Arthur’s writing hand almost melted filling out those applications. It was not just the application forms, either, which were many. There were also the essays. Why did I want to study government? Why did I feel I was suited to do so? Why did I want to study at “our” school? What was my background? What were my interests? Well, my overriding interest was to be able to see again, but that did not seem to be in the cards. I also used to like to sleep a few hours a night, but that was clearly out as well. I used to enjoy going to parties, but I had to forget about the partying that all my friends were doing. My interests had boiled down to me and that damned tape recorder.
Anyway, no Harvard law degree. But graduate study in anything was hardly a fallback to some dismal second choice. Issues of governance had long been of interest to me. Having fled the horrors of a once-civilized Germany, my family had imbued in me a sense of patriotism and pride in our country. The promise of the righteous land that had rescued their own lives was being fulfilled each day I attended the university. That realization was never far from my thoughts. It fed my resolve and helped motivate my ant-like discipline. Still does.
To call the wide array of things Arthur did for me after I returned to the university “kind” or “thoughtful” or “gracious” would be an insult to him. Those words convey far too little. He divorced himself from the life he had been living, altering his own ways to conform better to mine. He fixed the tape recorder when it was broken. He read to me every day all that was not read by others, which was a great deal—and for hours at a time. He also read to me when others failed to show up or when I needed someone close by for whatever reason. He not only filled out my graduate-school applications, he also kept audiotapes of them (so I could refer to them if necessary).
Arthur would sit beside me on the bed, or he would pull a chair up to my desk. He arranged papers spread out on the floor. Like spies, we would also map out my work in the basement of his home in Forest Hills. There was nothing he would not do for me: He walked me to classes; he picked me up from classes. He escorted me across the city. He bandaged my shins when I bloodied them, which was often. He also bandaged my forehead and my knuckles, getting my blood on his hands and under his fingernails. In this way, we were like brothers. He did not say anything about his help, though I knew he did not like the sight of blood.
What my roommate and friend did, he did without having to be asked, and with vigor. He did it quietly, too; after the walk down Saranac Avenue, we never once discussed his decision to help me in the ways he did.
I certainly needed his help beyond the support I received from my readers. The help I required most urgently was to have study material read to me every night. He would say, “Darkness is going to help you today.” Or, “Darkness is going to read to you from The Iliad.” I suppose he meant that for me his voice was emerging from the darkness. The voice was smooth and light. He would read with expression and intensity, as if he had written the words he was reading.
When he walked me to classes, we walked as if nothing was wrong and talked en route. Anyone who happened to notice us must have thought it odd to see one young college student holding on to another—unless they had heard of my situation, as many people on campus had.
It was not as if Arthur did not have much to do. He was a motivated student of architecture, and he took the extensive coursework quite seriously. There was a clear formula for students back then: do the work, go to the best graduate school, get the best job, earn a lot of money, spend your life around the best people—whatever those things may mean to each student.
I do not know to what hope my dear friend most ardently clung at the time. He was an artist, a poet, a singer, and a guitar player. He mostly wanted to be an architect, however, and that demanded diligence. Left-handed, he wrote and drew with such care and precision that it was a minor miracle when he finished any graphic piece at all. While I studied, I could frequently hear the slow drag of his pencil against paper. Sometimes he would sing to himself while he worked.
What was the cost to Arthur of all the help he gave me? Reading for countless hours. Holding my elbow while taking me to meet my social worker. Holding my elbow on the subway. Holding my elbow to cross campus. Turning me away from oncoming buses, from potholes, from misfortune and tragedy. Helping me not to experience confusion or terror. Helping me with the tape recorder—that iron maiden I was wedded to. Collecting my mail and reading it to me (including all the small print). Reading my teachers’ nearly indecipherable handwritten comments. Helping me plan my future and work for it.
Sometimes just his being there was the biggest help of all. We were roommates, after all. When you are blind, you are unable at times to distinguish night from day, to separate when to be awake from when to sleep. The sound of Arthur’s breathing—the one deep breath before he got set to sleep at night, as he made himself comfortable in his bed, maybe reading by the light of a small lamp or finishing a drawing—was important for me, even necessary. It was part of being a normal human being living with other
