Erich Segal: The Class

For sentimental reasons, Dr. Rossi would have liked to see his son at Princeton, the university celebrated by F. Scott Fitzgerald. And which would have been Frank’s alma mater.

But Danny was impervious to all persuasion. And finally Art Rossi stopped his campaign.

“I can’t get anywhere with him. Let the kid go where he wants.”

But something occurred to shake the dentist’s laissez-faire attitude. In 1954, the zealous Senator McCarthy was focusing his scrutiny upon “that Commie sanctuary Harvard.” Some of its professors would not cooperate with his committee and discuss their colleagues’ politics.

Worse, the President of Harvard, the stubborn Dr. Pusey, then refused to fire them as Joe McCarthy had demanded.

“Son,” Dr. Rossi asked with growing frequency, “how can anyone whose brother died protecting us from communism even dream of going to that kind of school?”

Danny remained taciturn. What was the point of answering that music isn’t political?

As Dr. Rossi persevered with his objections, Danny’s mother tried desperately not to take sides. And so Dr. Landau was the only person with whom Danny could discuss his great dilemma.

The old man was as circumspect as possible. And — yet — he confessed to Danny, “This McCarthy frightens me. You know, they started out in Germany like this.”

He paused uneasily, now pained by unhealed memories.

Then he continued softly, “Daniel, there is fear throughout the country. Senator McCarthy thinks he can dictate to Harvard, tell them whom to fire and so forth.

I think their president has shown enormous bravery. In fact, I wish I could express to him my admiration.”

“How could you do that, Dr. Landau?”

The old man leaned slightly toward his brilliant pupil and said, “I would send them you.”

The Ides of May arrived and with them letters of acceptance. Princeton, Harvard, Yale, and Stanford all wanted Danny. Even Dr. Rossi was impressed — although he feared his son might make a fatal choice.

Armageddon came that weekend when he summoned Danny to his cordovan-upholstered study. And asked the crucial question.

“Yes, Dad,” he answered diffidently, “I’m going to Harvard.”

There was a deathly silence.

Up till now, Danny had cherished the unconscious hope that when his father saw the strength of his conviction, he would finally relent.

But Arthur Rossi was as adamant as stone.

“Dan, this is a free country. And you’re entitled to go to whatever college you desire. But I’m also free to express my own dissent. And so I choose not to pay a penny of your bills. Congratulations, son, you’re on your own. You’ve just declared your independence.”

For an instant Danny felt confused and lost. Then, as he studied his father’s face, he began to comprehend that this McCarthy business was just a pretext. Art Rossi simply didn’t give a damn for him at all.

And he realized that he had to rise above his childish need for this man’s approbation.

For now he knew he’d never get it, Never.

“Okay, Dad,” he whispered hoarsely, “if that’s the way you want it....”

He turned and left the room without another word. Through the heavy door, he heard a timpani of punches pounding savagely on his father’s desk.

Yet strangely he felt free.

He was the Golden Boy. A tall and blond Apollo with the kind of magnetism women loved and men admired. He excelled at every sport he played. His teachers adored him, for despite his universal popularity, he was soft-spoken and respectful.

In short, he was that rare young man whom every parent dreams of as a son. And every woman dreams of as a lover.

It would be tempting to say that Jason Gilbert, Jr., was the American Dream.

Certainly a lot of people thought so. But beneath his dazzling exterior there was a single inner blemish. A tragic flaw he had inherited — from generations of his ancestors.

Jason Gilbert had been born Jewish.

His father had worked hard to camouflage the fact. For Jason Gilbert, Sr., knew from the bruises of his Brooklyn childhood that being Jewish was a handicap, an albatross around the soul. Life would be far better if everyone could simply be American.

He had long considered disposing of the liability of his last name. And finally, one autumn afternoon in 1933, a circuit court judge gave Jacob Gruenwald a new life as Jason Gilbert.

Two years later, at his country club’s spring ball, he met Betsy Newman, blond, petite, and freckle-faced. They had a great deal in common. Love of theater, dancing, outdoor sports. Not least of all, they shared a passionate indifference to the practices of their ancestral faith.

To avoid the pressures from their more religious relatives to have a “proper” ceremony, they decided to elope.

Their marriage was a happy one whose joy was magnified in 1937 when Betsy gave birth to a boy, whom they named Jason, Jr.

The very moment that he heard the splendid news, in the smoke-filled waiting room, the elder Gilbert made a silent vow. He would protect his newborn son from suffering the slightest hardship because he was of nominally Jewish parents. No, this boy would grow up and be a first-class member of American society.

By this point Gilbert, Sr., was executive vice-president of the rapidly expanding National Communications Corporation. He and Betsy were living on a lush three-acre homestead in growing — and unghettoed — Syosset, Long Island.

Three years later, baby sister Julie came along. Like her brother, she inherited her mother’s blue eyes and blond hair though only — Julie got the freckles.

Their childhood was idyllic. Both seemed to thrive on the regimen of self-improvement that their father had devised for them. It began with swimming and continued with riding and tennis instruction. And, of course, skiing on their winter holidays.

Young Jason was prepared with loving rigor to become a demon of the tennis courts.

First he was tutored at a nearby club. But when he showed the promise that his father had fully expected, each Saturday the elder Gilbert personally drove his budding champion to Forest Hills for coaching by Ricardo Lopez, former Wimbledon and U.S. champion. Dad watched every minute of the sessions, shouting encouragement and reveling in Jason’s progress.

The Gilberts had intended to bring up their children with no religion at all. But they soon discovered that, even in a place as easygoing as Syosset, no one could exist in unaffiliated limbo. It was worse than being … something second rate.

Fortune dealt them yet another ace when a new Unitarian church was built nearby.

They were accepted cordially, though their participation was sporadic, to say the least. They hardly ever went on Sundays. At Christmas they were on the slopes and Easter on the beach. But at least they belonged.

Both parents were intelligent enough to know that trying to raise their children as Mayflower WASPs would ultimately cause them psychological perplexities. And so they taught their son and daughter that their Jewish background was like a little rivulet that poured from the Old Country to join with the mighty mainstream of American society.

Julie went away to boarding school, but Jason opted to remain at home and attend Hawkins-Atwell Academy. He loved Syosset, and was especially reluctant to give up the chance of dating girls. Which, next to tennis, was his favorite sport.