Illusions of Love (5 page)

They showed their children the daguerrotypes which were on display in the pavilion at the far end of the garden: dark, grainy images of unsmiling men and women in formal poses.

Among that assembly were Martin’s mother and father. Julian Roth (the -en berger having been dropped by Julian’s parents) had married Bess Unger, a cousin three times removed. They stood facing the image of Ephraim with a heavy heart. What would he have thought today had he known that his great-grandson, Martin, had been rejected by Yale? It was painful to contemplate in view of the fact that Ephraim thought that he had left discrimination behind in the old World. He had forgotten that much of the East struggled to duplicate European society right down to its faults. It was quite clear to Julian that Martin had been turned away only because Yale’s 10 per cent Jewish quota had been filled.

For the first time the Roths realized that San Francisco was freer of prejudice than the rest of the country. Like many Western Jews, they had a very secular outlook. They gave large sums of money to non-Jewish causes, not because they felt Jewish ones were less worthy than others, but because they considered themselves part of a larger world where the needs of the underprivileged should not be categorized according to religion. For this very reason they were particularly shocked that Martin, a straight-A student, should be rejected. Martin had been in a state of shock when he handed the letter to his father.

‘ . It is with regret that, by the time your application was processed, our Freshman class had been filled. “

The next morning Julian was on the telephone with his attorney.

“Martin’s going to Yale. Do you hear what I say?”

“You do remember, Julian? I told you about the quota.”

“I would have certainly not believed that it would apply to Martin.

Not with his grades. “

“I don’t want you to think that I’m underestimating Martin’s abilities or his qualifications, but all students, Jew or gentile, have got to be damn good.”

“Well, I don’t give a damn about that. Martin’s going to Yale.”

Later, in then” bedroom, Bess said to Julian, ” I still don’t

understand any of this, Julian. I find it impossible to believe that Yale could be anti-Semitic. “

“Not overtly. But they are all the same.”

“I had no idea that anything like this went on.”

“Oh, my dear-there is much worse than this happening. There are hotels in America with signs that say: no jews, NO DOGS. There are business concerns that make no apologies for not hiring Jews.”

Bess shook her head.

“I just can’t believe this. My God where have we been?”

“Cloistered and insulated. Now, however, we have a choice. We can either fight or turn aside and have Martin apply to a school with lower standards or fewer Jewish applicants. I say we have to fight it.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Bess had tears in her eyes.

“Maybe he’d be happier with his own kind. Maybe pushing in where we’re not wanted is dangerous. Maybe it’s even more dangerous if he is eventually accepted. I mean, we wouldn’t want him to give up his Judaism.” She felt a cold premonition of disaster.

“You may be right,” Julian said.

“But with the slogans currently being shouted by the Nazis maybe we have to fight. We haven’t seen that kind of antiSemitism since the dark ages. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to speak to Martin.”

Julian found his son in his room, lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

“I think we should talk.”

“There really isn’t anything to talk about. Dad. They’ve turned me down.”

“We’ll fight their decision!” Julian answered, smashing his fist into his palm.

“We have to stand up to tyranny no matter how subtle. If the world had done that when Hitler marched into the Rhineland, the Jews might be free in Germany today.”

But Martin was besieged with conflicting emotions. He’d never thought much about being a Jew; yet he’d never considered hiding his Jewishness either. But suddenly, for the first time, he was overcome with guilt. He really didn’t want to spend four years in a place where he would at best

be tolerated. He saw no reason to apologize for being Jewish; if anything, he’d grown up proud of the fact. But he’d also grown up with a strong sense of justice. He believed in fighting for the underdog.

It was just that he’d never seen himself in that role.

With a stiffening of resolve, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up to face his father.

“Okay, we’ll fight,” he said.

“But it’s a little like shadowboxing.

It’s hard to know who’s the enemy. “

“I’m sure he’ll come forward,” said Julian with a dour smile.

“In any case we have until September several months in our favour.”

But it didn’t take that long. As in the great European universities that Yale emulated, money, big money, spoke in a loud, clear voice.

Soon after Julian arranged to donate, anonymously, a new reading room in Sterling Memorial Library, Martin received a letter informing him of an unexpected vacancy and congratulating him on his acceptance.

As Julian swallowed the somewhat hollow victory, he tried to reassure himself that Ephraim would have been pleased. Yale was, after all, a long way from the Paris ghetto.

The first of August found Bess in a frenzy of excitement trying to get Martin ready for school. She sewed name tags just as she had when he had gone to summer camp. There was mending and sorting, and of course, shopping for a proper Yale wardrobe. She decided that they could buy rain gear and a heavy wool overcoat when they got to New Haven. In addition, there was the purchase of Martin’s car. He absolutely refused to take his yellow Buick convertible. He said he didn’t think he’d need a car anyway, but if he was going to take one he insisted on trading in the Buick for a Ford. Bess was not entirely pleased with his demand, but still . The day after Labour Day the three of them took the train to New York, where Julian picked out Martin’s Ford.

They spent a few days in the city shopping and seeing shows, then they drove up to New Haven to get Martin settled. It was the first time Bess had visited an Ivy League school and she was suitably impressed. With its Gothic buildings and landscaping, it seemed more like Oxford than an American college.

Martin went to the Bursar and was quickly assigned to a room on Old Campus, the freshman quad at the heart of Yale’s campus. Bess was happy he was the first to arrive in his suite, which consisted of three bedrooms, one of which was a single, a bathroom, and a cosy living or study area. Bess insisted Martin take the single.

“You’ll have lots of work. It will be quieter she insisted.

“You don’t know the other boys. They may not be so interested in studying.”

Martin, who by now had done a little investigating of his own into Ivy League antiSemitism, didn’t argue. He might have suite mates who would not care to room with a Jew. But suspecting this and experiencing it were very different, Martin was to discover.

He helped his mother unpack and tried to reassure her he’d be fine.

“After all,” he said, “I’ve been away to school. You’ll see. This won’t be very different. I’ll bet you won’t even miss me. You and Dad can plan a second honeymoon.”

Bess smiled, but once settled on the train back West she allowed herself to cry a little. She knew Yale would not be the same as high school. Memo School for Boys had hardly required cutting the umbilical cord. It was thirty minutes away from Hillsborough, and Martin was home almost every weekend. But Yale was what Martin and Julian wanted, so she resolved to make the best of it. If she had had any idea of what Martin’s first few days in that respected situation were to be, she might have jumped right out of the train and gone back to New Haven to protect him.

Martin’s first suite mate a tall, myopic blond, dressed in tweeds, whose bags contained enough booze for the whole dorm, glanced briefly at Martin’s wavy black hair and olive

skin and merely asked him if he’d like a drink.

“Not just yet,” Martin said. Although his parents served hard liquor at their parties, his family rarely drank more than a little wine.

“Right,” drawled the blond, who finally introduced himself as Lawrence Perry.

“Your kind frowns on the indulgence. Well, Yale should loosen you up,” he added tolerantly.

Martin retreated to his room. Lawrence was unlikely to become a friend, but he seemed harmless. His other suite-mates were less innocuous. They arrived together with a welter of athletic equipment which amazed Martin, used though he was to team sports. Two were twins, Tim and Chris Sanders. The third, Mike, had roomed with them at Groton. The twins were from Newton, Massachusetts;

Mike from Philadelphia’s Main Line. They accepted Lawrence’s offer of vodka and orange juice with alacrity, and once they saw Martin’s awkward withdrawal, paid little attention. Only Chris asked as he mixed the drinks, “Roth … Roth. That name German? We wouldn’t want to room with a Nazi.”

“Hardly,” said Martin. Then, turning to face them all, he said bluntly, “I’m Jewish.” No one answered and for a while Martin thought things must be okay. It was only when it was time for dinner that he knew that the Yale he had imagined existed only in his dreams.

Lawrence pointed out that since classes hadn’t begun, they didn’t have to appear in the dining hall.

“Let’s hit the Tail for steak and a beer.”

Martin started up to go with them when Tim said sharply, “I doubt their beefs kosher. Isn’t that the word? Anyway, I can’t stop Yale from letting down their standards, but I can keep up my own.”

Lawrence started to protest, but three strong drinks did little to stiffen his backbone and he finally followed the three of them out of the room with an apologetic wave.

Martin sat stunned. He had always considered himself one of the

privileged and not just because his family had money. The Roths could hardly be called nouveau riche Martin’s roots went back three generations. They were as much a part of San Francisco society as the Cabots were of Boston. This was his first encounter with outright antiSemitism.

He made his way uneasily down to the dining hall, deciding he just must have been exceedingly unlucky in his suite mates But even though over the next week he ran into no other incidents outside his own rooms, he, found he wasn’t making friends. He wondered if he could be at fault. Perhaps his first experience in the dorm had made him too wary. But Martin had always been surrounded by friends Jewish and gentile. He’d never thought about religion before. His father had told him he had to stand up for the Jews who were being persecuted in Germany, but Martin wasn’t so happy to be fighting his own war during what should have been the happiest days of his life.

It didn’t take long for him to realize that his suite mates were not so different from the rest of the men in his class. Over those first weeks, going to classes, the library, meals, he learned how small a 10 per cent quota really was. He noticed that many of the Jews hung out together they were twice as smart as most of their classmates, but singularly aloof and hardworking.

It wasn’t easy for Martin to find out who he was, not after believing for so long that he knew. But what hurt the most was the enormous endowment that his father had given to the university in order for him to be accepted.

Now that Martin had been made more aware of his Jewishness, he developed a devotion which drew him towards it. In the face of his roommates’ rejection he felt a compulsion to proclaim his identity.

He began to understand the studious habits of his fellow Jews, and found himself spending longer and longer hours in the library. He tried to keep his parents from knowing he was unhappy, but from the noncommittal tone of his letters to Julian and his reluctance to discuss his life at Yale over the phone with Bess, he suspected they guessed.

The first break in his loneliness was none of his own doing. Suffering through a calculus class taught by a crusty old professor who seemed to delight in his students’ misery, Martin caught sight of an animated young man two seats away who actually seemed to be enjoying the course. This bright-eyed enthusiast filed out of class with Martin. At the doorway the student turned to him, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi. I’m Dominic Gatti.”

After weeks of unabated solitude, this introduction seemed like a real gesture of friendship. Dominic was a far cry from the snobbish Mikes, Tims and Chrises who cold-shouldered him at every opportunity.

“I’m Martin Roth,” he replied eagerly, accepting Dominic’s hand.

“So what do you think about this Professor Wheeler? Is he always that sarcastic? I live in fear and trembling he’ll call on me.”

“Save fear and trembling for Lyons’ Intro Philosophy,” Dominic said with a sly smile.

“But Wheeler is tough. He’s a piranha. He’ll gobble you up in one semester. If you don’t make it, he doesn’t fool around, I understand.”

“What do you mean, you understand?”

“Because Wheeler is notorious for extracting his pound of flesh.”

Never had a more astute statement been made, Martin found out in the weeks to come. For some reason, Professor Wheeler had singled him out among that vast ocean of faces, just why, Martin didn’t know. Each time Martin raised his hand to a question he was sure he knew, the answer was barely out of his mouth before Wheeler had poked holes through every one of his arguments. Martin couldn’t dismiss the thought that Wheeler’s badgering was more personal than academic.

Goddamn/he thought. Am I becoming paranoid about my Jewishness? As he and Dominic walked across campus, he tried to figure out a way to ask his friend what he thought without appearing ridiculous. It took him a week, but when he finally mentioned to Dominic that Wheeler might be anti-Semitic, the Italian just laughed and said, “Don’t take it

personally. Wheeler’s anti-everything. But especially anti-freshmen.”

As the days passed, Martin had to admit that Wheeler wasn’t happy unless he flunked over half his class. Martin spent his nights cramming his head full of calculus, but the harder he tried the less he found he could concentrate. As midterms drew close, he became certain he was going to fail. He could barely listen to Wheeler’s lecture.