probably make some girl extremely happy.”

  “I doubt it. I’m the least romantic person in Washington.”

  “But you’re probably the most brilliant. I’ve read your articles in Foreign Affairs and—though I disagree with most of your conclusions—they’re amazingly astute.”

  “I’m flattered.” He touched her on the shoulder lightly and inquired, “Have you got anyone to make you happy?”

  “Not at this moment. No.”

  “May I apply for the position?”

  “You may,” she smiled. “But then I’ll have to interview you.”

  “How about dinner Friday night?”

  She nodded. “That’s great. I’ll try to finish by nine. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine,” said George. “It’s somewhat early for me, but I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Kala Christouyina!”

  “Merry Christmas!”

  The Lambros clan had much to celebrate in December of 1968 as they all crowded around the festive table at the family home in Cambridge.

  One week earlier Ted had received the official word of his promotion to tenure—effective July first of next year. Unbelievably, the departmental vote had been unanimous.

  Indeed, Ted had been so conspicuously successful in his teaching that enrollments for his courses in the winter term were immense. And if this trend continued, the deanery might vote another junior slot so that the department could expand.

  Little Ted seemed totally adjusted to the change of schools and even started to excel at peewee hockey. To top it off, Sara had convinced Evelyn Ungar, Director of the Harvard University Press, to let her do some freelance classics editing by mail.

  Alumni contributions had reached new heights, due in no small part to the magnificent achievements of Canterbury’s undefeated football team. In the season finale, they crushed Dartmouth, their traditional rival, 33–0. Chris Jastrow was named first-string Ivy quarterback and looked likely to be drafted by the pros. Even Tony Thatcher was elevated to Dean of the College. So Ted had friends in high places.

  O tidings of comfort and joy!

  As soon as Ted and Sara returned to Windsor, they began to look for a house. And to take lessons in cross-country skiing. The omnipresent whiteness gave the campus an aura of enchantment.

  After a few weeks of searching, they found a solid old place on Barrington Road with a magnificent view of the mountains. It needed fixing up, but then, as Ted rationalized, this activity would be an outlet for some of his wife’s creative energies.

  For, though she never complained, slipping and sliding down icy winter paths was not exactly summa felicitas for Sara Lambros. She began to toy with the idea of graduate school, studying the Harvard catalog to work out courses she could squeeze into a weekly forty-eight-hour visit to Cambridge.

  Ted did not discourage her. Yet, at the same time, he did not disguise the fact that he felt her absence, even for so short a time, might have a negative effect on little Teddy.

  But then Sara was soon heavily involved in refurbishing the house.

  With all this nesting, hibernating, growing roots in snow and so forth, it was natural that the couple wanted to increase and multiply. (“Teddie would enjoy a little sister, don’t you think?”) And yet each month brought only disappointment.

  “Damn,” Sara would exclaim. “I’m really sorry, Ted.”

  “Hey look,” he would reply. “Maybe we just screwed up on the calculations. Stay loose. Be patient, honey.”

  “I will,” she’d answer, with a wan smile. “Just promise that you won’t lose patience with me.”

  He took her in his arms.

  “Listen, for another kid like Teddie, I’d gladly wait a dozen years.”

  His words were comforting, but with each succeeding lunar cycle seemed to be spoken with a little less conviction.

  When Ted wrote Cameron Wylie to report the good news of his tenure, the Regius Professor’s reply included more encouragement to visit Oxford.

  Though he had been but newly elevated, Ted was bold enough to ask the college for leave of absence. As he argued in his letter, a break from teaching would allow him to complete his research on Euripides. This, he subtly implied, would bring further glory to the college. The response of the executive committee that adjudicated his petition was quite unexpected.

  “Lambros,” said the provost, as they questioned him in camera, “we’re prepared to grant your rather premature petition, if you’ll agree to give us something in return.”

  “Sure, anything,” said Ted, secure in the awareness that, with tenure guaranteed, he could not be bounced even if he ultimately reneged.

  “If we let you go to Oxford,” said an elder member of the committee, “we’d expect on your return that you’d take on the chairmanship of classics—for at least five years.”

  Ted could hardly credit what he had heard. Were they actually requesting that he accept the leadership of his department as a favor? How quickly academic decorations now were rushing to be pinned upon his chest.

  And yet he knew enough not to reveal excessive eagerness.

  “Well, I’ll commit to three,” he answered with a smile. “And we can haggle after that.”

  “You’ve got a deal, Professor Lambros,” said the provost. “I think the college has a rising star in you.”

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  October 16, 1969

  Yesterday was “Moratorium Day.” All over the country there were protests against the war in Vietnam.

  No one was surprised that there were demonstrations in Washington, New York, and Berkeley. But what astonished a lot of hard-liners were the gatherings in such unlikely places as Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, and Denver.

  And what really staggered people was the antiwar march—of all places—on Wall Street.

  I worked as hard as hell trying to encourage people from the financial community to find the guts to join our noontime walk for peace. I spent the better part of a week making phone calls to all sorts of executives, trying to convince them that the war was wrong not only morally but economically. (The latter argument was very helpful.) I got a lot of curses and hang-ups, but I also got a lot of recruits.

  Still, in my wildest dreams, I never imagined that we’d amass a crowd of nearly ten thousand. Someone was quoted in today’s Times as saying it was the largest demonstration ever staged on the Street.

  It was a clear, sunny day, and as we strode along, most of us wearing black armbands, above us a skywriting plane spelled out “For Peace.” Our journey ended at old Trinity Church, whose pews were soon filled to overflow. There, one after another, nearly a hundred of the most important corporate executives in the country rose to the stone pulpit to take turns reciting the names of the boys killed in Southeast Asia.

  Among the readers were several former cabinet members and an amazing number of partners in the big investment banks. These guys, I think, were the bravest. Because the companies whose shares they traded were directly involved in the war.

  For some unknown reason—maybe my last name—I was asked to be one of the readers. It was an honor that made me sick at heart.

&n
bsp; Of course, today was the aftermath. My old competitive spirit took pleasure to see in the morning paper that our Wall Street rally had outdrawn the one in Central Park. I hope the jeans-and-guitar crowd hears about this and realizes that we gray-flannel guys have consciences too.

  Then I got to the office and the heat began. Most of the partners of Downs, Winship, were far from pleased by my activities. The day before, they had told me—some in not so many words—that I was an unpatriotic bastard, disloyal to my country as well as to them. I took their opprobium as politely as I could, figuring it would dissipate in a few days.

  But I didn’t expect the phone call that came at exactly nine-thirty. The blast of “You blathering idiot!” nearly blew my ear off. It was Dad.

  For the better part of twenty minutes he ranted on, barely pausing for breath. About what a fool I was. Did I not realize, he asked, what damage “shenanigans” like yesterday’s march could cause? Was I not literate enough to read that my own trust portfolio had several thousand shares of Oxyco, most of whose business relied on defense contracts?

  I couldn’t reply to any of this because he wouldn’t stop talking long enough to let me do so. But finally he asked me something that was not rhetorical.

  Did I not think I had disgraced the Eliot name?

  Usually he grinds me into the ground with this sort of question, but this time I had an answer.

  Was the Reverend Andrew Eliot disloyal to King George in 1776? Or did he follow the course his conscience dictated?

  This kind of stopped Dad in his tracks.

  He clearly could not think of how to react. So after a minute I reminded him, “That’s what the Revolution was all about, Dad.” I then politely said goodbye and hung up.

  It was the first time in my entire life that I stood up to him and had the last word.

  Andrew’s was far from an isolated case. The conflict in Vietnam was tearing America apart on every level. Hawks against doves, rich against poor, parents against their children.

  And it put a near-unbearable strain on the relations between George Keller and Catherine Fitzgerald.

  On October 15, 1969, she had dared to take the day off to join the Washington protest march. And when she saw George the next evening, Cathy had “forgotten” to remove the black armband from her coat.

  “Would madam care to check her wrap?” asked the maître d’ as he showed them to a table in Sans Souci.

  “Yes,” George quickly answered.

  “No, thank you,” she politely overruled him. “I’m still feeling a bit chilly.”

  And she kept the garment draped over her shoulder, with the offending sleeve as conspicuous as possible.

  “Cathy,” said George nervously. “Do you know what the hell you’re doing?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Do you? Look, if you want to date me, you have to take my principles too. They come with the package.”

  “But people are staring,” he whispered. “Important people.”

  “Don’t be paranoid, George. I only wish they were. This restaurant is closer to the seat of power than the White House gates.”

  He shook his head in consternation.

  “Can’t we even have a truce at the dinner table?”

  “I’m certainly not in favor of belligerence.” She smiled. “So I’ll compromise for once and put you out of your misery.” With that, she took the sleeve of her coat and slowly began to tear the armband from it.

  Anyone who had not noticed it before now knew it had been there. Especially since Cathy handed it across the table to George, with an innocent smile.

  “Here, Dr. Keller, use it as you see fit.”

  Now, having made her point, she considerately changed the conversation to an issue of mutual interest. Was Henry Kissinger going to marry Nancy Maginnes or not?

  “Why do I put up with you?” he asked, only half-jokingly, as they were driving home.

  “Because, to paraphrase one of your heroes, Senator Goldwater, ‘in your heart you know I’m right.’ ”

  “But it’s common knowledge that I don’t have a heart,” he replied.

  “I disagree. It’s well hidden, but it’s there. Which is why I put up with you.”

  Catherine Fitzgerald was not alone among the junior and senior members of the National Security Council who were trying to persuade the government to veer from what they regarded as a suicidal course.

  Naturally, being “Kissinger’s shadow,” George not only held opposing views but was actively involved in the escalation of hostilities. Nixon still wanted a victory, and his inner circle was determined to give him one. They would spare no effort. And no bombs.

  “Can’t you convince Henry that this is folly?” Cathy asked George one evening.

  “Can’t you forget about the war even when we’re in bed?” he retorted.

  “No, I can’t. Please George, I know he respects your opinion.”

  “I can’t make him end it just like that.”

  “You could try,” she said softly. And then added, “It’s going to get even worse, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do, too. But you just don’t trust me. Why? I’m not some undercover agent. Can’t you level with me?”

  “Cathy, I swear I don’t know any more than you do.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “What do you think?” he asked, kissing her again.

  • • •

  On April 20, 1970, President Nixon announced that 150,000 American troops would be withdrawn from South Vietnam the following spring. The doves took heart.

  Two days later, Nixon began a series of secret meetings with Kissinger and a few trusted aides. To discuss widening the war by invading neutral Cambodia, to destroy the enemy’s supply depots.

  George was proud to be one of those who Kissinger regarded as trustworthy enough to include in these strategy sessions. His pride increased when he realized that not even the Secretary of Defense was present.

  Nixon was in an angry mood. “The damn North Vietnamese are romping in Cambodia. We’ve got to move boldly to show them and the Russians that we can hang tough.”

  “Not everybody in the State Department would agree with you, Mr. President,” George dared to comment respectfully.

  “Jerks,” murmured Nixon.

  On Sunday, April 26, 1970, the President decided to commit thirty-two thousand American troops to the invasion of Cambodia. In his own words: “Knock them all out.” Plans were finalized with the military in Southeast Asia without the knowledge of several key cabinet members.

  That same afternoon, the National Security Council met to debate the merits of a possible Cambodian invasion. Only a few of them knew that the decision had already been made. The attack was set to begin forty-eight hours later.

  Kissinger “objectively” presented the argument to his assembled staff.

  “We have a very stark choice,” he began gravely. “We could permit North Vietnam to overrun Cambodia. Or we could commit troops and try to stop them. A successful attack might be a step toward achieving an honorable peace. Any comments?”

  Many speakers had deep misgivings about this potential escalation.

  Though she was by far the most junior person present, Catherine Fitzgerald bravely raised her hand. “With due respect, I think if the government goes ahead with this invasion, every campus in America will explode.”

  Kissinger answered her calmly. “Our decision must not be swayed by a group of rootless, self-indulgent adolescents with no sense of political realities.”

  Catherine could not stop herself from responding, “Isn’t that a bit harsh, Dr. Kissinger?”

  “Perhaps that was an overgeneralization. I beg your pardon, Miss Fitzgerald.”

  The debate grew more heated and even less conclusive.

  “I’m glad you called Henry on that antistudent remark,” George said, as they were sharing a bottle of white wine in her apartment that evening. “But I think if you weren’
t so pretty you wouldn’t have gotten away with it.”

  She brushed off the compliment and remarked, “You were certainly quiet today.”

  “I don’t think I had anything to add,” he replied evasively. “Besides, everybody knows where I stand.”

  “Yes. Right behind Kissinger. The point is, where does he stand?”

  “I don’t know,” George lied.

  Though the President did not announce it officially till the evening of April 30, the National Security Council was informed of the U.S. invasion of Cambodia on April 28.

  There was outrage among some of the members, who realized that the entire debate on Sunday had been nothing but a charade. Several senior members stormed into Henry’s office and immediately resigned.

  But the disaffection was even more widespread among the younger aides, some of whom cut off promising government careers to quit in protest.

  Catherine Fitzgerald was among the first to leave. And after delivering a strongly worded letter to one of Kissinger’s secretaries, she marched ten paces down the corridor to the office of George Keller.

  “You bastard!” she exploded before he had even shut the door. “You ruthless, heartless bastard! You have no respect for anything or anyone. You and that Svengali of yours trifle with human lives—”

  “Cathy, please calm down—”

  “No, let me finish, George. Because today I’m walking out of the White House and out of your life.”

  “Cathy, be reasonable. I’m not responsible—”

  “But you knew! You knew and you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me.”

  “Well, I was right, judging by this hysterical reaction,” George countered.

  “It isn’t hysterical—dammit. It’s human. In all your great assimilation of English words, George, did you ever really learn the meaning of that word?”

  Before he could reply, she disappeared.

  He sat motionless at his desk for several minutes, mulling over what had happened.

  I suppose it was inevitable, he rationalized. Anyway, we couldn’t have gone on much longer fighting our own private war.

  Maybe Henry’s right. Women should only be a hobby.