Another had been executed for leading an abortive revolt against the oppressive regime in Haiti. Yet another gave up his life to save more than a hundred hostages.
And finally he stated, “Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living — or that either can be fatal? We are here to remember our classmates. They are not nameless. They are known. They were ours, and shall ever be.”
At this point, another member of The Class rose to read the names of the departed.
As he finished, the bells of Memorial Church began to toll. Once for every name. The dull knelling profoundly shook those standing in the vast white-paneled church.
Forty years of vibrant life reduced to the reverberation of a single bell.
We will all come to this.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 6, 1983
I had been looking forward to the Memorial Service with fear and trembling. I didn’t think I would be able to keep my emotions in check. And I’m sure I couldn’t have, if I hadn’t had the responsibility of taking care of a young son. Not my own, of course (I don’t have one anymore).
The handsome, blond sixteen-year-old standing next to me was Jason’s oldest boy, Joshua, whom I’d invited to be present when we honored his father.
While all about him tears were unashamedly flowing, he remained straight-backed and impassive. In fact, the only time he even opened his mouth was for the first hymn, “The Cod of Abraham Praise.”
I was amazed that he even knew the tune. Although I realized why, as soon as I caught the sound of his softly singing voice. While all of us were chanting the church text, he was singing it — in Hebrew. He told me later that it was a traditional Jewish prayer that, I guess, we Christians had appropriated.
He asked if this was especially for his father.
I answered that it was all for his father. Which, at least from my standpoint, was true.
To add to my aching sadness, I could see some classmates looking at Josh and thinking he was probably my son.
Afterward, I introduced him to as many of Jason’s buddies as I could find (there were so many). Every one of them had something wonderful to say to him about his father. I could see that this moved him deeply, and he was struggling manfully not to break down.
As I put him on the train to visit his grandparents, I told him I hoped that he’d come back to Boston someday. He replied that it was his dream to go to Harvard — like his father. But, of course, he had to do his army service first.
I waited till the train pulled out, thinking how proud Jason would be of the way his son was growing up.
Then I went and had a cup of coffee, since I had to meet another train in half an hour. My date for the reunion.
Just as everyone predicted, this occasion is incredibly emotional — and it had only just begun. Thank heavens I had someone I love to share it with. And who loves me, I think.
Ever since Andy left “the Western world,” Lizzie and I have grown much closer. Somewhere along the line she realized I was trying hard as hell to be a loving father. And she started to reciprocate.
Now and then I take her to a football game. Sometimes I drive down to her school — right in the middle of the week — and we go out for a good dinner. She tells me her problems. About the “creepy” men who love her and the “groovy” ones she’s trying to attract.
I started offering advice. And, to my astonishment, she
I knew that something good was happening when suddenly her grades, which had been good but not fantastic, started really picking up. In fact, she’s gotten acceptances from all the colleges she applied to: Swarthmore, Yale — and Harvard.
Who knows, maybe shell opt to go to Cambridge, even with her father on the scene. And generations of invisible ancestors looking down. My Lizzie is a plucky girl and I’m really proud of her.
It’s nice to know I’ll have her hand to hold.
Cynics might argue that the Reunion Memorial Service was merely to remind Harvard men that, although
At any rate, the rest of the week was dedicated to the impressive demonstration of how much Harvard had done for them. And — with their financial munificence — would be doing for the ages to come.
First, President Derek Bok and Dean Theodore Lambros ’58 led a symposium, “The Future of Harvard.” Their message was that while most American universities were preparing for the twenty-first century, Harvard, with its greater vision, was already looking forward to the twenty-second.
Indeed, in one of his many witty responses during the question period, Dean Lambros said that it would not be Harvard’s policy “to grant tenure to computers.”
The alumni were suitably impressed. And — especially those with teenage children about to apply to college — extremely deferential.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 6, 1983
You’d never recognize Ted Lambros. He’s preppier than I am. And boy, has he got self-assurance when he speaks. But he’s got every reason to be confident. After all, he’s really made it in the world.
His new wife, Abbie, is a terrific gal. I ought to know, since she’s a distant relative. In fact, she was working with me on the Harvard Fund Drive when Ted met her.
Since she was, to put it politely, in the suburbs of forty, our family had kind of given up on Ab’s chances of settling down. But Lambros really swept her off her feet. Now they’re living in a big house on Brattle Street.
And I think they’ll be good for each other. I mean, Ab’s a great hostess. They have everybody who’s anybody in Boston at their parties.
Pretty reliable sources have informed me that Ted recently rejected an offer to become the president of Princeton. This leads me to suspect that Harvard’s given him some heavy hints that he might ultimately move into our own presidential mansion. The thought of it excites me almost as much as I expect it does Ted.
And it’s amazing how obsequious some of the reunion guys were to this man who, in our college days, they scarcely knew was in The Class.
I’ve got to make this claim for myself, and my diaries bear me out.
I always knew that Lambros was a winner.
