broadsides posted outside the auditorium advertising the candidates for class president,

Julius had an inspired thought, and even before he learned the location of the boys` room

he had posted his name for the election.

The election bid was a long shot, beyond long shot—longer odds than betting on

the tightfisted Clark Griffith`s inept Washington Senators to climb out of last place. He

knew nothing about Roosevelt High and had yet to meet a single classmate. Would the

old Julius from the Bronx have run for office? Not in a thousand years. But that was the

point; precisely for this reason, the new Julius took the plunge. What was the worst that

could happen? His name would be out there, and all would recognize Julius Hertzfeld as

a force, a potential leader, a boy to be reckoned with. What`s more, he loved the action.

Of course, his opponents would dismiss him as a bad joke, a gnat, an unknown

know–nothing. Expecting such criticism, Julius readied himself and prepared a riff about

the ability of a newcomer to see fault lines invisible to those living too close to the

corruption. He had the gift of gab, honed by long hours in the bowling alley of wheedling

and cajoling suckers into match games. The new Julius had nothing to lose and fearlessly

strolled up to clusters of students to announce, «Hi, I`m Julius, the new kid on the block,

and I hope you`ll support me in election for class president. I don`t know crap about

school politics, but, you know, sometimes a fresh look is the best look. Besides, I`m

absolutely independent—don`t belong to any cliques because I don`t know anybody.»

As things turned out, not only did Julius recreate himself, but he damn near won

the election. With a football team that had lost eighteen straight games and a basketball

team almost as hapless, Roosevelt High was demoralized. The two other candidates were

vulnerable: Catherine Shumann, the brainy daughter of the diminutive long–faced

minister who led the prayer before each school assembly, was prissy and unpopular, and

Richard Heishman, the handsome, red–haired, red–necked football halfback, had a great

many enemies. Julius rode the crest of a robust protest vote. In addition, to his great

surprise, he immediately was embraced vigorously by virtually all the Jewish students,

about 30 percent of the student body, who had heretofore kept a low, apolitical profile.

They loved him, the love of the timid, hesitant, make–no–waves Mason–Dixon Yid for the

gutsy, brash New York Jew.

That election was the turning point of Julius`s life. So much reinforcement did he

receive for his brazenness that he rebuilt his whole identity on the foundation of raw

chutzpah. The three Jewish high school fraternities vied for him; he was perceived as

having both guts and that ever so elusive holy grail of adolescence, «personality.» Soon

he was surrounded by kids at lunch in the cafeteria and was often spotted walking hand in

hand after school with the lovely Miriam Kaye, the editor of the school newspaper and

the one student smart enough to challenge Catherine Schumann for valedictorian. He and

Miriam were soon inseparable. She introduced him to art and aesthetic sensibility; he was

never to make her appreciate the high drama of bowling or baseball.

Yes, chutzpah had taken him a long way. He cultivated it, took great pride in it,

and, in later life, beamed when he heard himself referred to as an original, a maverick, the

therapist who had the guts to take on the cases that had defeated others. But chutzpah had

its dark side—grandiosity. More than once Julius had erred by attempting to do more

than could be done, by asking patients to make more change than was constitutionally

possible for them, by putting patients through a long and, ultimately, unrewarding course

of therapy.

So was it compassion or sheer clinical tenacity that led Julius to think he could yet

reclaim Philip? Or was it grandiose chutzpah? He truly did not know. As he led Philip to

the group therapy room, Julius took a long look at his reluctant patient. With his straight

light brown hair combed straight back without a part, his skin stretched tight across his

high cheekbones, his eyes wary, his step heavy, Philip looked as though he were being

led to his execution.

Julius felt a wave of compassion and, in his softest, most comforting voice, offered

solace. «You know, Philip, therapy groups are infinitely complex, but they possess one

absolutely predictable feature.»

If Julius expected the natural curious inquiry about the «one absolutely predictable

feature,” he gave no sign of disappointment at Philip`s silence. Instead he merely

continued speaking as though Philip had expressed appropriate curiosity. «And that

feature is that the first meeting of a therapy group is invariably less uncomfortable and

more engaging than the new member expects.»

«I have no discomfort, Julius.»

«Well then, simply file what I said. Just in case you run across some.»

Philip stopped in the hallway at the door to the office in which they had met a few

days before, but Julius touched his elbow and guided him down the hall to the next door,

which opened into a room lined on three sides with ceiling–to–floor bookshelves. Three

windows of wood–lined panes on the fourth wall looked out into a Japanese garden

graced by several dwarf five–needle pines, two clusters of tiny boulders, and a narrow

eight–foot–long pond in which golden carp glided. The furniture in the room was simple

and functional, consisting only of a small table next to the door, seven comfortable Rattan

chairs arranged in a circle, and two others stored in corners.

«Here we are. This is my library and group room. While we`re waiting for the

other members, let me give you the nuts–and–bolts housekeeping drill. On Mondays, I

unlock the front door about ten minutes before the time of the group, and the members

just enter on their own into this room. When I come in at four–thirty, we start pretty

promptly, and we end at six. To ease my billing and bookkeeping task, everyone pays at

the end of each session—just leave a check on the table by the door. Questions?»

Philip shook his head no and looked around the room, inhaling deeply. He walked

directly to the shelves, put his nose closely to the rows of leather–bound volumes, and

inhaled again, evincing great pleasure. He remained standing and industriously began

perusing book titles.

In the next few minutes five group members filed in, each glancing at Philip`s

back, before taking seats. Despite the bustle of their entrance, Philip did not turn his head

or in any way interrupt his task of examining Julius`s library.

Over his thirty–five years of leading groups, Julius had seen a lot of folks enter

therapy groups. The pattern was predictable: the new member enters heavy with

apprehension, behaving in a deferential manner to the other members, who welcome the

neophyte and introduce themselves. Occasionally, a newly formed group, which

mistakenly believes that benefits are directly proportional to the amount of attention each

receives from the therapist, may resent newcomers, but established groups welcome

them: they appreciate that a full roster adds to, rather than detracts from, the effectiveness

of the therapy.

Once in a while newcomers jump right into the discussion, but generally they are

silent for much of the first meeting as they try to figure out the rules and wait until

someone invites them to participate. But a new member so indifferent that he turns his