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 protege.
“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 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.
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:
