Free Persecution (9781609458744) by Ann (TRN) Alessandro; Goldstein Piperno Page A

was eager to communicate to the students the sacred fire that inspired him and at the same time demonstrate the self-sacrifice that had led him to the professorship. He had a sensual voice, which with the microphone sounded like a radio broadcast. And certainly he wasn’t so ingenuous as to underestimate the weight of his own attractiveness. What do you think? He saw the girls in the first row, widening their eyes and resting their chins on the backs of their hands with an ecstatic gesture. He felt their gaze on him, intuited their comments, interpreted the flirtatious little laughs that, each time, blessed his entrance into the classroom. There was something theatrically sexual in those sessions, whose sacredness was sanctioned by the fact that for years now they had always been held in the same place, the same two days of the week, at the same time: Tuesday and Wednesday at six in room P10, on the ground floor of the Faculty of Medicine.
    Anything could be said of Leo Pontecorvo except that he was a demagogue. He had a way with students, but stayed within the so-called academic formalities. He deplored the promiscuity between teachers and students so disastrously encouraged by the revolution of ’68. But, similarly, he found any magisterial excess anachronistic. If he had to question a girl student he called her “Miss.” With the boys, instead, he used the ironically paternalistic expression “dear boy.”
    As far as the students’ behavior during class, he was inflexible. For decades (even in the rebellious seventies) he had devoted the first class to dictating the list of things that were not tolerated. They were not allowed to arrive late. Not allowed to leave early. Not allowed to chew gum. Not allowed to have a snack. Not allowed to interrupt the lecture with questions and comments. Not allowed to address the professor with colloquial locutions like “Hi.” Not allowed to ask questions about the exams outside office hours. And so on . . . In exchange he undertook to be punctual, rigorous, sparkling.
    There was nothing boring in Professor Pontecorvo’s classes. Over the years he had learned the art of paring down technicalities and of stimulating the students’ attention with cute anecdotes about hypochondriac mothers or tender stories about a sick child who, with tenacity and a fighting spirit, had given everyone a run for their money, starting with the doctor in charge.
    That afternoon, in class, Professor Pontecorvo had been skillful enough to hide his distress. As he was driving to the university, in fact, the secretary of the clinic had reached him on the car phone with a rather unpleasant communication: a few minutes earlier the financial police had barged into the office with a warrant. Leo had answered her almost rudely, “Not now, Daniela! I’m on the way to class.”
    â€œBut, Professor . . . ”
    â€œI told you I’m on the way to class. We’ll talk afterward.”
    Imagine his apprehension as he crossed the threshold of the classroom. Imagine how he must have felt while he took from his soft leather briefcase the pad with his notes. And—to put off for an instant the moment when he would have to begin the class—he poured some water in the glass and began to sip it nervously. To his great surprise, when he began to speak his voice did not betray either impatience or uncertainty. Smooth as silk. No one could have guessed his nervous condition. Or imagine that only a quarter of an hour earlier that fascinating teacher had been informed that the tax officials were about to give him the third degree.
    A weekend at the beach with Rachel and the boys (the first of the season) had given the professor’s face an outdoor color. Which, besides, seemed to go splendidly with the tan cotton suit, the blue button-down shirt, the regimental tie, and the rich leather Alden moccasins acquired in the tiny shop on Madison Avenue.
    In other words,