The Class

The week officially began with a Thanksgiving and Memorial Service at nine-thirty the next morning.

  Considering how few had attended the Baccalaureate Service at graduation in 1958, it was remarkable how many were present in Mem. Church that balmy morning of June 6, 1983.

  They all had studied the immense red book, the glorious compendium of their collective achievements. But the entries that had captured everyone’s imagination were the dead. Eminence is no protection in a highway accident. Cancer does not hold a Harvard graduate in awe.

  Perhaps they knew that this was the reason they had really come. To be with classmates once again at the midway point in their lives. And though the service was to honor the departed, in so doing, they were all acknowledging their own mortality.

  The church was filled only with members of The Class, their families, and—their survivors. Classmates led the service.

  At one point the Reverend Lyle Guttu ’58 offered some brief comments.

  He emphasized that fear of death is universal. But what lies beneath that fear is the terror of insignificance. Of not being remembered, not counting.

  “That is why we are gathered, for ourselves, as much as any other. That is why this building is here, to honor the sacrifice of Harvard sons who died in struggles to defend the dignity of man.”

  He then commented on some of the deaths. One classmate had drowned while attempting to save a child. Another had been executed for leading an abortive revolt against the oppressive regime in Haiti. Yet another gave up his life to save more than a hundred hostages.

  And finally he stated, “Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living—or that either can be fatal? We are here to remember our classmates. They are not nameless. They are known. They were ours, and shall ever be.”

  At this point, another member of The Class rose to read the names of the departed.

  As he finished, the bells of Memorial Church began to toll. Once for every name. The dull knelling profoundly shook those standing in the vast white-paneled church.

  Forty years of vibrant life reduced to the reverberation of a single bell.

  We will all come to this.

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  June 6, 1983

  I had been looking forward to the Memorial Service with fear and trembling. I didn’t think I would be able to keep my emotions in check. And I’m sure I couldn’t have, if I hadn’t had the responsibility of taking care of a young son. Not my own, of course (I don’t have one anymore).

  The handsome, blond sixteen-year-old standing next to me was Jason’s oldest boy, Joshua, whom I’d invited to be present when we honored his father.

  While all about him tears were unashamedly flowing, he remained straight-backed and impassive. In fact, the only time he even opened his mouth was for the first hymn, “The God of Abraham Praise.”

  I was amazed that he even knew the tune. Although I realized why, as soon as I caught the sound of his softly singing voice. While all of us were chanting the church text, he was singing it—in Hebrew. He told me later that it was a traditional Jewish prayer that, I guess, we Christians had appropriated.

  He asked if this was especially for his father.

  I answered that it was all for his father. Which, at least from my standpoint, was true.

  To add to my aching sadness, I could see some classmates looking at Josh and thinking he was probably my son.

  Afterward, I introduced him to as many of Jason’s buddies as I could find (there were so many). Every one of them had something wonderful to say to him about his father. I could see that this moved him deeply, and he was struggling manfully not to break down.

  As I put him on the train to visit his grandparents, I told him I hoped that he’d come back to Boston someday.

  He replied that it was his dream to go to Harvard—like his father. But, of course, he had to do his army service first.

  I waited till the train pulled out, thinking how proud Jason would be of the way his son was growing up.

  Then I went and had a cup of coffee, since I had to meet another train in half an hour. My date for the reunion.

  Just as everyone predicted, this occasion is incredibly emotional—and it had only just begun. Thank heavens I had someone I love to share it with. And who loves me, I think.

  Ever since Andy left “the Western world,” Lizzie and I have grown much closer. Somewhere along the line she realized I was trying hard as hell to be a loving father. And she started to reciprocate.

  Now and then I take her to a football game. Sometimes I drive down to her school—right in the middle of the week—and we go out for a good dinner. She tells me her problems. About the “creepy” men who love her and the “groovy” ones she’s trying to attract.

  I started offering advice. And, to my astonishment, she likes it.

  I knew that something good was happening when suddenly her grades, which had been good but not fantastic, started really picking up. In fact, she’s gotten acceptances from all the colleges she applied to: Swarthmore, Yale—and Harvard.

  Who knows, maybe she’ll opt to go to Cambridge, even with her father on the scene. And generations of invisible ancestors looking down. My Lizzie is a plucky girl and I’m really proud of her.

  It’s nice to know I’ll have her hand to hold.

  Cynics might argue that the Reunion Memorial Service was merely to remind Harvard men that, although they are mortal, the University abideth forever.

  At any rate, the rest of the week was dedicated to the impressive demonstration of how much Harvard had done for them. And—with their financial munificence—would be doing for the ages to come.

  First, President Derek Bok and Dean Theodore Lambros ’58 led a symposium, “The Future of Harvard.” Their message was that while most American universities were preparing for the twenty-first century, Harvard, with its greater vision, was already looking forward to the twenty-second.

  Indeed, in one of his many witty responses during the question period, Dean Lambros said that it would not be Harvard’s policy “to grant tenure to computers.”

  The alumni were suitably impressed. And—especially those with teenage children about to apply to college—extremely deferential.

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  June 6, 1983

  You’d never recognize Ted Lambros. He’s preppier than I am. And boy, has he got self-assurance when he speaks. But he’s got every reason to be confident. After all, he’s really made it in the world.

  His new wife, Abbie, is a terrific gal. I ought to know, since she’s a distant relative. In fact, she was working with me on the Harvard Fund Drive when Ted met her.

  Since she was, to put it politely, in the suburbs of forty, our family had kind of given up on Ab’s chances of settling down. But Lambros really swept her off her feet. Now they’re living in a big house on Brattle Street.

  And I think they’ll be good for each other. I mean, Ab’s a great hostess. They have everybody who’s anybody in Boston at their parties.

  Pretty reliable sources have informed me that Ted recently rejected an offer to become the president of Princeton. This leads me to suspect that Harvard’s given him some heavy hints that he might ultimately move into our own presidential mansion. The thought of it excites me almost as much as I expect it does Ted.

  And it’s amazing how obsequious some of the reunion guys were to this man who, in our college days, they scarcely knew was in The Class.

  I’ve got to make this claim for myself, and my diaries bear me out.

  I always knew that Lambros was a winner.

  George Keller’s lecture on foreign policy filled the amphitheater to overflowing.

  In the space of less than forty-five minutes, he made pithy observations on all the troubled areas of international relations. From nuclear disarmament to whom the White House backed in Central America and why. From the labyrinthine mysteries of Middle Eastern governments’
behavior to a brief character analysis of the new Kremlin leaders.

  It was a masterful, pointillistic painting of the whole world’s politics.

  During the question period, one of the alumni asked George what he thought of Tom Leighton’s new book, The Prince of Darkness, which makes allegations about Henry Kissinger’s ruthlessness in matters like the Cambodia invasion, Nixon’s pardon, and even the wiretapping of his own staff.

  George looked visibly outraged at the mention of this attack on the man to whom he owed so much. And he rose to the occasion with an eloquent defense of his old mentor.

  As The Class began to applaud, someone in the back shouted, “What about the Vietnam war, Dr. Keller?”

  “What about it, sir?” George answered quietly.

  “How can you and Kissinger justify the fact that you strung out those negotiations at the cost of so many lives on both sides?”

  He responded calmly, “That isn’t true. Our aim in Paris was to bring the conflict to the speediest possible conclusion—to save lives.”

  But the man was not satisfied.

  “What about the Christmas saturation bombing when you destroyed targets like the Bach Mai hospital?”

  The audience began to grow distinctly uncomfortable. George remained unruffled.

  “Sir, that bombing was necessary and, I think, justified because it proved to North Vietnam that we meant business. Hitting that hospital was just a tragic mistake.”

  “But don’t you think the whole damn war was a mistake?”

  George seemed more puzzled than provoked. “I don’t understand why you pose your questions with such urgency when we’re talking of events that are now history.”

  Then the man asked, “Do you have children, Dr. Keller?”

  “No,” George replied.

  “Well, maybe if you did, like me, and if your only son was killed in Southeast Asia—for reasons that you still can’t understand—even ten years later you’d ask these sorts of questions too.”

  There was a collective gasp in the auditorium.

  George was silent for a moment and then answered softly.

  “I’m truly sorry for engaging in dialectic on a subject that’s so real a tragedy for you. I think I speak for our whole class in saying that we in some small way share your loss.”

  “What about the guilt, Dr. Keller? Can you really sleep at night with all that on your conscience?”

  George remained poised. Then, after a few minutes of silence, said impassively, “I think we should end the seminar here.”

  There was no applause. People were too upset.

  The man who’d asked the questions simply walked away, his arm around his wife.

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  June 7, 1983

  George’s schedule was so tight that I had to rush him straight to the airport to make the five o’clock back to Washington. He sat mutely as I zoomed down Storrow Drive. He had clearly been shell-shocked by that guy’s explosion.

  I tried to buck him up by telling him how brilliant his whole lecture was. That didn’t seem to comfort him.

  I had driven so fast that we arrived a little early, so we had a few moments to chat in the American Airlines VIP lounge. George ordered a double scotch for each of us. When he saw that I didn’t touch my drink, he appropriated it as well. He was incredibly depressed.

  In a curious way, I felt slightly responsible. Because I had lured him up to the reunion with the promise of adulation. And here he was going away with the dispiriting impression that “the people at Harvard still hate me.” I tried to reassure him that the opposite was true. His classmates all looked up to him. I, for one, particularly admired him.

  That made him laugh bitterly and reply that lots of people admired him, but nobody really liked him. Again, I can remember his exact words: “I have a talent for success maybe, but not for friendship.”

  I suggested that perhaps he was still feeling bruised from the divorce. He disagreed. And, after ordering yet another scotch, he told me that he felt his marriage had failed for the same reasons he couldn’t make friends at college. He was too selfish.

  At that point he looked at his watch, stood up—without apparent difficulty—and we walked together toward his flight. We stood at the gate for a few seconds before he started back to where he helped rule the world. He then said something that will haunt me for the rest of my life: “Andrew, when you write about me in that diary of yours—never say that I’m a lucky man.”

  It is a tradition of Harvard reunions that the outstanding musician of The Class is invited to conduct at least a portion of a Boston Pops’ concert. In 1964, for example, Leonard Bernstein ’39 conducted an evening of his own music. In 1983, the same honor was accorded to Daniel Rossi ’58.

  The huge organ pipes above the stage of Symphony Hall were festively decked with pink and silver pennants, the massive auditorium packed exclusively with members of The Class.

  As he stood in the wings, elegant in tails and perfectly coiffed (even wearing a bit of stage makeup, lest he be thought anything but a perpetual Wunderkind), Danny was suddenly struck by a strange realization.

  This was the most important audience he would ever face in his entire life.

  All he could remember in this brief flickering of eternity was that during his Harvard years—despite his musical successes—he had been all but disregarded. He had not been athletic. He had not been gregarious. He had not even, at first, been a success with the opposite sex. He had been a wonk.

  And after a quarter of a century he still resented the ruthless massacre of his piano.

  Now the wheel had come full circle. All those who had persecuted, derided, and ignored him were out there waiting.

  He walked on stage.

  There was a hush as he mounted the podium, bowed slowly, then turned and raised his baton.

  First he led a suite from his Savanarola ballet. Admittedly, this was a bit esoteric for some. But it was Danny Rossi’s music and they still respected it.

  Then he got to what they were waiting for: a medley from Manhattan Odyssey. And every time he modulated to a different tune they clapped and sang along.

  The biggest ovation was, of course, for “The Stars Are Not Enough”—if not quite a legitimate offspring of The Class, at least an adopted child.

  When it was over, he turned and faced them. They were on their feet now, all of them. Cheering and applauding.

  Then the first shout came.

  “Play the piano, Danny!”

  It soon became a tidal wave of chanting, “Play! Play!”

  At first he tried to brush it off nonchalantly with a wave of his right hand. But they wouldn’t stop.

  The one thing they admired most in him was no longer his to give.

  And suddenly he sensed he could not hold back the tears. So he quickly whirled to the musicians and signaled them to begin the concluding medley of Harvard football songs.

  With Crimson in triumph flashing

  Mid the strains of victory …

  Danny had covered his retreat by invoking something they worshipped more than him—Harvard.

  ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY

  June 8, 1983

  I’m the only person in The Class who knows Danny Rossi’s secret.

  I learned it by sheer chance.

  The chairman of the Class Campaign had deputized me to “shake up that prima donna Rossi” and make him come up with some sort of contribution.

  For, despite our importuning, Danny had resisted giving us even the tiniest donation. And since the Alumni Office has almost as much financial info on our classmates as the IRS, we knew that he was worth several million bucks.

  The boys searched high and low for someone who knew Rossi well enough to make one final pitch before our class gift would be announced at the Commencement Ceremony. The fact that I was chosen shows how few close friends he had at Harvard.

  Unlike the rest of us, Danny didn’t bunk out in the dorms for old times’ sake. I
nstead, he and his wife stayed at The Ritz, which is where we met after last night’s concert.

  He looked much paler than he did on stage. And even thinner. At first I thought it was just fatigue and the emotion of the evening. He and Maria sat side by side while I tried to make a heartfelt pitch.

  Did he feel gratitude to Harvard for his great success, I asked. He answered no. Then what about some bond of friendship or general affection for the place? He answered no to that as well. But then I shifted to another tactic from the “Harvard Guide to Raising Funds.” Did he feel warmly about some department or activity?

  I suggested maybe music or the orchestra. Maybe a prize for composition or performance. Something that was down his alley. He was cordial, but the answer still was no.

  This kind of threw me, and I almost lost my cool. Then I asked earnestly if there was anything he cared enough about to want to support.

  At this point he exchanged glances with Maria.

  Then she asked me very softly not to misunderstand. Danny was a very caring person. But their life was not exactly what it seemed across the footlights. They had in fact talked a lot about a possible gift to Harvard. But they wanted it to be something meaningful to them.

  I sensed they were opening up. And at the same time I felt a kind of tension in the room.

  Danny then inquired if he could direct his gift to the Med School. I asked him what he had in mind.

  Then Maria said they would consider endowing a chair in neurology. One that specifically researched motor dysfunctions.

  I was speechless. Did the Rossis realize that a Med School professorship cost a million bucks? Danny said he did. And would donate it on a single condition—that it be anonymous. Totally anonymous.

  Now I was really staggered. Why would this guy be so generous and yet want no recognition at all? In fact, I asked them straight out: it was such a noble thing—why did they want it to go unacknowledged?

  He glanced at Maria again. They seemed to be thinking as one.