Class of '44 Grads Reflect on Impact of War on College Life

Sylvia Maynard '44 was a columnist for The Radcliffe News.

Suddenly, these young anthropologists ask me--as eldest survivor of a remote, disappearing culture--to record my tribal memories, chants and alphabets.

All right. What was ancient Radcliffe like? Sorry, we didn't drag water in gourds from a well in the Square; but Harvard Square in the early '40s had no Holyoke Center, no sidewalk cafes, no cappuccino, no chic, no beggars and only one subway entrance. Farther off, Memorial Hall (with tower) rose in splendor above wide lawns (now gone, where traffic zooms through the underpass).

Scuffing dry leaves along brick pavements, in our saddle shoes or loafers, we never passed huge, funny-angled buildings. Around us lay a quaint and quiet village of woodframehomes--many elegantly gracious on tree-shadedlawns. Peaceful--except that, somewhere else, awar was going on.

In Cambridge, because of Hitler, gender wasdestiny. Where Uncle Sam's finger pointed, Harvardstudents disappeared--or reappeared as look-alikesin a line of naval uniforms stretching, at drill,the length of the Yard. Males in a moment lostsafety, choice and freedom.

We females could stay in college, free,privileged not to wonder if we'd still be alivethis time next year. Girls with boyfriends, ofcourse, worried, wrote letters, knittedcompulsively through class. Many "accelerated" tofinish college in three years; some left to marrytheir love before he vanished overseas.

In 1943, the Navy took over two floors of mydorm to house WAVES. Marching into Briggs, in theniftiest uniforms, these hearty young women soondisgusted us by leaping from their beds at an hourwhen most of us had barely crawled into ours, toperform loud, thumpy calisthenics in hallways,then marching around our Quad shouting theiranthem (a rousing descant on "Anchors Aweigh").

To them we lost our private rooms; out with thebed, in with the double-bunk (happily, SibylBeckett '44 and I had fun, despite the crowding).Breakfast became self service, and rationing tookhold (mournfully did I stare into a fullhalf-gallon of coffee, to view the bottom clear asa coral reef in Tahiti--you had to drink it all toget any kick).

Coming to Radcliffe as a transfer in thefall of 1942, I trekked between Briggs on the Quadand the Radcliffe Yard, where everything-inparticular our classes--happened. That meant, inthat final year of young ladies' separate butequal education, an instructor, ending his lectureat Harvard, had to Cash on foot or bike acrossMass Ave, to repeat himself for our delicatefeminine ears. Nobody seemed to question this, andinstructors got their exercise.

But as war drained Harvard's faculty in thefall of 1943, the unthinkable became feasible.True, "coeducation" remained a dirty word; theterm used was "joint instruction." But in onemoment, all changed: we took classes with Harvardmen in Harvard halls.

Both before and after this revolution,remarkable teachers shared their passionateenthusiasms with us. In philosophy, Rafael Demos,with his halo of white hair, seemed to beSocrates. The noted psychologist Henry AlexanderMurray spoke more (to my relief) of people than ofrats.

And the famous but never smiling F.O.Matthiessen, the first senior tutor of EliotHouse, lectured on Shakespeare, annoyed that wedidn't know the meaning of "petard." Once, as Ipassed him on a path, he amazed me with a warm andfriendly smile. Two days later, he jumped from thewindow of Boston's Hotel Touraine to his death.

Professor Theodore Spencer, handsome andtweedy, led a thrilling dash through the historyof drama. When I told him I'd like to write mypaper on Aristophanes--because he was so likeGilbert and Sullivan--Mr. Spencer looked mildlysurprised but said he was glad that I didn'tobject too much to "the dirt." I hadn't actuallyrealized it was dirty, my guesses at the words Ididn't know seeming too impolite to be true.

A similar problem came up with my nice,pipe-chewing tutor, scarcely older than I andalready married. As he lit and intricately curledaround his pipe, Mr. Weld would point out how thispoem (any poem) of John Donne's was about sex.SEX?! Oh dear! Holding the gasp, I assumed a blasetone: Oh. Yes. That. Of course.

That, of course, was a matter ofconcern. Sometimes, brushing teeth in the dorm, Ioverheard conversations about exotic evenings with"dates: about nightclubs, liquor...or worse!

My own social life was limited to churchbreakfasts after choir, and strolls along theriver with conscientious objectors (like Harry whorode me on his bicycle handlebars) or boysclassified 4-F (like Eugene who was frequentlylate to class due to his habit of swooning in themiddle of Mass Ave).

I got my first kiss, if you could call it that,from a lanky Harvard Chemist I met at a folkdance. One rainy spring night on the Esplanade, wetook refuge under the bandshell. We talked forhours holding hands (this was getting serious!),and on Class Night under his brilliant porchlight, he delivered a very quick peck to my leftcheek.

Was such restraint uncommon? Maybe not. "Formost, virginity-'tilmarriage was still the norm(from which deviations did occur) and notnecessarily felt as childishness to be trashed atthe first opportunity. In '44, The Pill wasunheard of, and God was still a He. Unless you hada married lady's arcane information, chastityprevented peck of troubles. (You didn't have tolike it. Many complained.)

Still, in that world without sex, drugsor alcohol, there was fun to be had, whetherorganized (as at Choral or rehearsals for "DonaRosita") or disorganized (as in late night debateson questions like "Would you rather bereincarnated as a blind, deaf, quadriplegic dwarfor as a fully functioning clam?").

There was usually something enjoyable to put inmy "Solemn Column" for The Radcliffe News.

Nocturnal capers included dancing throughCambridge Common (with boys and girls just met andnever seen again) until we came to the Civil Warmonument, which was clearly put there to bescaled. On top, joining hands, we danced atmidnight a teetery horaaround the statue ofAbe Lincoln.

It's almost embarrassing, now, to recall theshenanigans going on while our age-mates abroadagonized through World War II and the Holocaust(of which we learned long after graduating).

The war, or course, was on our minds as we gaveblood or attended lectures on poison gas, andstudents volunteered where hands were needed inhospitals, settlement houses, factories or appleorchards.

Some of us put on shows for servicemen, theDance Club hopping through Mexican steps, theFrench Club inventing a cabaret for the crew of aFree French warship in Boston Harbor. For thisevent, from a record, I learned to sing "LeFiacre." Later, I corresponded with one sailor ashis maraine-de-guerre(godmother-of-war)--until French censors found, inone of his letters to me, a snapshot of his ship.For this lapse, my godson-of-war did some time inthe brig.

Our classmate Whiz (Marilyn Whisman [Monsour]'45-'44) organized a Radcliffe Entertainment Unit,to bring cheer to men in bleak barracks. In aBoston club for seamen, the stage lacking steps,we ran down an aisle and jumped three feet to getaboard, our inebriated audience meanwhile snoringloudly through the show.

Once, I came to doubt our" cheer" as I prancedin pink tutu up and down an Army hospital wardbetween beds of bandages and casts andbadlywounded soldiers from the Italian campaign;this audience, I felt, might rather be left alone.

One dark night, a cold two-hour bus ridebrought us to an Army camp where we dressed in afrigid food-storage locker and performed in thecrowed mess hall (where the men, long deprived offemale company, seemed obsessed with stroking ourhair).

Whiz in her scarlet gown was a hit as thedanced and sang "Flaming Mamie." Then I croaked myditty , "I Wish I Was a Femme Fatale" (alas, I hada long way to go). Applause broke out when I,high-kicking my way to the hoped-for but unseenexit, sprawled into a sandbox used forextinguishing incendiary devices.

It has been 50 years of mind-blowingworldwide changes, some wrought from ideas orexperiments started here. Radcliffe and Harvardare irreversibly altered, more complex anddiversified, and for whom daily life includestelevision, computers, on-line networks, rollerblades and more.

Yet despite impressive growth, University lifehurtles onward, just as a 1897 when my father atehis mutton there.

Mem Hall will again become a student diningcenter.

Next year's students will probably study,agonize, complain, throw snowballs, sing andbehave nuttily at strange hours.

Professors still will strive to press onemeaningful thought into many skulls. Here andthere will come that sudden gasp of revelation.

It is the same as with as, half a century ago.How lucky we were then, to be here.

How lucky now for the same reason.Members of the Radcliffe Entertainment Unitbrought cheer to soldiers in the spring of1944.

In Cambridge, because of Hitler, gender wasdestiny. Where Uncle Sam's finger pointed, Harvardstudents disappeared--or reappeared as look-alikesin a line of naval uniforms stretching, at drill,the length of the Yard. Males in a moment lostsafety, choice and freedom.

We females could stay in college, free,privileged not to wonder if we'd still be alivethis time next year. Girls with boyfriends, ofcourse, worried, wrote letters, knittedcompulsively through class. Many "accelerated" tofinish college in three years; some left to marrytheir love before he vanished overseas.

In 1943, the Navy took over two floors of mydorm to house WAVES. Marching into Briggs, in theniftiest uniforms, these hearty young women soondisgusted us by leaping from their beds at an hourwhen most of us had barely crawled into ours, toperform loud, thumpy calisthenics in hallways,then marching around our Quad shouting theiranthem (a rousing descant on "Anchors Aweigh").

To them we lost our private rooms; out with thebed, in with the double-bunk (happily, SibylBeckett '44 and I had fun, despite the crowding).Breakfast became self service, and rationing tookhold (mournfully did I stare into a fullhalf-gallon of coffee, to view the bottom clear asa coral reef in Tahiti--you had to drink it all toget any kick).

Coming to Radcliffe as a transfer in thefall of 1942, I trekked between Briggs on the Quadand the Radcliffe Yard, where everything-inparticular our classes--happened. That meant, inthat final year of young ladies' separate butequal education, an instructor, ending his lectureat Harvard, had to Cash on foot or bike acrossMass Ave, to repeat himself for our delicatefeminine ears. Nobody seemed to question this, andinstructors got their exercise.

But as war drained Harvard's faculty in thefall of 1943, the unthinkable became feasible.True, "coeducation" remained a dirty word; theterm used was "joint instruction." But in onemoment, all changed: we took classes with Harvardmen in Harvard halls.

Both before and after this revolution,remarkable teachers shared their passionateenthusiasms with us. In philosophy, Rafael Demos,with his halo of white hair, seemed to beSocrates. The noted psychologist Henry AlexanderMurray spoke more (to my relief) of people than ofrats.

And the famous but never smiling F.O.Matthiessen, the first senior tutor of EliotHouse, lectured on Shakespeare, annoyed that wedidn't know the meaning of "petard." Once, as Ipassed him on a path, he amazed me with a warm andfriendly smile. Two days later, he jumped from thewindow of Boston's Hotel Touraine to his death.

Professor Theodore Spencer, handsome andtweedy, led a thrilling dash through the historyof drama. When I told him I'd like to write mypaper on Aristophanes--because he was so likeGilbert and Sullivan--Mr. Spencer looked mildlysurprised but said he was glad that I didn'tobject too much to "the dirt." I hadn't actuallyrealized it was dirty, my guesses at the words Ididn't know seeming too impolite to be true.

A similar problem came up with my nice,pipe-chewing tutor, scarcely older than I andalready married. As he lit and intricately curledaround his pipe, Mr. Weld would point out how thispoem (any poem) of John Donne's was about sex.SEX?! Oh dear! Holding the gasp, I assumed a blasetone: Oh. Yes. That. Of course.

That, of course, was a matter ofconcern. Sometimes, brushing teeth in the dorm, Ioverheard conversations about exotic evenings with"dates: about nightclubs, liquor...or worse!

My own social life was limited to churchbreakfasts after choir, and strolls along theriver with conscientious objectors (like Harry whorode me on his bicycle handlebars) or boysclassified 4-F (like Eugene who was frequentlylate to class due to his habit of swooning in themiddle of Mass Ave).

I got my first kiss, if you could call it that,from a lanky Harvard Chemist I met at a folkdance. One rainy spring night on the Esplanade, wetook refuge under the bandshell. We talked forhours holding hands (this was getting serious!),and on Class Night under his brilliant porchlight, he delivered a very quick peck to my leftcheek.

Was such restraint uncommon? Maybe not. "Formost, virginity-'tilmarriage was still the norm(from which deviations did occur) and notnecessarily felt as childishness to be trashed atthe first opportunity. In '44, The Pill wasunheard of, and God was still a He. Unless you hada married lady's arcane information, chastityprevented peck of troubles. (You didn't have tolike it. Many complained.)

Still, in that world without sex, drugsor alcohol, there was fun to be had, whetherorganized (as at Choral or rehearsals for "DonaRosita") or disorganized (as in late night debateson questions like "Would you rather bereincarnated as a blind, deaf, quadriplegic dwarfor as a fully functioning clam?").

There was usually something enjoyable to put inmy "Solemn Column" for The Radcliffe News.

Nocturnal capers included dancing throughCambridge Common (with boys and girls just met andnever seen again) until we came to the Civil Warmonument, which was clearly put there to bescaled. On top, joining hands, we danced atmidnight a teetery horaaround the statue ofAbe Lincoln.

It's almost embarrassing, now, to recall theshenanigans going on while our age-mates abroadagonized through World War II and the Holocaust(of which we learned long after graduating).

The war, or course, was on our minds as we gaveblood or attended lectures on poison gas, andstudents volunteered where hands were needed inhospitals, settlement houses, factories or appleorchards.

Some of us put on shows for servicemen, theDance Club hopping through Mexican steps, theFrench Club inventing a cabaret for the crew of aFree French warship in Boston Harbor. For thisevent, from a record, I learned to sing "LeFiacre." Later, I corresponded with one sailor ashis maraine-de-guerre(godmother-of-war)--until French censors found, inone of his letters to me, a snapshot of his ship.For this lapse, my godson-of-war did some time inthe brig.

Our classmate Whiz (Marilyn Whisman [Monsour]'45-'44) organized a Radcliffe Entertainment Unit,to bring cheer to men in bleak barracks. In aBoston club for seamen, the stage lacking steps,we ran down an aisle and jumped three feet to getaboard, our inebriated audience meanwhile snoringloudly through the show.

Once, I came to doubt our" cheer" as I prancedin pink tutu up and down an Army hospital wardbetween beds of bandages and casts andbadlywounded soldiers from the Italian campaign;this audience, I felt, might rather be left alone.

One dark night, a cold two-hour bus ridebrought us to an Army camp where we dressed in afrigid food-storage locker and performed in thecrowed mess hall (where the men, long deprived offemale company, seemed obsessed with stroking ourhair).

Whiz in her scarlet gown was a hit as thedanced and sang "Flaming Mamie." Then I croaked myditty , "I Wish I Was a Femme Fatale" (alas, I hada long way to go). Applause broke out when I,high-kicking my way to the hoped-for but unseenexit, sprawled into a sandbox used forextinguishing incendiary devices.

It has been 50 years of mind-blowingworldwide changes, some wrought from ideas orexperiments started here. Radcliffe and Harvardare irreversibly altered, more complex anddiversified, and for whom daily life includestelevision, computers, on-line networks, rollerblades and more.

Yet despite impressive growth, University lifehurtles onward, just as a 1897 when my father atehis mutton there.

Mem Hall will again become a student diningcenter.

Next year's students will probably study,agonize, complain, throw snowballs, sing andbehave nuttily at strange hours.

Professors still will strive to press onemeaningful thought into many skulls. Here andthere will come that sudden gasp of revelation.

It is the same as with as, half a century ago.How lucky we were then, to be here.

How lucky now for the same reason.Members of the Radcliffe Entertainment Unitbrought cheer to soldiers in the spring of1944.