Erich Segal - The Class

“I don’t think they’d even vote unanimously on a raise in salary. Frankly, what we need is a cohesive force — a solid academic who has both feet on the ground. I want Canterbury to be the number-one small college in the country. Even better than Dartmouth or Amherst. And we can’t accomplish that without attracting men of your caliber. So I have the provost’s authority to offer you an associate professorship on tenure-track.”

“What’s tenure-track?”

“It means after a year the job is permanent. How does that sound to you?”

“To be honest, the thought of a probationary period is a bit unsettling.”

“It’s really a formality,” the dean replied in reassuring tones. “Besides, the men who count up here know what we’ve got in you.”

“Ted, I’ll make the best of it. I really will.”

As they were driving home Sara reiterated in so many words that she had married him for better or worse. And having said for the last time that Berkeley was better and Canterbury worse, she would learn to love the great outdoors.

“Sara,” Ted replied, to reassure himself as much as her, “we’re going to return in triumph someday. I’m going to use the peace and quiet to write a Euripides book that’s so damn good that Harvard’ll come begging on its knees to ask me back. Remember how the Romans groveled to Coriolanus after kicking him out.”

“Yeah,” she retorted. “But the guy still ended up with a knife in his back.”

“Touché.” Ted smiled. “Why did I marry such a clever woman?

“Because you wanted clever children,” she said, smiling back.

But inwardly she brooded, If you really respected my intelligence, you’d be taking my advice.

Jason Gilbert made two important decisions that were to effect the rest of his life. He had come to realize that everything he had done in the previous two and a half years signified a commitment to defend the land of his forefathers. This meant he would stay there and grow roots.

And yet his loneliness weighed heavily on him. Watching the young kibbutz children playing made him long to be a father. But he was not sure that he had a whole heart to offer. He was still angry. And still mourning.

Nonetheless, whenever he was back on leave, he and Eva would sit in the huge, empty dining hail and talk until the early hours of the morning. These were the times when Jason felt most human.

Late one evening he confessed to her, “I don’t know what I’ll do when you get married. Who’ll stay up and listen to me bitch about the world?”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she answered shyly. “Since you’ve been here, I’ve had, as you might say, a shoulder to cry on.”

“But you never actually cry.”

“It was just a manner of speaking.”

“Sure. Like my saying, ‘You’re the one person in this place who holds my hand.’ Just a metaphor.”

“Yes. We are both… metaphors.”

Their glances met.

“I’d like to really hold your hand,” he said.

“And I would like really to cry on your shoulder.”

They put their arms around each other.

“Eva, I really care for you. I want to say I love you. But I honestly don’t know if I’m still capable of love.”

“I feel the same, Jason. But we could try.”

Then they kissed.

The ceremony took place at Vered Ha-Gaul at the beginning of a one-month leave granted Jason upon his reenlistment. The kibbutzniks rejoiced that the couple had chosen to remain among them, even though for long periods of time Jason would be involved in army duty at various — mostly secret — areas of the country.

For Jason the kibbutz had replaced his family. His estrangement from his parents was now almost complete. Eva asked him to invite them to their wedding. But he refused. Instead, the night before, he sat up in their new quarters — a two-room srif with the added luxuries of a small fridge, hot plate, and black-and-white television — and wrote his parents a letter.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am getting married tomorrow. To Eva Goudsmit, the girl hidden by Fanny’s family during the Holocaust. It’s to her I owe my understanding of what Israel means.

Under normal circumstances I would have invited you. But I know how deeply you disapprove of the direction my life has taken, and tomorrow’s vows only sanctify what I suppose you regard as a rebellion.

I followed your game plan for the first twenty-four years of my life, barely noticing the little compromises I had to make along the way, as I’m sure you barely notice yours. I know you meant well. You wanted your children not to suffer from the stigma of being Jewish.

And that’s exactly what I want for my children.

Here, being a Jew is an honor and not a handicap. My children may grow up in some danger, but they will never grow up in shame.

I will always appreciate everything you gave me while I was growing up. Now that I have grown up, even if you don’t agree with my beliefs, please respect my right to live by them.

Their honeymoon, subsidized by the kibbutz, was spent in Eilat, the southernmost point of Israel, at the tip of the Negev. The Red Sea port was founded by King Solomon to ship out the ore from his mines. And was where he welcomed the Queen of Sheba.

Jason taught Eva how to skin-dive. And they spent the mornings among the multicolored underwater coral.

At night they walked hand in hand from the cheap (but expensive) shish kebab joints to the tinsel (and even more expensive) discotheques.

But they were both happy.

“This must be what the French Riviera is like,” Eva said one night as they were walking on the shore.

“More or less,” Jason replied, not wanting to shatter his bride’s illusions. “The only difference is here, if you go for too long a swim you can end up in Saudi Arabia.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged, “the Arabs are kind of close, aren’t they?”

“They must think the same about us, But their children and ours will probably play together.”

“I hope so,” Eva said tenderly. “I mean, I hope we have a lot of children.”

It would be a good marriage and a strong one. Because it was without any illusions. They cared about the same things. About the same people. About each other. Their love was anointed with tears of abiding grief. And, at the same time, strengthened by a common loss.

During the following year, the Arab guns on the mountains of the Golan Heights incessantly shelled the kibbutzim in northern Israel. From the Jordanian and Lebanese borders, terrorist infiltrators were increasingly successful in crossing over, striking at non-military targets, and murdering civilians. Women in a crowded marketplace on Friday morning. Children in a school playground.

The outraged Israeli population was demanding action, not merely reaction. If they couldn’t keep the Fedayeen out, let them do something to stop them before they got in. Orders came down for an elite group of paratroopers to begin acts of reprisal.

Jason Gilbert was part of an operation that spent weeks rehearsing for the strike across the border.

The night before, they slept in a field a few hundred yards from the Jordanian frontier. At first light they jumped into their vehicles and sped toward the hilltop village of Samua, which Intelligence informed them was a base for El-Fatah commandos. A quarter of a mile from the village, they dismounted and continued the rest of the climb on foot, rifles in hand.

Israeli aircraft appeared overhead. They flew beyond Samua to bomb and distract the Jordanian regulars and keep them away from the operation.

When they were less than a hundred yards from the village, Jason broke into a run and signaled his men to begin shooting to create confusion. As they worked their way up the steep slope, guns appeared at the windows and began returning the fire.