There were famous actors who, just a few years earlier, he would have shyly asked for an autograph. There were other world-renowned musicians, as well as important political figures. Cover girls were as abundant as the uniformed waitresses serving caviar.
And yet, incredibly, they all were flocking around wanting to meet him.
Not unexpectedly, he was asked to play. A Steinway grand was wheeled into the center of the living room and its lid propped open.
Danny had anticipated that at this hour of the night, after so arduous an effort, he would not be at his best in some classical piece. He had therefore prepared a little jeu d’esprit.
Before sitting down, he made a short speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “my thank yous could go on forever. So forgive me if I mention just two people in particular. First Mr. Hurok for having such faith and supporting me all this time —”
“Excuse me, my dear boy,” the impresario joked, “it’s you who have been supporting me.”
“And if Lenny doesn’t mind, I’d like to express my gratitude to him at the keyboard.”
Danny began with a fortissimo rendition of the piano entrance to the concerto he had played that night. He then quickly switched to a jazz medley of the tunes from Bernstein’s West Side Story.
The audience was enchanted and would not let him leave the piano.
“What now?” Danny asked ingenuously. “I’m running out of material.”
Bernstein smiled and suggested, “Why not do unto others what you just did unto me?”
Danny nodded, sat down again and for nearly half an hour poured forth jazz versions of My Fair Lady as well as standards by Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart, and Irving Berlin. Finally he pleaded exhaustion.
Later in the evening, a dapper executive type waved a business card in front of him and murmured something about doing an album along the lines of that night’s improvisations.
Just as the man retreated, an extremely elegant brunette approached Danny and said in dulcet tones, “Mr. Rossi, I very much enjoyed your performance this evening. I hope Jack and I can entice you to come and play for a small group at the White House sometime.”
Battle weary and a little high, Danny had at first merely nodded politely and said, “That’s very nice. Thanks a lot.”
Only after she had gracefully turned and walked off did he realize that he had been talking to the wife of the President of the United States.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
March 10, 1959
After graduating I expected to find myself metaphorically, but not literally, at sea.
Yet here I am crossing the Atlantic on a ship of the U.S. Navy. Knowing of my family’s distinguished record in this branch of the services, I had been determined not to follow where I might stumble in their footsteps.
But when the ninety-day notice suddenly came from the army, I panicked and thought, I don’t want to spend the next two years of my life marching around some bog. So I signed up for the navy. I mean, how bad can things be on a ship?
At least there’s nowhere to hike.
I found out otherwise, however. A sailor’s existence can be hell. While my old roomie Newall is an ensign stationed out in San-Francisco waiting for a ship full of guys to whom he can bark orders as they cruise the tropics, I thought I’d give myself a real dose of what life without privilege is like. So I’m seeing the navy as a simple white-hat, an enlisted man.
Anyway, after basic I was assigned to the destroyer tender St. Clare as an ordinary swabbie. Our task is to escort the USS Hamilton as a kind of oceangoing nanny. My initial duties were twofold. First, keeping the St. Clare shipshape. In other words, scrubbing decks. And second, acting as a football for our chief petty officer, who somehow took an instant dislike to me. I couldn’t figure out why. I never said I was from Harvard or even went to college. (Someone later told me that he thought I was “obnoxiously polite” — whatever that means.)
But the guy was fixated on giving me grief. And when I wasn’t doing the many extra tasks he set for me, or standing watch, he would storm into our bunkroom and confiscate as “trash” whatever the hell I was reading.
Once I thought I’d try to get my own back at him.
I indicated at evening mess that I felt like turning in early to read, and hurried back to settle in with… the Holy Bible. Sure enough, he barged in a few minutes later and, without even looking, ripped the book from my hands, bellowing, “Sailor, you are polluting your mind!”
And it was then that I indicated, in front of two other guys, that I had been merely enriching my soul with the Scriptures.
All he could manage was, “Oh,” replaced the book on my bunk, and marched out.
I had won that battle all right. But unfortunately I lost the war.
After that, the guy rode me day and night. At one point I was so desperate that I thought of going AWOL. But then, of course, we were a thousand miles from the nearest landfall. There are, after all, some advantages to being in the army.
If this was real life, I’d had enough of it. And if I was to survive the navy, I had to get my hands and knees off the deck.
When I was certain that this guy was on another part of the ship, I went to see the first lieutenant to plead for a transfer of duty. I didn’t give the real reason, I just said that I felt I might have some other talents that could better serve the navy.
Like what? he inquired.
Like what, indeed? I thought to myself. But off the top of my head I suggested that I had a kind of yen to write. And that seemed to impress him. So, much to my chief petty officer’s disappointment at not being able to drive me into leaping off the ship, I’ve been transferred to our information office.
Here I’m kind of an editor and journalist, writing for the various internal navy newspapers, as well as forwarding the more interesting stories to Washington for wider dissemination.
This has turned out to be a pretty neat job. Except my one chance for a wire-service break was censored by the captain. I thought it was a good story. I mean, it had excitement, thrills, surprise, and so forth — even a touch of humor. But somehow the upper echelons didn’t see it that way.
Last week when we were just entering the Mediterranean, it was a terribly dark foggy night. (Dramatic start, huh?) And in the perilous obscurity we collided with another ship. No hands were lost, though some repairs would have to be done at the next port of call.
What I found so fascinating was that we had actually collided with our own destroyer. I mean, I thought the story had a certain human interest value.
But the captain felt otherwise. He argued that American ships never did that sort of thing.
Assuming it was a journalist’s task to report the truth, I pointed out that we bad in fact just done so.
At this he blew his top and hurled at me a veritable thesaurus of synonyms for lack of intelligence. His essential message was that the U.S. Navy may make an occasional error, but they sure as hell don’t send out a press release.
I will be discharged in one year, three months, eleven days. With any luck it will be honorably.
In any case, it cannot be too soon.
Sara had finished at the top of her class.
Actually, nothing in her previous educational experience gave any hint that she would excel her fellow Radcliffe graduates in the arts of shorthand and typing. But sure enough, at the end of that first summer, she could take down dictation at an admirable 110 words per minute and could type an amazing 75.