“Then you must find something that will make them want you.”
“I was studying Soviet law. What good is that in America?”
“Aha—there you have it. You have had a thorough party education. You know Russian almost as a mother tongue. Tell them you want to use this knowledge in the struggle against world communism. Tell them you want to go to university to help in this fight.”
“Any university in particular?”
“In America, the two best are Harvard and Yale. But you’d better say you want to go to Harvard.”
“Why?”
Miki smiled. “Because for a Hungarian, ‘Yale’ is too hard to pronounce.”
They finally parted company on the Ringstrasse.
“Good luck, Georgie.”
“Miki, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”
Several moments later George discovered an envelope in his pocket. It contained Miki’s future address in Highland Park, Illinois. And twenty-five U.S. dollars.
The American Red Cross committee seemed fairly impressed with George’s academic background. But instead of receiving an air ticket, he was assigned to barracks on the outskirts of town. This wouldn’t do.
George approached a fresh-faced official wearing a Red Cross tag that identified him as:
ALBERT REDDING
English-Deutsch-Français
“Excuse me, Mr. Redding,” George said politely. “I would like to go to Harvard.”
“Who wouldn’t?” The young man laughed. “I got turned down flat. And I was third in my graduating class and editor of the paper. But don’t you worry, we’ve got lots of colleges. You’ll finish your studies, I’ll promise you that.”
But George had a trump card, one of the “key American phrases” Miki had taught him on their march from Eisenstadt to Vienna.
“Mr. Redding,” he said with a slight quaver in his voice, “I—I want to be in America … for Christmas.”
It worked! George could see from the expression on Redding’s face that he was moved by this lonely refugee’s yearning.
“You’re a good fella, you know that?” he said with genuine affection. “Look—give me your name and I’ll see what I can do.”
Gyorgy Kolozsdi spoke his freshly minted appellation for the first time. “It’s Keller. George Keller.”
“Well, George,” said Albert, “I can’t promise anything, but come back and see me tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And if there’s anything you need in the meantime—”
“There is,” George interrupted this gentle attempt to brush him off. “I understand it is possible to get messages on the Voice of America, yes?”
“Uh, sure. That’s not my department, but I could pass it on.” He withdrew a pad and pencil from his jacket pocket and George dictated.
“I would simply like it said please that … ‘Mr. Karl Marx has died.’ ”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, please.”
The young man looked up at George and inquired diffidently, “Say, don’t they know this behind the Iron Curtain?”
“It may shock some people,” George replied. “Anyway, thank you, mister. I will return tomorrow early.”
At seven-thirty the next morning, Albert Redding was in a state of shock.
“I dunno,” he muttered to George, waving a telegram in his left hand. “Maybe I should have been born Hungarian.”
“What is it?”
“I just do not believe this luck,” the young man repeated in dismay. “Listen to this: ‘To the Field Director, American Red Cross, Vienna—Harvard University has set up a committee to seek out and subsidize one or two qualified refugee students from Hungarian universities. We would appreciate complete details on any potential candidates. Please reply to me with fullest particulars. Signed, Zbigniew K. Brzezinski, Assistant Professor of Government.’ ”
Redding looked wide-eyed at George. “Do you believe that?”
“Who knows? But let us anyway quickly send this person a report about me.”
The response came within twenty-four hours. This young refugee was just the sort of candidate they were looking for. The rest was merely bureaucratic detail.
Eight days afterward, George Keller boarded a bus for Munich, where he was placed on an aircraft; twenty-six hours later, he alighted at Newark Airport, USA. He was not at all tired by the long journey. It had allowed him time to memorize more of his newest acquisition, a book called Thirty Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary.
Customs at the airport was perfunctory. It had to be. All George possessed were two books, three newspapers, and some clean underwear the Red Cross had given him. As he walked tentatively out of the Immigration area, a pale angular man with a crewcut held out his hand.
“George Keller?”
He nodded, still slightly unfamiliar with his new name.
“I’m Professor Brzezinski. Welcome to America. We’ve arranged for you to sleep tonight at the New York Harvard Club.”
Andrew first met George Keller after lunch in Master Finley’s office. Professor Brzezinski had just brought the young refugee over from South Station and made the introductions. He then gave Andrew two hundred dollars and asked him to take George around the Square and fit him out with all the basic clothes he’d need. They would have to be thorough, since the Hungarian didn’t even have pajamas. Lest Andrew get the wrong idea, Brzezinski cautioned, “We are on a tight budget, Mr. Eliot. So I think it wise you do most of your shopping at The Coop.”
As soon as they reached the Square, George began to read the billboards out loud, and then he eagerly asked, “Do I pronounce these words correctly, Andrew?”
He recited everything from slogans such as “Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco” to “Eight Minutes to Park Street” (on the electric sign over the subway). And then he would immediately try to use this verbiage in a sentence like, “What do you think, Andrew? Shall we buy some Lucky Strike? I’m told that it is fine tobacco and it is very good to smoke.” Or, “I hear the journey into Park Street, which is known to be the center of Boston city, is eight minutes only from this Harvard Square. Am I correct?”
He then listened with frenetic intensity to whatever nonsense Andrew replied, immediately asking for definitions of words he had not understood.
“Please, George,” Andrew begged at last, “I feel like a walking dictionary.”
Not that George wasn’t grateful. He kept effusively repeating things like, “Andrew, you’re a really cool cat.”
The preppie wondered where the refugee had picked up slang like that. But then concluded that it must be a translation from Hungarian.
Inside The Coop, George acted like a child in Santa’s storehouse. He had never seen such an array of merchandise in his whole life. What struck him most was the amazing brightness of the colors.
“Back in my home—my former home, I mean to say—all things were gray,” he commented. “Also a great big drag.”
Despite a gleam in his eyes that made Andrew think he wanted to buy everything in the place, when it came down to selecting the most trivial of items, George was enormously fastidious. They stood in the underwear department and engaged in a long dialectic as to whether the majority of Harvard men wore boxer shorts or “the most cool of them” preferred the jockey type (Every part of him had to be fashionably American.)
They ran the same investigative gamut when it came to socks and ties. Andrew steered him toward the reps, of course.
With notebooks and similar supplies, it was a good deal easier. George simply picked everything that had the college emblem on it (even the ballpoint pens, strictly a tourist item).
And yet he was a little leery when Andrew explained that Harvard types carried their stuff around in a green bookbag.
“Why green? Is not the official university color this winelike crimson?”
“Yeah,” Andrew sputtered, at a loss for words, “but—”
“Then what is th
e reason you make me buy green?”
“Hey, George, I honestly don’t know. It’s just an old tradition. I mean, all the cool people—”
“Oh, truthfully?”
“Even Dr. Pusey,” Andrew answered, hoping that the President of Harvard would not mind his invoking him in vain.
They spent an aeon in the textbook section. On the train, Brzezinski had helped George work out a schedule of courses that would suit someone with perfect Russian. Still, in addition to his class texts, he bought all sorts of English grammar books and dictionaries. Anything that would advance his crusade to conquer the language.
As they were lugging all their purchases back home to Eliot, George suddenly asked in an incongruous whisper, “We are alone now, Andrew, are we not?”
Dunster Street was empty, so the answer obviously was yes.
“Then we can speak the truth to one another?”
Andrew was totally confused. “I don’t understand you, George.”
“You can trust me to keep a secret, Andrew,” he continued, still half-whispering. “Are you the spy?”
“The what?”
“Please. I am not some naive newborn child. In every university the government has spies.”
“Not in America,” Andrew answered, trying to sound convincing. For, like someone in a Kafka story, he felt slightly guilty.
“George, do I look like a spy to you?”
“Of course not,” he said knowingly. “That is the biggest reason why I suspect you. Please—you won’t report this, yes?”
“Hey look,” Andrew protested, “I don’t report to anybody. I’m just a Harvard undergraduate.”
“Is your name really Andrew Eliot?”
“Of course. What do you find so strange in that?”
“Look here,” he reasoned, “the dwelling they assign me is called Eliot. You say that is your name also. Do you not find that curious coincidence?”
As patiently as possible, Andrew tried to explain how Harvard buildings got their names from notable alumni of a bygone age. And that his family had been pretty distinguished. Apparently that satisfied George for the moment. In fact, it seemed to lift his mood.
“Then you are an aristocrat?”
“You might say so,” Andrew answered candidly. And was pleasantly surprised to find that for some unfathomable reason, this seemed to make George happy.
Then came the horror show.
They had left Eliot at about half past one. It was close to five when they returned.
Fortunately, Andrew was the first to walk into the suite. Something made him glance toward the bedroom, where he saw in panic what they’d interrupted.
The day’s events had made him totally forget! It took Andrew half a second to react. First he ordered George to wait in the hall, then he sprinted like a demon to the bedroom door and slammed it shut.
At last, he turned around to see the refugee staring at him, his suspicion now inflamed to paranoia.
“Eliot, what is happening?”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing. Some friends of mine have just been … borrowing the place.”
As Andrew stood there like a sentry at the bedroom door, both men could hear frantic shuffling inside.
“I don’t believe you,” George stated angrily, a quaver in his voice. “And I wish to speak to your superiors immediately.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Keller, let me explain this, huh?”
He glanced at his brand-new Timex watch and, like a military officer, replied, “Okay, I give you five minutes. Then I phone Brzezinski to get me out of here.” He sat down and folded his arms.
Andrew didn’t know how to begin. “Look, George, there are these two friends of mine who—” At a loss for words, he stood there making futile gestures in the air.
“So far, no good,” Keller said disapprovingly. Then he glanced at his watch again. “Four minutes twenty and I call Brzezinski.”
Suddenly he looked up and his expression changed completely. He jumped to his feet and, with a broad smile, said, “Greetings, honey, I am George. What’s your name?”
Andrew whirled around and saw that Sara had emerged, a little red-faced.
“I’m Sara Harrison,” she said with as much friendly composure as she could muster under the circumstances. “Welcome to Harvard.”
George held out his hand. They shook. Then Ted appeared and introduced himself. George was miraculously transformed.
“And so we all are living here?” he asked with newfound optimism.
“Uh—not really,” Andrew stammered. “It’s just that Ted and Sara have no place to, you know—”
“Please,” George said gallantly, “there is no need to explain. We have these housing problems also in Hungary.”
“Hey,” Ted whispered to Andrew apologetically, “I’m sorry for this little mess-up. But you didn’t give us any warning.”
“No, no, you guys. It’s all my fault. I should have called you when I learned what train he would be coming on.”
“No sweat,” Ted reassured him. “But look, it’s getting late. I’ve got to walk Sara back and go to work. Thanks, Eliot, it was great while it lasted.”
As Sara kissed Andrew on the cheek and started out, he called, “Hey, you know nothing has to change. I mean, you’re welcome to continue … visiting.”
Sara stuck her head back in. “We’ll see.” She smiled. “But I think you’ve got your hands full.”
The Eliot House dining hall was the one selected to stay open through the Christmas holidays. To offer nourishment—a flattering term for Central Kitchen fare—to the poor souls who had to stay in Cambridge during the vacation.
These were not the usual men of the house, but rather a potpourri of undergraduates from all over the campus. Many were seniors (of the Class of ’57) feverishly working on their honors dissertations. Some were freshmen who lived too far from home and didn’t have the wherewithal even for bus fare.
Still, a few were genuine Eliot men, each of whom had a special reason for remaining in arctic Cambridge over Christmas.
Danny Rossi was one of them. He welcomed the liberation from his classwork to plunge fully into composing Arcadia. The place was quiet. Not a single raucous shout rose from the snowy courtyard to destroy his concentration. For, wanting to impress Maria, he’d rashly promised that he’d have the whole score done by New Year’s Eve.
He worked demonically from dawn to late at night. One theme came magically—the plaintive love song of the shepherds. It was a melody born of his longing for Maria. The rest took sweat to write but gradually the staves were filled.
It was, he thought, the best stuff he had ever done.
This dedication was convenient for another reason. His mother’s recent letters had been urging him to come home for the holidays and make peace. Yet, his important first commission gave him a legitimate excuse to continue to avoid facing his father.
Danny spent his Yuletide locked up, psychologically as well as physically. For his obsession with this new ballet helped him to shut out all emotion: the natural desire to spend Christmas with his family, especially his mother. And those feelings for Maria. So lovely. So desirable. So completely unattainable.
Hell, he tried to rationalize, I’ll put the pain down on the music paper. Passion can inspire art. But, in this case, his attempt to sublimate passion merely inspired more passion.
George Keller had also chosen to remain in Cambridge. Though Andrew Eliot had kindly invited him to his home, George preferred to stay on monastically and make his rapidly improving English even better.
On Christmas Eve, the dining hall came up with something tasting almost like roast turkey. George Keller did not notice. He sat at the far end of a rectangular table, devouring a vocabulary book. At the other end, his classmate Danny Rossi was intently reading over what he had composed that day.
They were too engrossed to notice each other. Or the fact that each of them was lonely.
Close to midnight, the subconsciou
s child in Danny Rossi reemerged. He put away his score and for some atavistic reason began to improvise Christmas carols on the keyboard.
Since his window had been slightly open, the music floated gently out across the darkened courtyard where it could be heard by George Keller, who was, of course, still madly studying.
The refugee leaned back and closed his eyes. Even in Hungary, he had always been affected by the melody of “Silent Night.” Now, a million miles away, he harkened to it echoing faintly in the icy Cambridge air.
And for a moment he remembered things that he had hoped had been suppressed forever.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
January 18, 1957
This George Keller is driving me insane. Maybe it’s the immigrant mentality. In fact, I’m working up a theory that Americans are driven by ambition in direct proportion to how recently they’ve set foot on these shores.
I mean, I once thought Lambros had a bullet up his ass. But he was born here. It was his father’s generation that came over on the boat. But nothing, absolutely nothing, tops the frenzied drive of this Hungarian, barely two months in America. I mean, if he were a locomotive he’d explode, he’s stoking his fire so hot.
When I wake up at what for me is the ungodly hour of 8:00 A.M., he’s already hard at work, having long since eaten breakfast. Almost every day he tells me with a kind of gleeful pride that he was first man in the dining hall. (Compare this to Newall, who revels in the distinction of never once having gotten up for breakfast in his entire Harvard career.)
George borrowed fifty bucks from me (which he’ll pay back as soon as his scholarship money comes through), and bought a portable recorder he takes to every class.
Now in the afternoons he plays back the lectures—and sometimes not just once—till he practically knows them by heart. Lots are in Russian. Which may be great for him, but makes me feel like I’m suddenly living in the Kremlin. Needless to say, George has the suite pretty much to himself during the days.
We did have a little problem about Ted and Sara. While George was very understanding of their need for a place to be alone, he insisted that he wouldn’t mind if they used my bedroom as long as he could keep studying in the living room.