George Keller’s lecture on foreign policy filled the amphitheater to overflowing.
In the space of less than forty-five minutes, he made pithy observations on all the troubled areas of international relations. From nuclear disarmament to whom the White House backed in Central America and why. From the labyrinthine mysteries of Middle Eastern governments’ behavior to a brief character analysis of the new Kremlin leaders.
It was a masterful, pointillistic painting of the whole world’s politics.
During the question period, one of the alumni asked George what he thought of Tom Leighton’s new book,
George looked visibly outraged at the mention of this attack on the man to whom he owed so much. And he rose to the occasion with an eloquent defense of his old mentor.
As The Class began to applaud, someone in the back shouted, “What about the Vietnam war, Dr. Keller?”
“What about it, sir?” George answered quietly.
“How can you and Kissinger justify the fact that you strung out those negotiations at the cost of so many lives on both sides?”
He responded calmly, “That isn’t true. Our aim in Paris was to bring the conflict to the speediest possible conclusion — to
But the man was not satisfied.
“What about the Christmas saturation bombing when you destroyed targets like the Bach Mai hospital?”
The audience began to grow distinctly uncomfortable. George remained unruffled.
“Sir, that bombing was necessary and, I think, justified because it proved to North Vietnam that we meant business. Hitting that hospital was just a tragic mistake.”
“But don’t you think the whole damn war was a mistake?”
George seemed more puzzled than provoked. “I don’t understand why you pose your questions with such urgency when we’re talking of events that are now history.”
Then the man asked, “Do you have children, Dr. Keller?”
“No,” George replied.
“Well, maybe if you did, like me, and if your only son was killed in Southeast Asia — for reasons that you still can’t understand — even ten years later you’d ask these sorts of questions too.”
There was a collective gasp in the auditorium.
George was silent for a moment and then answered softly.
“I’m truly sorry for engaging in dialectic on a subject that’s so real a tragedy for you. I think I speak for our whole class in saying that we in some small way share your loss.”
“What about the guilt, Dr. Keller? Can you really sleep at night with all that on your conscience?”
George remained poised. Then, after a few minutes of silence, said impassively, “I think we should end the seminar here.”
There was no applause. People were too upset.
The man who’d asked the questions simply walked away, his arm around his wife.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
June 7, 1983
George’s schedule was so tight that I had to rush him straight to the airport to make the five o’clock back to Washington. He sat mutely as I zoomed down Storrow Drive. He had clearly been shell-shocked by that guy’s explosion.
I tried to buck him up by telling him how brilliant his whole lecture was. That didn’t seem to comfort him.
I had driven so fast that we arrived a little early, so we had a few moments to chat in the American Airlines VIP lounge. George ordered a double scotch for each of us. When he saw that I didn’t touch my drink, he appropriated it as well. He was incredibly depressed.
In a curious way, I felt slightly responsible. Because I had lured him up to the reunion with the promise of adulation. And here he was going away with the dispiriting impression that “the people at Harvard still hate me.” I tried to reassure him that the opposite was true. His classmates all looked up to him. I, for one, particularly admired him.
That made him laugh bitterly and reply that lots of people admired him, but nobody really liked him. Again, I can remember his exact words: “I have a talent for success maybe, but not for friendship.”
I suggested that perhaps he was still feeling bruised from the divorce. He disagreed. And, after ordering yet another scotch, he told me that he felt his marriage had failed for the same reasons he couldn’t make friends at college. He was too selfish.
At that point he looked at his watch, stood up — without apparent difficulty — and we walked together toward his flight. We stood at the gate for a few seconds before he started back to where he helped rule the world. He then said something that will haunt me for the rest of my life: “Andrew, when you write about me in that diary of yours — never say that I’m a lucky man.
It is a tradition of Harvard reunions that the outstanding musician of The Class is invited to conduct at least a portion of a Boston Pops’ concert. In 1964, for example, Leonard Bernstein ’39 conducted an evening of his own music. In 1983, the same honor was accorded to Daniel Rossi ’58.
The huge organ pipes above the stage of Symphony Hall were festively decked with pink and silver pennants, the massive auditorium packed exclusively with members of The Class.
As he stood in the wings, elegant in tails and perfectly coiffed (even wearing a bit of stage makeup, lest he be thought anything but a perpetual Wunderkind), Danny was suddenly struck by a strange realization.
This was the most important audience he would ever face in his entire life.
All he could remember in this brief flickering of eternity was that during his Harvard years — despite his musical successes — he had been all but disregarded. He had not been athletic. He had not been gregarious. He had not even, at first, been a success with the opposite sex. He had been a wonk.
And after a quarter of a century he still resented the ruthless massacre of his piano.
Now the wheel had come full circle. All those who had persecuted, derided, and ignored him were out there waiting.
He walked on stage.
There was a hush as he mounted the podium, bowed slowly, then turned and raised his baton.
First he led a suite from his
Then he got to what they were waiting for: a medley from
The biggest ovation was, of course, for “The Stars Are Not Enough” — if not quite a legitimate offspring of The Class, at least an adopted child.
When it was over, he turned and faced them. They were on their feet now, all of them. Cheering and applauding.
