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By Douglas Brookes '72, M.A. '75, Ph.D. '99 No one called him "Slotty" in 1972 when, as a young graduate student, I came to know Professor William B. Slottman, a specialist in the history of the Habsburg Empire. But by the time I returned to Cal in 1989 to work toward my Ph.D., everyone seemed to call him that. Everyone but me--"Bill" was as familiar as I could get with such a great man. He'd pooh-pooh such praise, but Professor Slottman was indeed a great man. Not for his voluminous contributions to his field--he never did get around to finishing a book (though one was published posthumously)--but rather for his way of helping a lot of lost and lonely undergraduates feel welcome and included at Cal. Besides, he did benefit his field, turning loose on American society thousands of young adults conscious and even fond of the Habsburg Empire. Before they met Slotty, these youngsters probably thought the Habsburgs were a rock group but, under his guidance, they would thrill to the triumphs of Habsburg matrimony, revel in the glories of imperial Austrian culture, and genuinely mourn the collapse of the whole grand edifice in the dark days of 1918.
Besides, with his thinning hair slicked back over his head, Slotty looked like Jack Benny, and he sounded like him, too. I half expected him to look up from the podium and call out, "Raaa-chesss-terrr," although few would have gotten the joke, apart from this grad student and the older auditors who peppered his audience. Bill's humor and passion made the history of the Habsburg Empire just about the most popular undergrad elective on campus. Slotty's courses filled Wheeler Auditorium. "My savior, my savior!" he called out when I showed up as a reading assistant for the course, in which hundreds had enrolled. Big Men and Women on Campus, average Joes and Jills--all flocked to the office where the door never closed, and there in the middle sat Bill in muted tie and gray suit, entertaining them all. Taped to bookcases, postcards from former students visiting Vienna, Budapest, and Prague oversaw the gatherings, simple testimonials to the man whose great heart had touched them. "Dear Slotty--finally made it over here! Franz Joseph would be proud of me. Hope you're having a great summer!" To these young people Bill brought laughter and light-heartedness, good will, and compassion. Bill encouraged creativity, so he didn't even blink an eye when a senior brought in her model of the baroque monastery at Melk--which she had fashioned from toothpicks. Undergrads flocked to the soirees at his home on Friday evenings, at which the Austrian imperial anthem usually rang out at some point. He'd wave as he crossed Sproul Plaza, the only figure in a suit, on his way to join undergrads for sodas (his treat) at the Bear's Lair. No wonder former students kept writing and visiting him, like the businessman who approached us one day after class at Wheeler. "Professor Slottman, you won't remember me," he said, "but I took your course and I just wanted to say that you were the best teacher I ever had." Perhaps because it happened so often, Bill simply replied, "Thank you, you're very kind," as he continued to shuffle downhill toward Dwinelle. It pained me to watch his health slip; I remember him telling me to go ahead to class while he ambled toward the elevators in the Main Library to reduce the uphill walk. When heart attacks forced his retirement, followed quickly by his death, the old home of Blue and Gold just wasn't the same for those of us who knew him. Nowadays, in my own classes, I find myself mentioning him. "You are all too young to have known him," I tell my students, "but once there was a professor on this campus named Bill Slottman..." as if invoking Bill might impart some of his wisdom, his laughter, his refusal to take it all too seriously. |
 Douglas Brookes leads educational tours through Eastern Europe and Turkey. He teaches a course in Ottoman history and culture at UC Extension, and has just published The Ottoman Gentleman. We invite alumni to write about their Cal experiences for “Recalling Cal,” California Monthly, Alumni House, Berkeley 94720. Contributors will be paid $100 upon publication.
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