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By Bernard Cooper Bill and his wife lived north of campus in a pink 1940s home with a long lawn sweeping down toward the Bay. Although not a Cal graduate, Bill was fond of Cal students and hired them regularly to help keep up his home. So, as the bus struggled up Euclid Avenue that Saturday morning, I looked forward to working for one more couple grateful to have found $1.50-an-hour labor. Bill and I laid out straight-arrow rows of bricks on the patio that first day, and I came back every Saturday in the following months to put on another coat of pink paint, trim the bushes, and pull endless weeds. The pay wasn't bad, Bill usually added a tip, and the outdoor work was a relief after a week in the classroom. And Bill's wife laid out spectacular afternoon meals--roast beef, fresh vegetables and fruit, desserts--delicious foods I had neither the skills nor the time to prepare. We sat around a polished wooden table set with white china and heavy silver. On the walls hung black and white pictures of Bill's military years: GI's with their arms draped around each other's shoulders, Bill leaning against a simple wooden barrack squinting into a bright South Pacific sky. Bill had returned from World War II, settled down into a great job and a comfortable house, and now enjoyed the rewards of his risks and labors. As we dined together, Bill and I talked about a lot of things--but one topic always on the table was Kennedy and Kruschev. Bill's convictions were clear. The U.S. had to stand up to the Soviets. Castro had to go; why couldn't we just send in the Marines, and what was all this campus nonsense about a Fair Play for Cuba Committee? I quietly sat and ate, not wanting to jeopardize the good thing I had going with any First Amendment talk. Then came October 1962. Kruschev shipped his missiles to Cuba. JFK sent his guns out to stop them. The campus, and the nation, shuddered. We had lived all our lives under the threat of atomic death, and now the nuclear hand pointed at us. Many students drove to Lake Tahoe or other distant places out of radioactive reach. That weekend at Bill's was somber. I finished the morning's work and went inside for another splendid meal.
"Of course," she said. "I don't want to be a Communist. But Bernard," she asked, looking at me, "aren't there a lot of students who would rather be Red than dead?" Now, I had protested on the Sproul steps, listened to scruffy speakers at Fair Play for Cuba meetings, and now and then read that funny little newspaper with the arm and sickle on the masthead. But I didn't want to speak for the campus as a whole, so I decided to sidestep the issue. "I suppose so," I replied, "but most would rather be neither. Actually, most of my friends are up at Lake Tahoe." "Why didn't you go?" she asked. I was too embarrassed to tell her the truth--that I didn't have the money--so I said, "I really don't think it will go that far; someone will get smart." The room was briefly silent, then Bill demanded, "How about you, Bernard, would you rather be Red or dead?" I paused. Convinced that nuclear war was unthinkable, I had never fully considered the question. I glanced out the windows at the boats on the Bay, and thought of all the life ahead of my 21 years. Then I gave him my answer, which was perhaps not the one he expected and certainly not the one he had hoped for. Then, more out of perversity than curiosity, I put the same question to him. "How about you, Bill...dead or Red?" I reversed the usual order, hoping to make more of an impact. Without hesitation he shot back, "Dead, of course. I'm no Communist." So the lines were drawn. I soon excused myself and went out to finish the yardwork. Bill paid me at the end of the day, but did not say goodbye. The next Wednesday his wife called to say they were going to Europe and would get in touch when they returned. I was not surprised when they never called. Back to Top |
Bernard Cooper ’63 is an attorney in Glendale. 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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