52 / CHRONICLESncurred to nobody to mock the bestnbrains in class or to complain about thendozen or so courses (no electives) innhistory, geography, Latin, foreign language,nliterature, math, physics, biology,nto which later philosophy and elementsnof law were added. All this wasnas natural as the other demands of life.nNo committees to discuss the curriculumnsince the pattern of studies hadngradually emerged from (and continued)nthe paideia, the humanitas, thentrivium/quadrivium, down to the programsnelaborated in Ministries of Instructionnby German Wissenschaftlernand French academiciens (for the gymnasiumnand the lycee, respectively).nWe knew ourselves to be part of Westernnculture, a term never used becausenit was taken for granted.nThe youngster’s mind was not clutterednup, I think because he heardnsimilar things repeated by all institutionsnand at home — on different levels,nof course. We were strongly influencednby the family; there was no neednfor the schools to stand in loconparentis. This nonconfusion of institutionalnroles was essential in my youth,nand it has remained crucial for the newngenerations, now that some countriesnof which I speak are enemy-occupied.nThe child knows that the school isndistinct from the home and that it isnnow also occupied by the enemy. Hentrusts the family rather than the teachers,nthemselves captives. Imagine thenhavoc of schools in Communist regimesnstanding in loco parentislnAs I look back, my school yearsnappear as imparting if not always excellence,nat least a reassuring orientationntoward it. In my particular case, Inbenefited enormously from the dualitynof early years: a Hungarian youngsternschooled for years in Rumania, thenmain enemy. Concretely: learning innclass the Rumanian version of thenarea’s history and, at home and fromnbooks, the Hungarian version. No dividednmind, no schizophrenia resulted,nonly an early awareness of Pascal’sndictum: “… truth this side of thenPyrenees [in my case, the Carpathians],na lie on the other side.” It maynhave led me to political relativism; itnstrengthened my absolutism in othernrespects. Anyway, the situation came tona head at the “little baccalaureate” (Inwas 14) when the Rumanian professor,nnotorious for detesting Hungarians,ncame to examine us in history—andnasked me about Hungarian kings, battles,nmedieval lawmaking. A child’sninstant dilemma: if I give the correctnanswers, he may flunk me for surreptitiouslynstudying the subject; if I displaynignorance, he will flunk me, period. Inchose the first, he was delighted, andngave me the highest mark.nWe lived history anyway, at everynstreet corner, monument, and publicnpark with its statues of great men. Atnsix, we knew the Greek and Romannpast from little vignettes which were tonshape my imagination about Alcibiadesnor Caesar to this day. They were morenlegend than fact, but that is exactlynwhat children need. Much later, mynhistory professor at the University ofnBrussels went beyond my early impressions.n”I should not teach you historyn[we were aged 20 to 25, the war yearsnhaving delayed many young men andnwomen], one does not grasp what it isnbefore reaching 40.” Perhaps true, butnthose little vignettes, deliberately mixingngods and men, did prepare me fornthe harder stuff.nThe university years in Belgiumnwere among my best memories. Thenwar had matured us, and personally, Incame to my classes from prison. I hadnbeen jailed for illegal border-crossingn(having escaped from Hungary withoutnpapers) and spent two monthsnamong a cross section of postwar Belgiannsociety, 12 to a cell built for two.nFor me it was yet another historynlesson, listening at night to stories toldnby cell mates: black marketeers, pimps,nprofessors arrested for German sympathies,nyoung chaps back from the Sovietnfront, sentenced to be hanged fornfighting our “ally,” Moscow.nWar, jail, refugee status — yet thencultural conditions I found at the universitynwere the same as in high schoolndays, 1,500 miles east, an agitatedndecade before. Learning now on ansophisticated level under world-famousnprofessors was a young man’s fulfillment.nDiscussions, girls, drinking,nexams, just as before in Hungary. Andnthe severe selection process which,nfrom one year to the next, eliminated anthird of the class — until in the last yearnonly seminar-size rooms remained fornthe handful of us. Exams? Twenty-onencourses at the end of each year. Thengirls and the more nervous among usnin tears before entering the examiningnnnprofessor’s room. Those who survivednfelt like kings (from July to October);nthe others had to spend the summernstudying, all subjects again in case theynhad failed two. Those definitively leavingnus became businessmen, minornofficials, often journalists.nIt was also my first encounter withnacademic Marxism. In prewar CentralnEurope, Communism and Marxismnwere, to say the least, not school subjects;ngovernment and church policynsheltered us from the growing threat innthe East. In postwar Belgium I had thenfirst openly Marxist professors, one ofnthem a senator. He argued that therenwas a bourgeois and a Marxist science,nopposed an invitation to speak tonEtienne Gilson (he was overruled),napproved the one to Marcel Prenant,nthe Marxist biologist from thenSorbonne. Sartre also came to lecturen— not at the university but at someninstitute on the Avenue Louise — andnwe students stood among the thousandnwho wanted to hear the scandal-riddennauthor of Being and Nothingness andnLa Nausee. The lecture was purenjargon, but with the stamp of Paris (ourncultural Mecca) on it; we were speechlessnwith admiration.nIn 1948 I gathered up courage andnaddressed a letter to General Eisenhower,nthe soon-to-be president of ColumbianUniversity. I asked for admission;nthere was not much future for anforeign-born in still war-torn and impoverishednWest Europe. I knew thatnone did not write letters to famousngenerals just like that, but I had nothingnto lose. In a few weeks his aide-decampnanswered: my application wasnapproved. From then on I started scrutinizingncatalogs, puzzled by Americannacademic structure. I still am. In earlyn1949, in snow-covered New York, Inentered Columbia campus. Two morensemesters, I had my doctorate. I wasntold that my previous schooling hadnprepared me very well. I think the war,nthe jail, and the free intellectual climatenalso had a share in it. Columbianwas child’s play in comparison.nNow back to Allan Bloom’s book. Infind The Closing of the AmericannMind a catchy, presumptuous title, andnthe arguments unconvincing. ThenAmerican educational mind does notnsuffer from constriction but from thendesolateness of cultural landscape andnthe deficiency of human relations. Ourn