Erich Segal - The Class

They were about four dozen, seated at long tables in a private dining room of the Student Union.

Rabbi Yavetz made some brief introductory remarks.

“In a real sense, Passover is the cardinal holiday on the Jewish calendar. For it fulfills the central commandment of our faith, as put forth in Exodus, Chapter Thirteen — that of reminding our children in every generation that the Lord delivered us from oppression in Egypt.”

Jason listened mutely as the celebrants took turns reading from the biblical account and singing psalms of praise. At one point he whispered to Larry, “How come you all know the same tunes?”

“They’re from the Top Ten of 5000 B.C. Your ancestors must have been on a very slow camel.”

Jason was relieved when the dinner was served. For then the conversation became very much twentieth-century collegiate and he did not feel like an odd man out.

During the meal Larry whispered, “Did any of it mean anything to you — you know, culturally?”

“Sort of,” Jason replied, with politeness if not much conviction. For in truth he had not really understood what this ritual had to do with him in 1957.

And yet, before the evening ended, he did.

When the service continued, the rabbi bade everyone rise to pray for the coming of the Messiah. At this point he added a note of more recent history:

“We are all, of course, aware that the ancient Egyptians were far from the last to try to destroy our people. As recently as Passover 1943, the brave Jews in the Warsaw ghetto, starved and almost without arms, began their last heroic stand against the Nazis who were besieging them.

“This did not happen to our forefathers, it happened to our very own relatives. Uncles, aunts, grandparents — and for some of us, brothers and sisters. It is of them — and the six million others murdered by Hitler — that we think at this moment.”

There was a sudden hush.

Jason saw a young man at the first table lower his head and begin to weep silently.

“Did you lose any relatives — over there?” Jason whispered.

Larry Wexler looked at his teammate and answered somberly, “Didn’t we all?”

A moment later they were again seated, singing festive songs.

The formalities concluded not long after. They were followed by some unofficial socializing with the attractive coeds, who, enjoined by a double code of hospitality, flocked to welcome the two visitors from Harvard.

At a little before eleven, Larry and Jason were walking through the darkened campus back to their dorm.

“I don’t know about you, Gilbert,” Larry commented, “but I’m really glad I went.

I mean, don’t you think it’s good to know about our roots?”

“I guess so,” Jason Gilbert answered half-aloud. And thought, My own roots seem just to go back to a courthouse twenty years ago. When some accommodating judge gave my father a new, non-Jewish name.

And to secure our future, he mortgaged all our past.

As they walked on, he mused further. I wonder why Dad had to do it. I mean, this guy Wexler’s no worse off than I. In fact, he’s better. He’s got an identity.

Jason returned from the spring tour changed in one official way. After their match against a group of former college all-stars now serving with the Marines in Quantico, Virginia, he had succumbed to the blandishments of a persuasive recruiting officer and signed up for the Platoon Leaders Class.

He had decided that this would be a great way to discharge his military obligation since, unlike the ROTC program, it would meet only during the next two summers. Then, after graduation, he’d go straight into the Marines and serve a two-year stint as an officer. There were even heavy hints that after basic training he might be transferred to Special Services and could spend his tour of duty hitting tennis balls.

But first another battle lay before him. There was Yale to face in May. And the New Haven hordes were out to get revenge.

“No”

“Please.”

“No!”

Maria Pastore sat bolt upright, her face flushed.

“Please, Danny, for God’s sake, do we have to go through this all the time?”

“Maria, you’re being unreasonable.”

“No, Danny, you’re being cruel and insensitive, Can’t you understand I have my principles?”

Danny Rossi could get nowhere with Maria.

Though for the first few weeks they had lived in a kind of paradise for two, alone amid the crowds of Cambridge, they soon encountered serious ethical differences.

Maria was the nicest, kindest, brightest, and most beautiful young woman he had ever met. And she adored him. But the problem was — for reasons he refused to understand, or at any rate accept — she would not sleep with him. In fact, she would permit considerably less than that.

They would embrace and kiss each other passionately while lying on his couch, but whenever he so much as slipped his hand beneath her sweater, all her ardor suddenly turned to rigid panic.

“Please, Danny. Please don’t.”

“Maria,” he reasoned with her patiently, “this is not a fly-by-night affair. We really care for each other. I only want to touch you because I love you.”

She stood up, and pulling down her sweater pleaded with him to appreciate her feelings.

“Danny, we’re both Catholic. Can’t you understand it’s wrong to do this sort of thing before you’re married?”

“What sort of thing?” he said exasperatedly. “Where is it written in the Bible that a man can’t touch a woman’s breasts? In fact, the Song of Songs —”

“Please, Danny,” she said quietly, but with obvious inward agony, “you know it isn’t that, It would never stop there.”

“But I swear to you I won’t ask for more.”

Maria looked at him, her cheeks red, and said candidly, “Hey look, maybe you think you could break off right in the middle. But I know myself. I know that once we reached that point, I couldn’t stop.”

For a moment this confession elated Danny. “Then in your heart you do want to go all the way?”

She nodded, with a look of shame.

“Danny, I’m a woman. I’m in love with you. And I’ve got a lot of passion bottled up inside me. But I’m also a religious Catholic. The sisters taught us that to do this is a mortal sin.”

“Hey look,” he now persisted as if in a university debate. “Can you, an enlightened Radcliffe girl in 1957, tell me you really think you’ll burn in hell if you go to bed with someone you love?”

“Before I’m married, yes,” she answered without hesitation.

“God, I don’t believe this,” he responded, running out of patience. And of arguments.

Overcome with dizzying desire to convince this sensual conservative, he said impetuously, “Look, Maria, we’ll be married someday. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Perhaps she was too upset to notice that he had actually mentioned matrimony. In any case she answered, “Danny, please believe, by everything that’s holy, I simply can’t forget the way I’ve been brought up. My priest, my parents, no — I won’t evade responsibility and put the blame on them — it’s my belief. I want to give my husband my virginity.”

“Jesus, that’s so antiquated. Haven’t you read Kinsey? Maybe ten percent of women do that nowadays.”

“Danny, I don’t care if I’m the last girl on this earth. I’m going to be chaste until my wedding night.”

To which, having reached the end of his rhetorical tether, Danny could but answer with a near-involuntary, “Shit.”

Then, trying to rein in his own passion, he said, “Okay, okay, let’s forget this whole thing and have some dinner.”

As he started to put on his tie, he was surprised to hear her answer, “No.”