You're young. You should go out some evenings and have fun." But Danny had no time-and knew nothing that would bring
him "fun." He was in a hurry to grow up. And every waking moment when he was not in school, he spent at the piano. Dr. Rossi was not unaware of his son's antisocial tendencies. And it upset him.
I'm telling you, Gisela, it's unhealthy. He's too obsessive.
-Maybe he's trying to compensate for his shortness or something. A kid his age should be going out with girls. God knows Frank was a real Casanova by this time."
Art Rossi was distressed to think that a son of his could have turned out to be so. . . unmanly. -
Mrs. Rossi, on the other hand, believed that if the two men were a little closer, her husband's qualms might disappear.
And so at the end of dinner the next evening, she left them on their own. So they could chat.
Her husband was perceptibly annoyed, since he always found talking to Danny a disquieting experience. -
"Everything okay at school?" he inquired.
"Well, yes and no," Danny replied-just as uneasy as his father.
Like a nervous infantryman, Dr. Rossi feared he might be crossing -into a minefield. -
"What seems to be the matter?" -
"Dad, everybody at school sort of thinks I'm weird. But a lot of musicians are like me."
Dr. Rossi began to sweat. "How is that, son?"
"Well, they're really passionate about it. I'm that way, too. I want to make music my life."
There was a brief pause as Dr. Rossi searched for an appropriate response. -
"You're my boy," he said at last, as an evasive alternative to an expression of sincere affection. -
"Thanks, Dad. I think I'll go down and practice now." After Danny left, Art Rossi poured himself a drink and
thought, I guess I should be grateful. A passion for music was better than several others he could have imagined.
Just after his sixteenth birthday, Danny made his debut as
a soloist with the Junior College Symphony. Under the baton
of his mentor, he played Brahms's arduous Second Piano Concerto before a packed auditorium that included his parents.
As Danny stepped on stage, pale with fright, his glasses caught the glare of the primitive spotlight, nearly blinding him. When at last he reached the piano, he felt paralyzed. Dr. Landau walked over and whispered, "Don't worry,
Daniel, you are ready."
Danny's terror magically dissipated. The applause seemed to go on -forever.
As he bowed and turned to -shake his teacher's hand, Danny was startled to see tears in the old man's eyes.
Landau embraced his protégé.
"You know, Dan, you made me real proud tonight." Ordinarily, a son so long starved for paternal affection
would have been ecstatic to get such a compliment. But that evening Daniel Rossi had been intoxicated by a new emotion: the adoration of a crowd.
From the time he entered high school, Danny had his heart set on going to Harvard, where he could study composition with Randall Thompson, choral master, and Walter Piston, virtuoso symphonist. This alone gave him the inspiration to slog through science, math, and civics.
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 unhealeci 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, 1 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 I -
- 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.
JASON GiLBERT, JR.
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
- and pure so now and now- so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice.
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food; no cripple wouldn't creep one mile uphill to only see him smile.
- e.e. cummings
CLASS OF 1915
H
e 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 unafluliated 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. And in which he was equally successful.
Admittedly, he was no whirlwind in the classroom. Still,
his grades were good enough to all but guarantee admission to the university he and his father- dreamed of-Yale.
The reasons were both intellectual and emotional. The Yale man seemed a tripartite aristocrat-gentleman, scholar, and athlete. And Jason simply looked like he was born to go there. -
And yet the envelope that arrived on the morning of May 12
was suspiciously underweight, suggesting that its message was short. It was also painful.
Yale had rejected him.
The Gilberts' consternation turned to rage when they learned that Tony Rawson, whose grades were certainly no better than Jason's, and whose backhand most assuredly was