ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY. I’m getting married tomorrow

December 20, 1960

I’m getting married tomorrow. It should be very interesting.

Newall’s stuck in Hawaii with the navy and can’t make it. But otherwise all my buddies will be there — including Ted and Sara Lambros, and even that nutcase, George Keller.

Kind of because I admire him so, I’ve asked Jason Gilbert to be my best man. He agreed, but refused to wear his marine uniform, even though it would add flash to the occasion.

Our church ceremony will be followed by a cham pagne reception at the Beacon Hill Club. After which we’ll fly to Barbados for our honeymoon, and then return to New York, where I’ll be starting as a trainee with Downs, Winship, Investment Bankers.

I’m sure it will be a joyous experience — especially if I can figure out how this all happened to me so quickly.

From one standpoint, I could say it was parental pressure. Although in our family that doesn’t exist. My father merely suggests things.

When I was mustered from the navy last summer in time to join everybody up in Maine, he casually remarked that he supposed I’d be getting married one of these days.

To which I dutifully replied that I supposed so. And that sort of concluded the conversation, except for his observation that, “After all, a man shouldn’t wait until he’s over the hill.”

Seeing as there were no more decks to swab or naval reports to file, I was, to tell the truth, at a loss for things to do. Also, spending so much time at sea had only sharpened my desire to get more involved with the female sex. And I suppose marriage is as involved as you can get.

Up until this year I had the romantic notion that getting married had something to do with love. But then, of course, having been isolated — first by Harvard and then by the vast ocean — I had no real idea what life was all about.

Matter of fact, love is one of the few subjects on which my father had such strong feelings that he actually expressed them in a four-letter word. We were out fishing on the lake a few days later and I mentioned how touched I had been at Ted and Sara’s wedding. And how they were my ideal of what a loving couple should be.

Dad looked at me with eyebrow raised and said, “Andrew, don’t you know love is … bosh ?”

I can’t pretend that I didn’t hear stronger language in the navy, but never from my father’s lips. He then patiently explained that when he was a boy the best marriages were not made in heaven, but over lunch at the club. Pity that sort of thing was going out of style.

For example, his classmate, Lyman Pierce, chairman of Boston Metropolitan, had “an absolutely smashing daughter,” to whom, in the good old days, he would have arranged a splendid betrothal for me.

I allowed that I was in no way averse to meeting smashing women and would be glad to call this lady up as long as it was on a friendly basis — and without obligation.

To which my father replied that I wouldn’t regret it. And returned to his fishing.

I had no great expectations when I dialed Faith Pierce at the Wildlife Preservation Fund, where she was a full-time volunteer. I assumed she would be a vapid, overprivileged, snobbish Brahmin. Well, she may have been a lot of those things, but she wasn’t vapid. And what absolutely amazed me when we met was that she was so good-looking .

I mean, she was one of — the prettiest girls I’d ever seen. I thought she gave Marilyn Monroe a fair run for her money (except that she had more money).

What’s more, I liked her. She was that rare creature among the so-called bluebloods — a real enthusiast. Every activity to her was “a fun thing.” Whether it was tossing a football on the banks of the Charles, having a gourmet meal at Maître Jacques, or sex before marriage. Moreover, all her previous life could be subsumed under that same description.

Her mummy and daddy hadn’t gotten along too well. But when they divorced and she was sent to boarding school at the age of six, it turned out to be “a fun thing.” Likewise the finishing school in Switzerland, where she picked up a terrific French accent — and one or two words to say with it.

Skiing, sailing, riding, and sex (previously mentioned, I guess) also came under that category.

And she’s a terrific gardener.

I would describe our courtship as whirlwind — and I have no doubt how she would term it. In any case, we seemed to know so many people in common that I feared the only thing that would keep us from marrying would be some kind of incest by association.

For the record, I’m not marrying Faith simply because our mutual fathers and mothers are fairly berserk about the whole idea.

Knowing his deeply held views, I would never admit it to my dad, but secretly — I’m still a romantic.

And I’m marrying Faith Pierce because she said something that no one has ever said to me in my entire life.

Just before I proposed, she whispered, “I think I love you, Andrew.”

***

One morning in late spring of ’62, Danny Rossi woke up alone. Not merely alone in bed, but feeling a pervasive emptiness in his entire life.

How could this be? he asked himself. Here I am in my new Fifth Avenue duplex overlooking Central Park. In a minute a butler is going to walk through that door with my breakfast on a silver tray. He’ll also be bringing this morning’s mail, which will contain invitations to at least a dozen parties all over the world. And I suddenly feel unhappy.

Unhappy? What a ridiculous thought. I’m the critics’ darling. I think if I sneezed during a concert they’d write it up as an exciting new interpretation of whatever I was playing. I can’t even walk from here to Hurok’s office without people calling out friendly greetings or asking for autographs.

Unhappy? There isn’t an orchestra in the world that wouldn’t die to have me as a soloist. And now the commissions for symphonic compositions are starting to come in. Everybody seems to want me for my talent, as well as my personality — not to mention the innumerable lovelies who want me for my body.

So why, with the platinum winter sun streaming brightly through the windows of my fantastic apartment, do I feel worse than I ever did when I was stuck in that lousy little practice room in my parents’ cellar?

This was not, in fact, the first time he had had such thoughts. But now they seemed to be coming more frequently.

What made matters worse, he had no official engagements for the day. No concerts, no rehearsals, not even an appointment with his hair stylist.

This, of course, had been on his own insistence. Because he wanted to devote the day to composing the orchestral suite commissioned by the St. Louis Symphony. And yet now the prospect of being alone with sheafs of empty music paper depressed him.

What could possibly be causing this melancholy?

After breakfast he put on jeans and a Beethoven sweatshirt (the gift of an adoring fan) and climbed to his studio on the upper floor. There on his piano, where he had left it late the previous night, was his unfinished composition. And on an easy chair nearby, a magazine he had leafed through to relax and let his sleeping pill take effect.

Perhaps just to avoid sitting down to work, he ambled over and picked it up again. It was the Harvard Alumni Bulletin that he had left open the previous evening at the Class Notes section.

Why is it, he asked himself, only the boring guys write in their “achievements”? And what the hell makes them think that their marriages or even the birth of a kid would be of any possible interest to anybody else?

Yet, despite his indifference, he sank once again into the chair and reread the list of new matrimonies and parenthoods that had been so somniferous the night before.

Then, alone in his magnificent penthouse studio, almost involuntarily he made a confession to himself. This isn’t boring, really. It’s an account of all the joys in life that I’ve been missing. I mean, applause is heady stuff. But how long does it last? Five, ten minutes at the most. When everything is over I still come home and no one’s here except the staff. Sure it’s fun when I bring a woman back. But after all the physical excitement we don’t talk. I mean, it sometimes makes me feel more lonely.

I want a wife, I think.

I know I want a wife. But someone genuine I can share my life with — and my thoughts. And most of all — if this is possible — a woman who might like me for myself and not that phony PR image my publicity machine has manufactured.

Come to think of it, who in my life has ever loved me for myself?

Only… Maria.

God, he had been stupid, letting his one real chance for a relationship slip through his fingers. And for the worst possible reason: because Maria did not act like every other woman and offer her body to the altar of his ego.

How long had it been since he’d last seen her? Two years? Three years? By now she’d graduated from Radcliffe, probably married some nice Catholic guy, and was raising kids. Yeah, someone that fantastic doesn’t sit around and wait for Danny Rossi to call back. No, she’s got too much sense.

Now he knew exactly why he was depressed. And also that there was nothing he could do about it.

Or was there?

Maria would be, say, twenty-three or twenty-four at most. Not every woman’s married by that age. Maybe she went to graduate school. Who the hell knows — maybe she even became a nun.

Funny, he had always kept her Cleveland phone number. A semiconscious reminder that he had never surrendered hope.

He took a deep breath and dialed. Her mother answered.

“May I speak to Maria Pastore, please~” he asked nervously.

“Oh, she doesn’t live at home anymore —”

Danny’s heart sank. He was, as he had feared, too late.

“— But I could give you the number of her apartment. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Uh — it’s, uh —it’s Daniel Rossi.”

“Oh my,” she responded. “I knew the voice was familiar. We’ve been following your career with enormous admiration.”

“Thanks. Uh — is Maria well?”

“Yes. She’s teaching dance at a girls’ school and enjoys it very much. She’s there now.”

“Could you give me the address?” Danny interrupted.

“Certainly,” Mrs. Pastore replied, “but I’d be glad to pass on a message.”

“No, please. In fact, I’d be grateful if you didn’t say I called. I’d sort of like to … surprise her.”

-*-

“One-two-three-plié. Now fourth position, girls. Tuck in at the back, please.”

Maria was leading a ballet class of a dozen or so ten-year-olds at the Sherwood School for Girls. She was so involved that she barely perceived the studio door opening behind her. Yet something made her gaze into the mirror and see the reflection of a once-familiar figure.

She was astonished. Incredulous. But before turning around she had, enough presence to tell her charges, “Keep repeating those movements, girls. Laurie, you count the beats.”

She then about-faced and walked to greet her visitor.

“Hello, Danny.”

“Hello, Maria.”

They were both distinctly uneasy.

“Uh — are you in town for a concert? I must have missed it in the papers.”

“No, Maria, I flew out especially to see you.”

That stopped the conversation cold.

For several moments they stared at each other mutely while behind them ten-year-old Laurie counted cadence for the little dancers.

“Did you hear me, Maria?” Danny said softly.

“Yes. It’s just that I don’t know what to think. I mean, why after all this time — ?”

Rather than answer her question, Danny asked the more urgent one that had been burning in his brain during the entire flight to Cleveland.

“Has some lucky guy nabbed you yet, Maria?”

“Well, I’ve been sort of going with this architect …”

“Is it serious?”

“Well, he wants to marry me.”

“Do you ever think about me anymore?”

She paused and then replied, “Yes.”

“Well, that makes two of us. You’ve been on my mind.”

“When do you have the time, Danny?” she asked with gentle sarcasm. “Your love affairs are so public I can read about them at supermarket checkout counters without even buying the paper.”

“That’s somebody else. The real Danny Rossi is still in love with you. All he wants is a wife named Maria and lots of kids. Maybe half-a-dozen cute little dancers like those girls over there.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Why me?”

“Maria, it would take a hell of a long time to explain.”

“Could you give me a brief outline in twenty-five words or less?”

Danny knew that if he could not sway her now, he would never have another chance.

“Maria,” he said earnestly, “I know the last time you saw me I was drunk with applause. I won’t lie to you and say that I don’t like it anymore. But I’ve realized it isn’t enough. My concerts may be packed, but my life is incredibly empty. Am I making any Sense?”

“You still haven’t answered my original question. Why me?”

“This is kind of hard to explain, but since I’ve become — I guess famous is the word — everybody I meet says they love me. And I don’t believe a goddamn word of it. The only person I ever came close to trusting was you. I know you understand that I put on my cocky little show because deep down I don’t think that anybody could really care.”

He paused and looked at her.

“That’s slightly more than twenty-five words,” she replied softly.

“How much do you believe?”

Her answer was barely audible because she was on the verge of tears.

“Everything,” she said.

***

Though he never told a soul, it was the only educational experience that Jason ever enjoyed more than Harvard. The twenty-one-week course at the Marine Basic School in Quantico, Virginia, offered instruction in such unacademic subjects as leadership, techniques of military instruction, map reading, infantry tactics, and weapons, as well as the history and traditions of the corps. In addition, there was first aid, combat intelligence, vertical development operations, tank and amphibious operations, and, his favorite of all, physical training and conditioning.

While the majority of the other college graduates were either fainting or groaning, or praying for it to end, Jason grew more elated with every pull-up, push-up, sit-up — and every mile he ran. He actually loved the obstacle course and spent some of his rare free moments trying to perfect his technique in negotiating it. His rifle became even more familiar to him than a tennis racket.

Though he had been far from an outstanding student in college, he was determined to finish number one in this class.

In the final week they took written examinations in military knowledge and skills, as well as practical tests in land navigation and techniques of military instruction. While Jason scored well in these, he was counting on the more sportslike contests to win him a gold medal.

He qualified with extremely high scores in rifle and pistol marksmanship, but was still outshot by half-a-dozen country boys who’d used firearms all their lives. Still, he led everyone in the physical-fitness tests. And that was some consolation for his overall finish in fifth place.

Second Lieutenant Jason Gilbert, USMC, took advantage of his first leave to write a long letter to Fanny explaining the reason for his silence. She answered briefly but warmly.

I was really surprised to hear from you. Maybe the Odyssey is not such a fairy tale after all.

Now it’s my turn to plead for your patience as I have my qualifying exams to study for. Afterward, when I’m working in a clinic, I’ll have time to write.

Love, F.

p.s. Did I mention that I miss you?

At Christmastime he deliberately wore his dress uniform (blue jacket, gold buttons rising to the neck, white hat) to make the maximum impression on his mom and dad.

Unfortunately, his impressively costumedarrival was upset by a more somber event.

When Jason made his grand entrance, he found his father, mother, and sister all sitting at the dining-room table. Julie was leaning forward, her head in her hands. The cries of baby Samantha were audible from another room.

The elegant marine officer was, to say the least, disappointed when his father greeted him with a desultory glance and a “Hi, son, you’re just in time.”

He kissed his mother and as he sat down at the table asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Charles and Julie are having a bit of trouble,” she replied.

“Trouble?” his father suddenly bellowed. “The son of a bitch has left her! He just upped and walked out. Abandoning your wife and one-year-old child is hardly what I call adult behavior.”

“Well, I never thought Charlie was much of an adult,” Jason commented. “What was his reason?”

“He said he doesn’t like being married,” Julie wailed. “He said he never wanted to get married.”

“I could have told you that and saved you a lot of grief,” Jason remarked. “You were both too young.”

“Stop being so holier-than-thou, Jason,” his father bristled. “Okay, I’m sorry,” he answered softly. And added, “Hey, Julie, I’m really sorry that you got involved with that preppie idiot.”

She reacted to her brother’s expression of condolence with a fresh burst of tears.

“Well, I can see it’s hardly going to be a very merry Christmas,” Jason commented, getting up and starting to pace the floor.

Just then, Jenny the housekeeper entered the room and, spying the younger Gilbert, exclaimed, “Why, Mr. Jason, don’t you look snazzy!”

The holiday dinner was a pretty grim affair. By now the elder Gilbert had gotten over the initial shock of his daughter’s failure to live up to parental expectations, and had begun to concentrate on the traditional source of his pride.

“You mean to tell me you thought basic training was fun, Jason?” he marveled.

“In a way, but I’m afraid I overdid it. My C.O. wants me to stay on and be in charge of one of the fitness programs.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Well, I really don’t relish the prospect of another year and a half in Quantico. But still there’s a chance they’ll let me go to a few tennis tournaments. Anyway I’m a lot better off than Andrew who I hear is swabbing decks on a destroyer.”

“I’ll never understand why he didn’t become an officer,” Mr. Gilbert remarked.

“I can. The Eliots have always been big shots in the navy — admirals and stuff. He probably felt he had too much to live up to. That’s why, compared to him, I’m sort of at an advantage when it comes to my career.”

“How so?” inquired his father, who was now president of the second largest electronics corporation in the world.

“Because, unlike Andrew, who’s hanging from a precarious limb of the great family tree, we’re all just one generation out of the ghetto.”

“That’s a rather unattractive way of putting it,” his father remarked. To the best of Jason Gilbert, Sr.’s knowledge, this was the first time the word ghetto had ever been pronounced in their home. It made him uncomfortable and it seemed especially inappropriate at Christmas dinner.

He shifted to a more festive topic. “Have you heard from that Dutch girlfriend of yours recently?”

“Not as recently as I’d like,” Jason answered. “In fact, with your permission, Dad, I’d like to call her up after dinner.”

“By all means,” replied Jason Gilbert, Sr., relieved to be looking forward again, away from the not-sufficiently-distant past.

Jason was mustered early from the Marine Corps in August 1961 so that he could get up north in time to enter Harvard Law School.

He had spent his tour of duty first as an instructor in the Basic School, then, primarily because he looked so perfect in his uniform, as an O.S.O. (officer selection officer). His assignment had been to tour campuses and induce undergraduates to follow his own path to military glory by joining the Platoon Leaders Class — or, failing that, at least the marines.

Jason inwardly likened these recruitment expeditions to a fishing contest. And, competitive as always, he was determined to come home with the biggest catch. He was pleased, if not surprised, to learn from his commanding officer that he had won this challenge as well.

Still, he was relieved to be out of the military and eager to tackle the law.

He was also eager to see Fanny. For their correspondence had continued unabated throughout the nearly twenty-four months that they had not seen each other.

But the marines would not grant him a few extra weeks so he could visit the woman he was certain he wanted to marry. That reunion would have to stand the test of yet another academic year.

More letters. More phone calls. But a lot less patience.

There is an old saying about the experience of Harvard Law School: in the first year they scare you to death. In the second they work you to death. And in the third they bore you to death.

The two years of military service that separated Jason from most of his classmates helped him when it came to confronting the terrifying Law School professors. They were nowhere near as frightening as many drill sergeants. And if he was unable to give a magnificent answer in, say, contracts class, the teacher’s sneer was a lot more benign than having to do a hundred push-ups.

He also benefited from the fact that some of The Class of ’58 who had gotten student deferments were now seniors and more than willing to help their undergraduate hero.

“You should go in for trial law,” advised Gary McVeagh. “With your looks, you could snow the female jurors without opening your mouth. And they’d take care of the men. You’d never lose.”

“Nah,” contradicted Seymour Herscher, “he should go in for divorce law. They’ll all come flocking to him hoping to get Jason as part of the settlement.”

But Jason already had a game plan. He and his dad had discussed it for years.

First, if he could manage to keep up with these superbrains in the Law School, he would try to get a clerkship. From there it would be a few years of general practice with a prestigious New York or Washington firm. All of which would serve as a springboard for his ultimate ambition — politics.

“Jason,” the elder Gilbert had once jested, “I’m so sure you’ll succeed, I’d be willing to invest in a house in Washington right now.”

But these juvenile career fantasies were supplanted by a newer and better dream that sustained Jason through the grim series of practice exams in January, and the spring tension when the real finals were approaching.

It was the thought that, pass or fail, he would at last be reunited with that lovely Dutch girl whose picture smiled at him from his desk.

He had not lived like a total monk in the two-and-a-half-year interval since he had last seen Fanny. But the girls with whom he had casual dates only reminded him of how different his relationship with her was.

And though she never said anything in her letters, he somehow sensed that she too was merely marking time till they could be together again.

For this reason Jason welcomed the advent of exams with enthusiasm. While most of his classmates grew sicker and more panicked with every test, he regarded the filling of each bluebook as another leaf in the passport that would take him through the gates of the Law School. And into the arms of his beloved.

During the long flight to Amsterdam, Jason was nervous about seeing her again. It had been so long. Had he just embellished the wonder of their relationship in the desperate boredom of military routine? Would their meeting at Schiphol Airport be an anticlimax?

He knew when he saw her just beyond the customs gate that it was not. When they kissed, he felt the same stirring.

They spent the first few days at her parents’ farm, where he savored the warmth and closeness of the van der Post family. Her brother, who was studying in The Hague, and her married sister — not to mention assorted cousins and aunts — came by to meet Fanny’s American friend.

The night before they left, he was standing in front of the fireplace in the main room of the farmhouse looking at the photographs on the mantelpiece.

“It’s amazing,” he exclaimed, “I’ve met all of these people in less than a week.”

And then he stopped in front of the snapshot of a dark-haired girl.

“Except her.”

“That’s Eva,” said Mrs. van der Post. “I suppose Fanny has told you about her.”

“Yes,” Jason replied.

“She’s a wonderful girl,” added Fanny’s father. “Always a little sad, but that’s understandable.”

Fanny took Jason to visit the Anne Frank house at Prinsengracht 263, in the shadow of the Westerkerk. To give him a graphic demonstration of what his co-religionists had experienced during the Second World War.

He stood there silently, glancing at the cramped garret where the young Dutch girl and her family hid from the occupying troops for more than a year before being dragged off to their deaths.

“All through this, she never lost her humanity,” Fanny remarked. “You should read her diary. Despite everything, she believed people were really basically good at heart. And they took such a person — an innocent little girl — to the gas chambers just because she was Jewish.”

The story was not totally new to Jason. For Anne Frank’s diary had been dramatized into a successful Broadway play, which he knew his parents had seen.

In retrospect, he wondered why they had not discussed it at any length with him and his sister. Could they have possibly believed that it had nothing to do with them?

And then they drove to Venice to resume their love affair where it had left off three years earlier.

“Fanny, do you think we’re the first couple to make love in a gondola?”

“No, my darling, we’re about a thousand years late.”

“Well, we’re the first to make great love.”

Their joy and passion had not changed. Fanny had the unique gift of making Jason see the laughter in the world. But now there was something more to their relationship.

Jason had known many women and had at times been captivated, even infatuated. But what he felt for Fanny was completely different. Never before had he wanted to give so much of himself. Not only sensuality but tenderness. He longed to shelter her, to take care of her.

And she, the strong independent doctor, could let herself become a child again and revel in the warmth of his protectiveness.

But when the amorous initiative was hers, she made him feel he could be vulnerable. And for the first time he experienced a woman’s love not merely fired by his strength.

Thus they were parent, child, lover, and friend to each other. A completeness too miraculous to lose.

Their holiday was all too brief and once again they were about to part.

“I’ll fly back as soon as my last exam is over in June,” he promised.

“What’ll I do until then?” she asked forlornly.

“Come on, it’s not that long. Our last separation was nearly three years.”

“Yes,” she replied wistfully. “But then I had no idea how much I loved you.”

Jason looked at her. “Fanny, I have a confession to make.”

“What?” she asked, slightly off balance.

“Yesterday afternoon when I wanted to go off by myself, there was a reason.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. “If it fits any one of your fingers, then I think we should get married.”

“Jason,” she smiled, “if it fits one of my toes we will get married.”

The future bride and groom embraced.

***

Andrew met George Keller at the Trailways Bus Station in Bangor. They used the drive back to the Eliot retreat in Seal Harbor to get up to date.

“You look pale, George. Haven’t you been outside all summer?”

“I’m a graduate student, not a lifeguard, Andrew. And I must finish my dissertation by next spring.”

“What’s the urgeucy?”

“Because I want to get my degree next June.”

“What’ll you do after that?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“So what’s the rush?”

“You wouldn’t understand. But I must keep to my schedule. Anyway, I’m grateful for your enticing me up for the weekend.”

“Weekend? I thought you were staying the whole week.”

“No no no. I must get back to my writing.”

“Okay,” Andrew capitulated. “But if I see you scribble so much as a postcard in the next two days, I’ll punch you out. Agreed?”

“Under protest.” The scholar smiled. “Anyway, old boy, how’s marriage?”

“Oh, let me tell you, Keller, it’s a fun thing. You ought to try it.”

“All in due time, Andrew. But first I must —”

“Don’t even say it,” his classmate interrupted. “I forbid you to mention your thesis all weekend. And — uh — if you could manage to keep the conversation general, it’d be nice for Faith. I mean, she’s a great kid, but academics is not her strong point.”

The lovely Mrs. Andrew Eliot waved to them from the edge of the dock as they approached. Even the otherwise preoccupied George Keller could not help noticing how good she looked in a bikini. And how it felt when she gave him a welcoming hug.

Faith then led both men to the terrace where a large pitcher of martinis awaited.

“I’ve been looking forward to having a real talk with you ever since we met at the wedding,” Faith remarked as she handed George a glass. “Andrew says you have a brilliant mind.”

“Andrew flatters me.”

“I know.” She giggled. “He flatters me, too. But I like it.”

George then presented her with a gift-wrapped package.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she exclaimed as she tore it open. And then with slightly forced gaiety added, “Oh — a book. Look, Andrew, George brought me a book.”

“That’s great,” her husband remarked. And turning to their guest added, “Faith really likes books. What is it, dear?”

“It looks exciting,” she replied and held up the cover.

It was The Necessity of Choice , by Henry Kissinger.

“What’s it about, George?” she asked.

“The U.S-Soviet ‘missile gap.’ It is unquestionably the most important work on the subject to date.”

“It’s by one of George’s professors,” Andrew explained.

“A very great man,” George quickly added. “He’s my thesis adviser and, from the moment I arrived in America, he’s acted in loco parentis .”

“You mean kind of crazy?” Faith inquired.

The reply seemed like a non sequitur to George. And so he added, “He mentions me in the preface. May I read it to you?”

“Oh, this is exciting,” Faith gushed, as she handed him the tome. “I’ve never known anyone who was in a book before.”

George quickly found the page and read aloud, “ ‘Gratitude for the advice and insight of my student and friend George Keller cannot be adequately expressed.’ ”

“Gosh,” Andrew commented, “he actually calls you his friend. That’s terrific.”

“Yes. And he’s not only made me his head section man in Coy. 180, but he’s even arranged for me to have a piece in Foreign Affairs .”

“Oh, George.” Faith smiled. “That sounds very naughty.”

George was charmed by her delightful sense of humor.

“Eliot,” he smiled, “you’re a really lucky man.”

“Well, Faith,” Andrew asked when he returned from driving George to his bus, “what do you think of old George? A mad genius, huh?”

“He’s quite attractive,” she replied thoughtfully. “But something about him worries me. I mean, I can’t exactly put my finger on it. But I think it’s the way he talks. Have you noticed that he has no foreign accent at all?”

“Sure. That’s what’s so fantastic about him.”

“Andrew, don’t be naive. If a foreign person doesn’t have a foreign accent that means he’s trying to hide something. I think your ex-roommate just might be a spy.”

“A spy? Who the heck could he be spying for?”

“I don’t know. The enemy. Maybe even the Democrats.”

***

From the “Milestones” section of Time magazine, January 12, 1963:

MARRIED.

Daniel Rossi , 27, keyboard Wunderkind, and Maria Pastore , 25, his college sweetheart; both for the first time; in Cleveland, Ohio.

After a European honeymoon (during which Rossi will fulfill some of his long-standing concert engagements), the couple plans to settle in Philadelphia, where Rossi has just been appointed Associate Conductor of that city’s symphony orchestra.

The only prenuptial promise Maria had extracted from Danny was that he would drastically cut down his frenetic touring so that they could take roots somewhere and build a domestic existence.

Though at first he was reluctant to give up the polyglot murmurs of adulation that gave him such pleasure, the offer from Philadelphia had come as a kind of miraculous solution.

They bought a spacious Tudor home on an acre and a half in Bryn Mawr. It was large enough to transform the entire top floor into a studio for Danny. And a light airy room for Maria, where he insisted on installing a barre, but which she wanted to become a nursery as soon as possible.

They spent their wedding night in the downtown Cleveland Sheraton, where Gene Pastore had thrown a lavish reception.

Throughout the celebration, Danny was strangely subdued — although he tried not to show it. For he was preoccupied with the fact that, having earned the reputation of being an international Don Juan, he might not live up to it on the one occasion that really mattered.

Not unexpectedly, he was coerced by the wedding guests into playing the piano. To his mind, it proved an ominous harbinger. For though he delighted them with a complete rendition of Rossi on Broadway , he was perhaps the only person in the room who noticed he was not performing as well as usual.

Perhaps it was the champagne. He had been sipping a little all evening to calm his nerves, even though he knew it was not a good idea. As an ironclad rule, he never drank anything stronger than Coke before a concert. He might take a Miltown or a phenobarb if he was especially nervous. But it was too late for that.

Now that he was slightly boozy, he wondered if he hadn’t been sabotaging himself. For he would soon have to enter the bedroom of the sexiest girl he had ever known, who had waited all her life for this moment .

There were “his” and “hers” bathrooms in the bridal suite. As Danny brushed his teeth (long and slowly), he looked in the mirror and saw the face of a frightened adolescent.

Could he go through with it? Of course, he told himself. Come on, don’t make a big deal out of all this. Besides, she’s a virgin. Even if you’re not at your very best, how could she know?

Danny looked at himself again. And his own expression told him that he couldn’t walk into the bedroom and face Maria.

Not alone, anyway.

He unzipped a pocket in his toilet kit and stood half-a-dozen small bottles of pills on the shelf above the sink. They ranged in effect, as he’d often joked to himself, from largo e pianissimo (tranquilizers) to allegro e presto (stimulants for when he was tired from a long flight).

Thank God for medical science, he thought, reaching for a jar marked “Meth.” He poured one into his sweaty left palm, closed the cap, and returned the pharmacopoeia to its hiding place.

A playful voice called from the bedroom, “Danny, are you still here, or have I been abandoned on my wedding night?”

“I’ll be right with you, darling,” he replied, hoping his tone had not betrayed any nervousness.

He crushed the tablet in his palm in hopes of speeding its effectiveness, and swallowed it with a glass of water.

Almost instantly his mood lightened. Though his heart beat faster, it was no longer with fear. He put on his robe and started slowly toward the bedroom.

She was waiting for him, her face beaming.

“Oh, Danny,” she said tenderly, “I know we’re going to be so happy together.”

“I know it too, darling,” he replied, and climbed in beside her.

Until that moment, Danny Rossi had never given a performance, either musical or otherwise, that was not impassioned and flawless. That night was no exception.

But it had been very, very close.

***

Fanny and Jason were now too excited to rely on letters. Their feelings were so intense that they had to express them through the more dynamic medium of the telephone. What started as a weekly ritual soon became almost a daily one. The bills were astronomical.

“It would be cheaper if one of us flew over to be with the other,” he remarked.

“I agree, Jason. But you can’t take your exams here and I can’t take mine there. So if you can control yourself for another few months, we’ll be together so long you’ll get tired of me.”

“I’ll never get tired of you.”

“That’s what they all say,” she joked. “I sometimes wish we were just living together and not having to go through all this ceremony business.”

“Fanny, you’re going to live in Boston. This is still a puritan town. Besides, I want to sign you to a lifetime contract so there’s no possible chance of your getting away.”

“I like the sound of that,” she replied.

The wedding would be in July at her family’s church in Groningen. Since Fanny had planned to visit Eva again that summer, it was decided that she would go in late spring — as soon as she had qualified.

On May 15 she called Jason to say, “Goodbye for three weeks.” Since her “sister” Eva’s kibbutz in the Galilee was a pretty spartan establishment, communication would be all but impossible.

“I think they’ve got about three phones in the whole place,” Fanny remarked. “So I don’t think they’d appreciate our babbling all the time. Do you think you can bear not speaking for twenty-one days?”

“No,” said Jason.

“Then think about meeting me in Israel as soon as your last exam is over. It’s about time you saw the land of your forefathers, anyway.”

“I just may, if I grow desperate enough,” he replied. “Hey — I almost forgot to ask you, how did your orals go?”

“Fine,” she replied modestly.

“Then you’re a real doctor, Congratulations! Why aren’t you excited?”

“Because,” she replied with affection, “I’m about to become something a lot more important — your wife.”

Those words were burned in fire in the memory of Jason Gilbert. For they were the last he ever heard spoken by Fanny van der Post.

Ten days later, he was awakened at 6:00 A.M. by a phone call from Amsterdam. It was her brother, Anton.

“Jason,” he said, his voice quavering, “I’m afraid I’ve some terrible news about Fanny.”

“Has she been in an accident?”

“Yes. Well, not exactly. She’s been killed.”

Jason sat up, his heart pounding frantically.

“How? What happened?”

“I don’t know all the details,” he stammered. “Eva just called and said that there was a terrorist attack. Their kibbutz is very close to the border. Apparently some Arabs crossed over in the night and threw hand grenades into the children’s dormitory. Fanny was seeing to a sick little girl and —” He broke down and sobbed.

At first Jason was numb. “I can’t believe it,” he murmured to himself. “I just can’t believe this is really happening.”

In the twenty-six sheltered years of his life he had never known anything remotely resembling tragedy. And now it had struck him like a bullet in the soul.

“Eva says she was very brave, Jason. She threw herself on one of the grenades to protect the children.”

Jason did not know what to say. Or think. Or do. He sensed that at any time the tears would come. And the rage explode within him. Now he was simply frozen with shock. Then he realized that he had to say something to her brother.

“Anton,” he whispered, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“We are sorry for you, too, Jason,” he replied. “You and Fanny loved each other so much.”

He then added in a voice that was barely audible, “We thought you might like to come to the funeral.”

The funeral. Oh God, the thought of it brought a dull ache. Yet another harsh fact to make him understand that Fanny was really dead. That he would never hear her voice again. Never see her alive.

But he had been asked a question. Did he wish to attend the ceremony in which the body of his beloved would be lowered into the ground and covered with earth?

“Yes, Anton. Yes, of course,” he replied, his voice as weak as a reed in the wind. “When’s the service?”

“Well, it was to be as soon as we could all get there, But, of course, if you’re coming we’ll wait for you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jason. “Isn’t the funeral in Holland?”

“No,” Anton replied. “The family has had other thoughts. You know we’re quite religious and have very strong ties with the Bible and the Holy Land. Since Fanny died … where she did … we thought she should be buried in the Protestant cemetery in Jerusalem.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe that’s too long a journey for you,” Anton said gently.

“Don’t be silly,” Jason answered quietly. “I’m going to call the airlines as soon as they open and get the first plane out. I’ll call you back and let you know when I’ll be arriving.”

Ever since he had first met Fanny, he had kept his passport near him should the need to see her become unbearable. So all he had to do was pack a suitcase, find a flight, and go.

He had an exam that morning for which he had done weeks of preparation, and since his flight to Israel left Idlewild that evening, he could have taken it.

But nothing mattered anymore. He didn’t give a damn about anything.

He went to a travel agent in the Square, got his ticket, and spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly around Cambridge. The sun was shining, and students, laughing happily, were heading toward the riverside to picnic.

Their laughter put him in a silent rage. How can they smile and walk the streets as if life is just the same as it was yesterday? How can the goddamn sun dare shine so brightly? The whole damn world should stop and weep.

At four he flew from Boston, transferred to Idlewild, and walked across the parkways to where El Al Airlines had their check-in. His parents met him there.

“Jason,” his mother cried, “this is so horrible.”

“Is there anything we can do?” his father asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jason answered distractedly.

A lithe young man with black curly hair, wearing a half-open shirt and carrying a walkie-talkie, came up to them and in a slightly accented voice asked, “Are you all three passengers?”

“No,” said Jason, “only me.”

“Then I’m afraid those other people have to go,” he said politely. “Only passengers allowed here. For security reasons.”

This upset the elder Gilbert. “Look at this terminal,” he complained, as he reluctantly began to leave. “There are policemen everywhere, and at least a dozen types like that fellow. This must be the most dangerous airline in the world.”

Before Jason could respond, the security agent turned and addressed them. “Excuse me, but I think we are the safest airline in the world because we take the most precautions.”

“Do you always eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?” Jason’s father snapped.

“Only when I’m at work, sir. It’s part of the job.”

Unchastened, Mr. Gilbert turned to his son and said, “Promise me you’ll take an American airline back.”

“Dad, please, I’d be grateful if I could just be left alone.”

“Yes, son,” he said quietly. “Of course.”

They embraced their son and quickly left.

Jason sighed as he watched the two female security officials carefully empty the contents of his little overnight bag — three shirts, some underwear, two ties, a toilet kit — onto the bench and meticulously examine them. One even checked his tubes of toothpaste and shaving cream.

Finally they repacked it, far more neatly than he himself had done.

“Can I go now?” he asked, trying to suppress his impatience.

“Yes, sir,” replied the young woman, “right to that booth. For the body search.”

The flight was long and crowded. Children chased one another up and down the aisles. Old bearded men — and a few young bearded men — paced up and back as well, no doubt meditating on some vital point of the Talmud or a passage in the Prophets.

Inexplicably, Jason got up and walked with them. He wondered at the various faces that he saw among the passengers. Besides the stereotyped patriarchs straight from the pages of the Old Testament, there were tanned and muscular young men. He sensed that many of those open-shirted athletic types were security guards. There were also faces black as any Negro he had ever seen. (He learned later they were Yemenites.)

But what struck him most was that he also recognized himself. For here and there were blond and blue-eyed passengers conversing rapidly in Hebrew.

They were all different. Yet they were all Jews. And he was among them.

Fourteen hours later, when the pilot announced they were beginning their final approach to Tel Aviv airport, Jason perceived sobs among the people sitting near him. In fact, they were audible from many corners of the plane. And when they disembarked, walking across the tarmac past rows of heavily armed soldiers, he saw an old man bend and kiss the earth.

Jason noticed that the passengers felt such emotion at having arrived in this hot and muggy place that they could express it only by one of two extremes. Tears or laughter. He himself was too stunned to feel anything.

The customs officer who stamped his passport smiled and said, “Welcome home.”

Instinctively Jason replied, “I’m just a tourist, sir.”

“Yes,” said the officer, “but you’re a Jew. And you have come home.”

Having no baggage to pick up, he walked directly past customs to the sliding doors. They opened into an ecstatic mob of shouting people, greeting their arriving relatives in a babel of languages.

He stood on tiptoe and caught sight of Anton van der Post waiting off to the side with a fat, balding, middle-aged man. He hurried over to them.

The only conversation they could manage without crying was an exchange of platitudes.

“How was the flight?”

“Fine, Anton. How are your parents taking it?”

“All right, considering. Oh, this gentleman is Yossi Ron, the secretary of the kibbutz.”

Jason and the elder man shook hands.

“Shalom, Mr. Gilbert,” he said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am …”

He, too, was at a loss for words. They climbed silently into an old kibbutz truck and began to drive.

About an hour later they ascended a steep hill as the road bent to the right. Jerusalem came into view, its peach-white stone shimmering in the early morning sun.

Then Anton spoke for the first time in the entire journey. “We thought she would want to be buried with your ring, Jason. Is that all right?”

He nodded. And in a sudden rush of grief, his thoughts collided with the awful truth of what had brought him to this so-called holy place.

She was buried in a simple ceremony behind the towering trees of the Protestant cemetery on Emek Refaim.

A delegation had driven down from the kibbutz during the night and now were gathered at the graveside. They all were tanned and open-shirted. Jason felt slightly out-of-place in his dark suit and tie. Standing in the first row with his parents were Anton, his arm around his mother, and a short, darkhaired Israeli girl clinging to Mr. van der Post’s hand. Clearly, this must be Eva Goudsmit.

The faces of the Dutch visitors were etched with pain. The kibbutzniks wept openly at the loss of a friend.

But she was only that to them. They could never dream what Fanny had meant to Jason Gilbert. When they lowered the coffin into the grave, something inside him was buried with her.

His grief was too deep for tears.

As the service ended and the mourners began to leave, he and Eva were drawn instinctively to each other. No introductions were necessary.

“Fanny spoke of you often,” she said in a hoarse voice. “If anyone deserved a happy life it was she. I should have been the one to die in that explosion.”

“That’s the way I feel too,” Jason murmured. They continued walking, passed through the cemetery gate, and turned right. When they reached the Bethlehem Road he said, “I’d like to see where it happened.”

“You mean the kibbutz?” she asked.

He nodded.

“You can come back on the bus with us this afternoon.”

“No,” he replied, “I want to be with her family until they leave in the morning. I’ll rent a car and drive up to the Galilee on my own.”

“I’ll tell Yossi to make some arrangements for you. How long will you be staying?”

Jason Gilbert looked up as the rooftops of the Old City came into view, and answered, “I don’t know.”

At 5:00 A.M. the next day, Jason drove the three people who would have been his in-laws to their flight home.

Though they exchanged promises to keep in touch, both parties understood that there would be little, if any, contact. Because they had lost the person who linked their lives.

With a map spread out on the empty seat beside him, Jason proceeded northward. First along the Mediterranean coast, the blue sea on his left. Then east after Caesarea, through Nazareth, and across the Galilee until he reached the sea where two millennia ago Christ had walked upon the water. He then turned north again, the Jordan River on his right, through Kiryat Shmona.

By noon he reached the gates of Vered Ha-Galil, drove in, and parked his car.

Except for the lush greenery and flowers, the place reminded him of a small army installation. For it was ringed with barbed wire, Only when he looked out over the Jordan did he feel a sense of its tranquility.

The kibbutz seemed deserted. He glanced at his watch and understood why. It was lunchtime. The dining room had to be in the single large structure standing at the edge of the bungalows.

Inside, there was a din of animated conversation. He scanned the tables and soon found Eva, dressed like everyone else, in a T-shirt and shorts.

“Hello, Jason,” she said softly. “Are you hungry?”

It was only then he realized that he hadn’t had anything since a cup of coffee in Jerusalem six hours earlier. The food was simple — home-grown vegetables, cheese, and leben , a kind of yoghurt.

Eva introduced him to the kibbutzniks sitting nearby, all of whom expressed a welcome tempered with condolences.

“I’d like to see where it happened,” Jason said. “It’s siesta time now,” said Ruthie, one of the children’s counselors. “Can you wait till four?”

“I suppose so.”

After lunch Eva walked with him along rows of identical wooden huts toward the srif where he would be staying.

“You’ll be sleeping in Dov Levi’s bunk,” she remarked.

“Where’s he going to sleep?”

“Dov’s away on miluim — army-reserve duty. He’ll be gone another three weeks.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be staying that long.”

Eva looked up at him and asked, “Are you in a hurry to get back to something?”

“No,” he conceded, “not really.”

Jason kicked off his shoes, lay back on top of the creaky metal bed, and pondered the events of the past seventy-two hours.

Earlier that week he had been strolling the Harvard Law School campus in the company of his friends, his thoughts preoccupied with marriage, exams, his future political career. Now here he was alone in the so-called land of his forefathers with absolutely no meaning to his life.

At last he dozed off into a troubled sleep. The next thing he knew he was being prodded gently by Yossi. He was with a broad-shouldered man of about forty, whom he introduced as Aryeh, the kibbutz security officer.

Jason quickly shook the sleep from his head and joined them to walk across toward the children’s quarters.

“It seems kind of strange to me,” he said as they neared the dormitory. “Why do you have all the kids sleep in one place? Wouldn’t they be safer with their parents?”

“It’s part of kibbutz philosophy,” Yossi explained. “The young children are brought up together to give them a feeling of comradeship. They don’t lack for love. They see their parents every day.”

The long rectangular nursery had two rows of beds, and walls decorated with some of the youngsters’ artwork. There were no visible signs of any destruction. The damage obviously had been quickly repaired.

“So it was here?” Jason asked quietly.

“Yes,” Aryeh acknowledged, pain in his voice, puffing at a cheap cigarette. “A little girl had tonsillitis and Fanny was taking care of her when …”

“Don’t you have guards here? I mean, you’re so damn close to the border.”

“Everyone in the kibbutz does a night a month walking the perimeter of the land. But there’s so much area to cover that if the Fedayeen are patient, as these fellows obviously were, they can wait for the patrol to go by, cut the wires, do their nasty business, and escape.”

“You mean you didn’t catch any of them?”

“No,” Aryeh answered wearily. “The explosions made so much confusion — they also set off flares by the water tower. And we first bad to think of our wounded. Besides Fanny, there were three children injured. By the time I organized a search party, they had gotten too big a lead on us and gone back across the border.”

“Why didn’t you keep chasing them?”

“The army took over. We just have to be sure we stop them next time.”

“You mean, you know they’ll be back?”

“Either them or their cousins. They’ll keep trying to drive us away until we convince them that this is our home.”

Jason asked to be left alone. The two men nodded.

He relived the scene of the terrorists smashing through the screen door and lobbing their grenades at the sleeping children. Reflexively he reached for the pistol he had once worn on his hip to shoot at the attackers. Rage exploded inside him. Anger with himself .

I should have been here to protect them, he thought. To protect her . If I had, she would still be alive.

Something was keeping Jason in Vered Ha-Galil. Superficially, he told himself, the hard physical labor was the only anodyne for his all-pervasive grief. And the evening discussions with the kibbutzniks were a catharsis for his troubled soul.

A week after his arrival, he managed to get through to the United States on the telephone in the main hall. The connection was weak and he had to shout. His father reported that he had spoken to the Harvard Law School dean and explained the circumstances. Jason would be allowed to make up the exams he had missed during the following spring.

“When are you coming home, Jason?”

“I’m not sure, Dad. I’m not sure about a lot of things.”

The kibbutz was one of the oldest in the country. It had been established by visionary Jews who had left Europe before the deluge, believing that they, like every other people, should have a homeland. In fact, they believed Palestine had always been their homeland. And their idealism inspired them to lead what they hoped would be a mass return.

“If you think these buildings are primitive,” Yossi remarked one evening after dinner, “imagine how it was when the older folks came. Living in tents all year round, plowing fields without a tractor.”

“It must have been intolerable,” Jason commented.

“Uncomfortable yes, but not intolerable. Most relished every minute of it, even the freezing rain. Because, like the land it was falling on, this rain was for them.

“World War Two brought us more. First, those who got out ahead of the murder squads. And later, the survivors of the camps. Some of them are still around here working a full day in the fields next to youngsters like you.”

Jason had already noticed the blue numbers tattooed on their forearms, which they made no attempt to hide.

Eva’s cousin, Jan Goudsmit, had escaped the gas chamber and reached Palestine on one of the many illegal boats. But he was caught and interned by the British as an alien.

“Can you imagine them trying to tell a man he doesn’t belong in his own country?” Yossi laughed. “Anyway, they locked Goudsmit in another camp. Not as bad as the Germans, mind you. The British didn’t mistreat them. But the barbed wire was the same. He escaped in time to fight in the War of Independence. That’s where be and I met up. We were sharing the same rifle.”

“You what?” asked Jason.

“You hear me, my American friend. We had one rifle for two people. And, believe me, we didn’t have very many bullets, so the second man always kept an accurate count. Anyway, when it was over I brought Jan home with me,”

“That’s how I found him,” Eva joined in. “Once he had a fixed address, he gave his name to HIAS, which was trying to unite survivors. Their Netherlands committee got us in contact.”

“It must have been tough to leave the country you grew up in,” Jason offered. “I mean, learning a new language and all that stuff.”

“Yes,” Eva acknowledged, “it wasn’t an easy decision. I was so fond of the van der Posts. But curiously, it was they who convinced me.”

“Don’t you ever get homesick?” Jason asked, instantly regretting his poor choice of adjective.

“I do get nostalgic for Amsterdam,” Eva acknowledged. “It’s one of the loveliest cities in the world. I went back a few times to see Fanny. But by the time Jan died he had convinced me there was only one place a Jew could ever be at home.”

“As a patriotic American,” Jason said, “I take exception to that.”

“You mean as an ostrich,” Yossi interposed. “Tell me, Jason, how many years have Jews lived in America?”

“If I can recall my grade-school history, Peter Stuyvesant let a few into New Amsterdam in the early 1600s.”

“Well, don’t be so quick to draw conclusions, my boy,” Yossi responded. “Jews lived in Germany for more than twice as long as that. And they were just as successful —”

“— And just as integrated,” Eva quickly added.

“— That is, until that mad housepainter decided they were infecting Aryan society and should be exterminated, Then suddenly the fact that Heine was a Jew and Einstein was a Jew and most of their orchestras playing Mendelssohn were Jews meant nothing. They had to destroy us. And they almost did.”

Jason sat quietly for a moment and tried to tell himself that this was merely the propaganda that every visitor to Israel received.

Besides, he’d been brought up to think that there was another way the Jews could save themselves from the pogroms and persecutions of their long and painful history. His father’s way. Assimilation.

And yet, after the first week of orange picking by day and debates throughout the night, he still felt no desire to leave. In fact, it was only when reminded that Dov Levi would be returning from reserve duty and would want his bed back that Jason realized he had to make some sort of plans.

“Listen,” Yossi reasoned, “I’m not asking you to spend your lifetime here, But if you want to stay the summer, I can put you in a bungalow with six or seven other volunteers. What do you say?”

“I think that’s fine,” said Jason.

He sat down and wrote his parents:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m sorry I’ve been so uncommunicative since our phone call, but my whole world has suddenly fallen apart.

Next month was supposed to be the wedding. I feel such aching sadness that the only solace I can find is staying near the place she died.

Also, I need time to think about what I want to do with the rest of my life. Losing Fanny has changed me a great deal. I seem somehow to feel less of the ambition I once had to go out and become a big “success” — whatever that means.

The attitude on this kibbutz is catching. Sure, some of the young men want to be doctors or professors. But when most of them have finished their studies they’ll come back and share what they’ve learned with the community.

It’s curious that among all the people I’ve met here, there’s not one whose aim in life is to be famous. They just want to live in peace and quiet and take pleasure from the real joys of life. Like hard work. And kids. And friendship.

I wish I could say that my mind is tranquil, but it isn’t. Grief is not the only thing I feel. There’s something primitive in me still crying out for vengeance. I know that’s wrong, but I can’t exorcise these feelings yet.

So I’ve decided to spend the summer as a volunteer working side by side with the rest of the kibbutzniks.

Since I can handle firearms I’ll also take a regular turn at guard duty. And if a terrorist is crazy enough to try to attack this place again, he’ll sorely regret it.

Anyway, thanks for letting me work all this out for myself.

Your loving son,

Jason

***

From the Harvard Alumni Bulletin of June 1963:

Theodore Lambros received his Ph.D. in Classics at mid-year’s. The Harvard University Press will publish his revised dissertation, under the title of Tlemosyne: The Tragic Hero in Sophocles . This fall he will join the Classics Faculty as an instructor.