by Erich Segal
Then, slowly and hesitantly at first, Danny began to tell me the real reason he had given up the piano. He was suffering from a physical handicap. Neurological damage that made him unable to control his left hand.
Just hearing this made me sick at heart. I could scarcely bear to listen.
But Danny tried to make light of it. He joked that their contribution was not really unselfish at all. In fact it was kind of a bet he was placing that some smart Harvard researcher would come up with a cure for his condition “before our Fiftieth reunion.” Then he promised to entertain The Class at the keyboard for as long as they wanted to listen.
I said I’d be in the front row for that concert. Then I didn’t know what else to say.
As I got up to take my leave, Maria walked me to the door, touched my shoulder and murmured, “Andrew, thank you for being such a good person.”
Downstairs, I found a private phone and called Frank Harvey, our Chairman.
I told him I had good news and bad news. The bad was that Rossi didn’t come through. The good was that I ran into a classmate in the hotel bar who was willing to cough up a million bucks for the Med School—anonymously.
At first Frank didn’t believe me. He kept asking if this character was sober. And if I was sober.
When I convinced him that a banker’s check would be in his hands before the end of the week, he almost did somersaults over the phone.
That put our class gift over the eight-million mark. And, as he put it, made me “the hero of the day.”
I hung up and ambled homeward thinking, I’m no hero. Danny is the guy with guts. He needs courage just to wake up every morning and face what’s happened to him.
I had always looked at him as the exception to the rule. But now I realize that everybody pays a price for his success.
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
June 9, 1983
I had to leave early to get Lizzie to the five-o’clock train. I was happy she had been there to see her dad acknowledged—deservedly or not—as someone whom the guys respected.
It had been the best day of my life. That is, until I got back to my apartment.
There were two stern-looking characters in drab suits waiting outside my door. The taller of them asked politely if I was Andrew Eliot.
As I nodded, both reached in their pockets and produced IDs. They were from the Secret Service.
The minute we got inside, they started firing questions in subdued tones.
Did I know George Keller?
Of course.
When had I seen him last?
Day before yesterday at the airport.
How would I describe his mood?
He seemed troubled, a bit depressed.
Any particular reason that I knew of?
There was, of course, his divorce. They knew about that. Then there was the matter of the guy at his lecture attacking him.
My heart was starting to beat fast. I asked them what the hell was going on.
They handed me a letter. It read:
My dear Andrew,
You have always been so kind to me that I dare to ask you to serve as my executor.
I have a bank account and some stocks and bonds. Please see that these get to my sister in Hungary.
You are all the good things that I never was or could be. Thanks.
George
The two agents then sat me down and explained that I was about to be privy to a government secret.
George had committed suicide last night.
I was stunned. And instantly felt guilty for letting him get on that plane.
They emphasized that his death would be announced as having occurred from natural causes. Not merely to avoid government scandal, but out of respect for a loyal public servant. Weighed down by the pressures of his job, George had probably succumbed to despair in a moment of weakness.
Funeral arrangements were being made. By a special Executive order George would be buried in Arlington National Cemetery (they emphasized what a rare honor this was for a civilian). Did I know anyone who should be informed?
What could I say? They probably should contact his ex-wife. She might want to attend. I could think of no one else.
They suggested that it might be better if I were the one to tell Cathy and gave me her number in New York.
They left me to my anguish and confusion. I finally gathered the courage to pick up the phone.
Cathy seemed very pleased to hear my voice. Until I got around to the reason I was calling. Without my telling her she guessed that it had been by his own hand.
She was silent for a moment. And then apologized for not being able to cry. She said she had always been afraid he might do something like this. And in a very soft voice she thanked me for having tried to be George’s friend.
All I could answer was that I wished I’d been a better friend.
She replied that she wished she could have been a better wife. But it was impossible for George to accept love. From anyone.
I told her about his being buried at Arlington, which made him a sort of American hero. That probably would have meant a great deal to George. She agreed, but said the price was too high.
Then I asked if she wanted to attend the funeral. She said yes, but sounded anxious. I told her that, if she wanted, I’d fly to New York so we could travel to Washington together. She said she really would like that. I was glad she accepted. I would need her company too.
After we hung up I asked myself why the hell George had done it. He had so much to
live for.
I guess he just didn’t know how to be happy.
That’s the one thing they can’t teach you at Harvard.
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.
For Karen and Francesca
The class in my life
A special preview of
ACTS OF FAITH
by Erich Segal
Available now wherever
Bantam Books are sold.
Master storyteller Erich Segal has enthralled millions of readers worldwide with such record-breaking and critically acclaimed bestsellers as Love Story and more recently The Class and Doctors. Now, in this eagerly awaited new novel, Erich Segal brings us his most ambitious work to date.
Acts of Faith is a spellbinding story of three extraordinary people whose lives are forever changed when sacred and secular worlds collide.
Timothy Hogan, abandoned at birth, raised in a stormy Irish household, seems headed for a life of delinquency—until a chance confrontation sets him on the road to the priesthood and a spectacular rise in the Roman Catholic hierarchy.
Daniel Luria, the only son of Rabbi Moses Luria, is destined to succeed his father as leader of the community of Orthodox Jews who have made their home in a tiny corner of Brooklyn. He is also destined to break his father’s heart.
Deborah Luria, his sister, has been raised to be docile and dutiful—the perfect rabbi’s wife. But she too will defy her father and venture into a world the patriarch would never dare imagine.
Erich Segal’s Acts of Faith is a towering novel of piety, passion, and politics that explores the mysteries of religious faith to penetrate the ultimate mystery of the human heart.
Now, for a special preview of Acts of Faith, please see the next page.
Daniel
I was baptized in blood. My own blood. This is not a Jewish custom. It is merely a fact of history.
The covenant my people made with God requires that we affirm our allegiance to Him twice each day. And lest any of us forget we are unique, God created gentiles everywhere who constantly remind us.
In my case, the Father of the Universe placed an Irish Catholic neighborhood midway between my school and home. Thus at regular intervals, as I was walking to or from my yeshiva, the Christian Soldiers from St. Gregory’s would catch sight of me and hurl verbal abuse in my direction.
“Kike!”
“Sheenie!”
“Christ-killer!”
I could have run when they were still several dozen yards away. But then I’d have to drop my books—my prayer book, my sacred Bible. And that would have been a desecration.
So I would stand there, book-laden and afraid to move as they swaggered up to me, pointed at my skullcap, and continued their ritual.
“Look at this guy—how come he’s wearin’ a hat and it ain’t even winter?”
“He’s a Hebe. They need their hats to hide their horns!”
I just stood there, helpless, as they encircled me and started shoving.
Then came the punches, raining from all sides, hammering my nose and lips, reverberating in my skull. After all these years, I can still feel the pounding and taste the blood.
With time I learned a few defensive tactics. For example, it is better if the victim in a brawl does not fall down (lean against a wall, if possible). For if you are prostrate, your attacker can employ his feet as well.
Furthermore, big books can serve as shields. Not only does the Talmud hold the most important comments on religious matters—it is large enough to fend off any kick aimed at the groin.
Sometimes I think my mother lived her life waiting behind the front door, for no matter how quietly I stole into the house after one of those encounters, she would be there waiting.
“Danny, my little boy—what’s happened?”
“It’s nothing, Mama. I just fell.”
“And you expect me to believe that? It’s that bunch of Irish cossacks from the church again, huh? Do you know the names of those hooligans?”
“No.”
I lied, of course. I could remember every pimple on the sneering face of Ed McGee, whose father ran the local tavern. I had heard that he was training for the Golden Gloves or something. Maybe he was only using me for practice.
“Tomorrow I’m going to have a talk with their superior mother or whatever she’s called.”
“C’mon, Ma, what can you possibly say?”
“I’ll ask her how they would have treated Christ himself. She could remind those boys that Jesus was a rabbi.”
All right, Mama, I thought to myself, have it your way. They’ll just come at me with baseball bats next time.
I was born a prince—the only son of Rav Moses Luria, monarch in our special kingdom of believers. My family had come to America from Silcz, a small town in Carpathia, which at different times had been a part of Hungary, then Austria, then Czechoslovakia. External rulers changed, yet one thing remained unaltered: Silcz was the home of the B’nai Simcha—“Sons of Joy”—and every generation saw a Luria honored by the title, Silczer Rebbe.
Several months before the Nazis would have annihilated his own community, my father led his flock to yet another Promised Land—America. Here they recreated Silcz in a tiny corner of Brooklyn.
The members of his congregation had no problems dealing with the customs of this new land. They simply ignored them and continued to live as they had for centuries. The frontiers of their world did not extend beyond an easy Sabbath walking distance from the pulpit of their spiritual leader.
They dressed as always in lengthy coats of solemn black, with beaver hats during the week and round shtreimels trimmed with fur on festive days. We boys wore black fedoras on the Sabbath, grew sideburns down in ringlets, and looked forward to the day when we could also grow a beard.
Some of our clean-shaven and assimilated coreligionists felt embarrassed to have us in their midst: we looked so odd—so conspicuously Jewish. You’d hear them mutter, “Frummers,” under their breaths. And while the word simply means orthodox, their tone betrayed their scorn.
My mother, Rachel, was my father’s second wife. Chava, his first, had borne him only daughters—two of them, Malka and Rena. Then she died in childbirth, and the little boy she had been carrying survived her by a mere four days.
Toward the end of the prescribed eleven months of mourning, a few of Father’s closest friends discreetly started to suggest he seek another wife. Not only for dynastic reasons, but because the Lord decrees in Genesis that “it is not good that the man should be alone.”
Thus it was that Rabbi Moses Luria wed my mother, Rachel, who was twenty years his junior, and the daughter of a learned Vilna scholar who was deeply honored by Rav Luria’s choice.
Within twelve months a child was born to them. Yet another daughter—Deborah, my older sister. But to his great joy I was conceived in the following year. My first cry of life was regarded as a direct response to a pious man’s most fervent prayers.
The next generation was assured that the golden chain would not be broken. There would be another Silczer Rebbe. To lead, to teach, to comfort. And, most important, to be an intermediary between his followers and God.
It’s bad enough to be an only son—to see your sisters treated almost as invisible because they aren’t brothers. Yet, the hardest part for me was knowing how much and how long I had been prayed for. From the beginning, I could sense the burden of my father’s expectations.
I recall my very first day of kindergarten. I
was the only child whose father took him. And when he kissed me at the schoolroom door, I could feel tears upon his cheeks as well.
I was too young to realize that this was an omen.
How could I have known that I would someday cause him to shed far more bitter tears?
Timothy
Tim Hogan was born angry.
And with good reason. He was an orphan with two living parents.
His father, Eamonn, a merchant seaman, had returned from a long voyage to discover his wife pregnant. Yet Margaret Hogan swore by all the saints that no mortal man had touched her.
She began to hallucinate, babbling to the world that she had been blessed by a visit from a holy spirit. Her outraged husband simply sailed away. Rumor had it that he found another “wife” in Rio de Janeiro, by whom he had five “mortal” children.
As Margaret’s condition worsened, the pastor at St. Gregory’s arranged for her to be given shelter in a sanitarium run by the Sisters of the Resurrection in upper New York State.
At first, it seemed that Timothy, flaxen-haired and cherubic with his mother’s porcelain blue eyes, was also destined for an institution. His aunt, Cassie Delaney, already burdened with three daughters, did not think it possible to feed another mouth on what a New York cop brought home each week.
Besides, Tim had arrived just after she and Tuck had decided, despite the dictates of their religion, to have no more children. She was already exhausted from years of sleepless nights in the penitentiary of diaper-changing.
Tuck overruled her.
“Margaret’s your own flesh and blood. We can’t just leave the lad with no one.”
From the moment he entered their lives, Tim’s three sisters did not disguise their hostility. He reciprocated fiercely. As soon as he could lift an object, he would try to strike them with it. His trio of antagonists never exhausted their plans for persecution.
On one occasion, Aunt Cassie walked in just in time to stop them from pushing three-year-old Tim out the bedroom window.
