Erich Segal - The Class

And can you possibly imagine what it means to have waited since childhood for the doors of Harvard to unlock for you? And now to know they never will.

For the moment, what Ted wanted most to do was get extremely drunk.

He sat alone at a corner table in the back of The Marathon and had one of the waiters make sure that his glass was perpetually filled.

Every now and then his brother, Alex, would come over and insist, “Come on, Teddie, you’ll be sick if you don’t eat something.”

“But that’s the point, Lexi. I’m trying to get sick. To get my body in the same condition as my soul.”

By nine, when he was becoming comfortably blotto, a voice interrupted his lachrymose inebriation.

“May I sit down, Ted?”

It was the last person he wanted to see at that moment — Sara.

“Oho, congratulations on your new appointment, Dr. James. I guess the best man won, huh?”

She sat down and chided softly, “Sober up enough to listen to me, Ted.” She paused briefly. “I’m not going to take it.”

“What?”

“I just called the chairman and told him that, having thought it over, I can’t accept.”

“But why, Sara?” Ted asked, gesticulating broadly. “It’s the top of the academic world — the goddamn tippy-top.”

“For you,” she answered gently. “Ted, when I saw you up there on the podium last night, I knew you were in your own special heaven. I couldn’t deny you that.”

“You’re either crazy or just playing some cruel-revenge joke. I mean, nobody turns down the Eliot Professorship at Harvard.”

“I just did,” she responded, still not raising her voice.

“Why the hell did you let them go to all the trouble and expense if you weren’t serious about it?”

“To be frank, I’ve been asking myself the same thing all day.”

“And—?”

“I think it was to prove to myself that I was really worth something as a scholar. I have an ego and I wanted to see if I could really make it in the big leagues.”

“Well, you certainly did, baby — if you’ll pardon the pun — with a vengeance. I still don’t understand why you’re handing back the crown jewels.”

“Because after the initial excitement wore off, I realized I’d be doing the wrong thing. Look, my career isn’t the be-all and end-all of my life. I want to make my second shot at matrimony work. I mean, the libraries close at ten o’clock, but marriage goes on twenty-four hours a day. Especially a good one.”

He did not comment. At least not right away. He was trying, in his slightly woozy state, to piece out what all this meant.

“Hey, Lambros, cheer up,” she whispered kindly. “I’m sure they’ll offer it to you.”

He looked across the table at his ex-wife.

“You know, I actually believe you’d be happy if I got it. Considering what a shit I was, I don’t see how you can feel that way.”

“All I feel is a kind of residual sadness,” she said softly. “I mean, we had some very happy years together.”

Ted felt a knot in his stomach as he replied, “They were the happiest years of my life.”

She nodded in melancholy empathy. As if they were mourning a mutual friend.

They sat silently for several moments more. Then Sara, growing uneasy, rose to leave.

“It’s getting late. I should be going —”

“No, wait just one second,” he pleaded, motioning her to sit down.

He had something important to say. And if he didn’t tell her now, he would never have another chance.

“Sara, I’m really sorry for what I did to us. And if you can believe this, I’d give up anything — including Harvard — if we could still be together.”

He looked longingly at her, waiting for her response. At first she said nothing.

“Do you believe me?” he asked again.

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “But it’s a little late now.”

Sara rose again and whispered, “Good night, Ted.” Then she leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, and started out. Leaving him alone at the top of the world.

Jason Gilbert’s parents flew over to Israel in the spring of 1974. First they stayed a week on the kibbutz getting to know — and love — their grandchildren and daughter-in-law.

Then Jason and Eva showed them every inch of the country from the Golan Heights to Sharm El-Sheikh in the occupied Sinai. They spent their final five days in Jerusalem, 459 which Mrs. Gilbert pronounced the most beautiful city in the world.

“They’re lovely people,” said Eva after they had waved goodbye to his parents at Ben Gurion Airport.

“Do you think they enjoyed themselves?”

“I think if there’s a state beyond ecstasy, they’re in it,” she replied. “What pleased me most was this morning when your father kissed the boys, he didn’t say goodbye, he said shalom. I bet anything they’ll come back again next year.”

Eva was right. The Gilberts returned in the spring of 1975 and again in 1976. The third time, they even brought Julie-who, being “between husbands,” was keen to test the myth of Israeli machismo.

Jason was an instructor now. Not exactly a sedentary job in the most elite of the special units, but less dangerous than the work he had done in the past.

It was his task to go to the enlistment center outside Tel Aviv and determine which of the eager young recruits would be fit enough mentally and physically for the impossible demands of Sayaret Matkal . He was under the direct command of Yoni Netanyahu, who had been much decorated for his bravery in the Yom Kippur war.

Yoni had spent one year at Harvard and was trying to engineer the opportunity to complete his BA. He and Jason sat many a summer evening reminiscing about familiar Cambridge landmarks like the Square, Widener Library, Elsie’s, and running paths along the Charles River.

These conversations awakened in Jason a longing to visit the one place in his life where he had led an uncomplicated and happy existence.

He and Eva discussed it. What if they went to the States for a year after he completed his present army contract? If they’d accept him at the advanced age of thirty-nine, he could finish his law degree and then set up practice in Israel representing U.S. firms.

“What do you think, Eva?” he asked. “Would the kids enjoy it?”

“I know their father would.” She smiled indulgently. “And I’ve heard so much about Harvard all these years, I’m practically homesick for it myself. Go on, write the letters.”

Even after being AWOL for so many years, Jason had no trouble being readmitted to the Law School. Especially since the Assistant Dean of Admissions was now Tod Anderson, with whom, in his previous life, he had been a carefree jock.

As a postscript to his letter of acceptance, Tod added, “You may be a major over there, Gilbert, but to me you’re still my captain. Squash captain, that is.” To which he appended a P.P.S., “I’ve been working on my game a lot and I think I can finally whip you now.”

Jason was admitted as a third-year law student for the-1976-1977 academic year. He and Eva planned to take the boys over in mid-July and leave them with his parents while they searched for an apartment in Cambridge.

In May 1976 he left the Sayaret and active army service. Now all he owed Israel was a month of reserve duty every year until he was fifty-five.

When he said goodbye to his young commanding officer, Yoni could not help betraying a bit of envy.

“Think of me when you’re jogging on the Charles, saba , and send me a few postcards from Cambridge.”

The two laughed and parted.

Then, on the 27th of June, everything changed.

Air France flight 139 from Tel Aviv to Paris was hijacked after it stopped to take on passengers in Athens.