Institut Le Rosey
Photo source: Le Rosey - All Rights Reserved
In 1950, Dad received a new assignment as 1st Secretary and Consul to the American Embassy in Rome. It was his first elegant Foreign Service posting. James C. Dunn, of Cuba days, was serving as Italy’s American ambassador.
In August, all six of us, including Jock, departed New York aboard the M/S Saturnia bound for Naples. I had just turned thirteen.
Once in Italy, my parents found a charming house located in a tiny local community just outside Rome. Not far from the magnificent Colosseum, it was located at #87 Appia Antica on Rome’s famed, paved Appian Way built in the 2nd-3rd BC.
After moving into our new home, soon we came across the community’s two beautifully maintained bocce courts encircled with requisite benches and full lighting. One night several Italian men invited our family to join the neighbourhood for an evening of bocce. It wasn’t long before all six of us were introduced to a wonderful group of locals. Even Tom and Mom became involved. That evening along with twenty of our new Italian friends, we laughed and shared a beer or two while being taught to play bocce, Italy’s national pastime.
However, even before the family’s move to Italy, my parents informed Jock and me that we would be attending Le Rosey, a boarding school in Rolle, Switzerland. Heather and Tom would study in Rome living with Mom and Dad. Interestingly, their school occupied the home of Mussolini, Italy’s former Socialist Party’s prime minister and eventual dictator from 1922 to 1943. Ultimately, he was captured and executed.
The prospect of leaving home to study in another country did not sit well with me. Noting my anxiety, Dad spent some heavy, one-on-one time with me trying to calm my concerns. In his usual fashion, Dad described all of the positive aspects Jock and I would benefit from attending L’Institut Le Rosey.
It was early August as Mom, Jock and I travelled northward by train from Rome to Lausanne, Switzerland. Then, there was a short train ride down Lake Geneva to Rolle. From the village of Rolle, a taxi ride carried us up the long, tree lined driveway to Le Rosey. The entrance to the school centered on a large circular gravel drive. In its center was an aged beech tree around which a wooden bench provided a resting place.
Not long after Jock and I had been introduced to Headmaster Monsieur Louis Johannot and one of the school’s teachers, Mom, quite abruptly, got up, said her goodbyes and left in the waiting taxi. Many years later, she revealed that as we had arrived at Le Rosey, she experienced a surge of deep sadness swelling within, obviously in anticipation of leaving behind her two young boys.
No sooner had she disappeared down the drive, my world seemed to implode. Everything worsened as Jock and I were told we would not be living together. He was a freshman and I, an 8th grader.
In due time we were informed that rather than using first names on campus, Jock was to be called "Edgar Un" and I, "Edgar Deux.” Likewise, while at school I would have to sign all documents/papers as “Edgar II”.
Everything around me seemed to get worse. I sought comfort through my brother. We discussed my running away. Jock, in turn, pointed out that our lack of funds precluded such an idea. My fallback was to withdraw into myself, avoiding both my roommate and my newfound friends. Long, “come-and-get-me letters” were sent to Mom and Dad. On and off I wept for weeks, occasionally while walking alone in the surrounding fields. My insides felt as though they were on fire. I was more than homesick. That early period of my Rosey experience was painfully traumatic until, out of the blue, a polio scare occurred down in the village. Without hesitation, the school decided the entire school body should relocate the very next day to its Gstaad campus in the Alps. Somehow that geographical transition altered my entire disposition. No longer did I dwell on my homesickness and related miseries.
Breakfasts
Every day a large Swiss bell located outside the dining hall summoned all meals. On first arriving at Le Rosey, the sole bright spot for me was early breakfast. The one hundred and twenty-five or so young men usually sat among their own classmates at long wooden tables. Each table accommodated ten to twelve students. All of them appeared famished.
Swiss breakfasts differed markedly from American breakfasts. As a result of the recent war, fruit juice and meat were not readily available in Europe. This precluded my usual favorites, orange juice, crispy bacon and sausage. Dry cereals had not been discovered in Europe and concentrated orange juice had not been introduced from Florida to the Continent. Nevertheless, Le Rosey breakfasts were nutritional, tasty, bountiful and fabulous.
Most mornings several beautiful loaves of fresh bread were on each table along with large blocks of butter and several choices of jams and honey. At the end of each table wheels of fresh cheese were placed. The tables were laden with large ceramic bowls filled with soft-boiled eggs, boiled potatoes and pitchers of fresh milk. Hot chocolate and porridge were always available. There was nothing like spreading butter, along with a chunk of cheese, on a section of warm boiled potato. Using a knife and spoon, all newbies learned how to surgically enter a soft-boiled egg without cracking its main shell. An added dab of butter with a touch of salt and pepper topped off a perfect meal. Breakfasts at Le Rosey were memorable and picture-book perfect.
Legacies
Over 30 years ago “Life Magazine” wrote an article about Le Rosey, one of the world's most prestigious schools located in Rolle, Switzerland on Lake Geneva. The school founded in 1880, is said to have been built on the site of the 14th century Chateau du Rosey. In the magazine’s article, Monsieur (Col.) Louis Johannot, the school's Director, wrote about this high-profile school. He expressed pride in the school's being able to sculpt young boys into future world leaders by exposing them to the qualities of “English royalty, Spanish honor, German intelligence, Italian ‘joie de vivre,’ American co-ordination, and Polynesian beauty.” In his exuberant description of Le Rosey, he referred to this unique institution as the “School of Kings.”
Prior to our arrival, Jock and I knew very little about Le Rosey. Soon we came to realize that a meaningful number of our new friends were children of well-known families:
young Winston Churchill, grandson of Sir Winston Churchill, the former war Prime Minister of Great Britain, lived just down the hall from me. During his colorful career, young Winston served as a journalist for the Wall Street Journal and later as a Member of Parliament. He lived a full life.
the princes Karim and Amyn Aga Khan, as I recall, shared personal living quarters not far from Jock’s room. Both were the sons of the well-known playboy, Prince Aly Khan, and grandsons of the renowned “Aga Khan.”
Warner LeRoy, son of Mervyn LeRoy, the acclaimed American film director/producer of such classic movies: "The Bad Seed" and "The Wizard of Oz." Warner lived in the same building as Jock. Curiously, that very year, father, Mervyn LeRoy, was in negotiations through the American Embassy in Rome. He was interacting with Dad seeking to make the new film, "Quo Vadis," starring Robert Taylor and Deborah Kerr. By 1974, Warner would own the famous Tavern on the Green located in Central Park, NY and, later, New York City’s posh Russian Tea Room.
Joseph Dassin was the son of Jules Dassin, the notable American film director/producer of memorable movies as "Topkapi" and "Never On Sunday.” Joe was in my class and, many years later, would be signed by CBS as an American-born, French singer-songwriter,
The Maharaja (Shatrusalyasinhji) of Nawanagar of India was a dorm mate of mine. I recall he was the 1st son of India's most wealthy maharaja.
two sons of the Italian Agnelli family were in Jock's class. The family had founded and were managing the Fiat car company, the largest industrial complex in Italy.
A few of my closest friends, though with less prominent family names, included: Bill Maddux, Philippe Coupey and my roommate, “Dominick,” son of a senior corporate officer at Nestle. Interestingly, Coupey became a prominent Zen teacher in the Soto tradition in Europe.
Going back to the school’s inception, Le Rosey's all-inclusive list of notable alumni is rather remarkable. Since 1950-1951, the school has only enhanced its reputation.
Polio Scare
After less than two months of being at Le Rosey, a polio scare struck the village of Rolle. The frightening news mushroomed into a major concern. Without hesitation, the administration opted to move the entire student body from Rolle to its alpine campus in Gstaad for the remainder of the 1st trimester. To my knowledge, no one at school contracted polio that year. As usual, after Christmas break and at the beginning of the second semester, the entire school returned to Gstaad for its winter term.
Corporal Punishment
All of Le Rosey's teachers were multilingual and from a variety of countries and backgrounds. From my 8th grade vantage point, the school's most feared and unpopular teacher was a middle aged Irishman, Mr. Woodman. His curly red hair dangled down over his furrowed brow. His watery eyes were set close together and into a large head. His nose seemed disproportionately large. His rosebud lips were always pursed.
At every opportunity Mr. Woodman enjoyed displaying his athletic prowess and at anyone's expense. Single, he considered himself a ladies-man. Even a 13 year-old could see Woodman had an eye for the Director’s lovely wife. There was no doubt he was smart, clever -- and devious? Unfortunately, he became my nemesis.
My three-day-a-week Latin class consisted of eight students seated around a large, rectangular, oak table in the center of a small classroom. Typically, students at Le Rosey were required to stand when being spoken to by, or speaking to, their teachers. In Latin class, however, Mr. Woodman required his students to remain seated at all times. Most of Le Rosey's courses, even Latin, were taught in French.
Growling in poor French, Mr. Woodman would pace about the floor addressing the day’s lessons. He always clenched a wooden pointer behind his back. As he circled the table, suddenly he would stop directly behind a cowering student of his choosing. The identified youngster was challenged to repeat by rote his previous day’s homework in French. In my case, by learning Latin in French only made the course doubly difficult. Curiously, most of the multilingual, foreign students spoke both English and French. In the 1930s, Jock and I had spoken French as our first language. Once back in America, by the 1950s French had long been replaced by English, our mother tongue.
In my Latin class, I had another disadvantage. I was the smallest student in my class. Having lived in China during the past two years, a number of illnesses undoubtedly had negatively affected my physique. When I went to Switzerland, I was only 5'6" and weighed only 100 lbs. Very shortly I came to realize Mr. Woodman enjoyed bullying smaller boys. In class he was quick to identify prime targets. To him, corporal punishment involved intimidation, always growling and snarling while slamming his pointer on the table next to the cowed student. Likewise, physical abuse was part of his repertoire.
As Mr. Woodman approached and stood behind my seat, fear took hold as I froze. My well prepared homework from the previous night simply evaporated within me. I lost all recall. Following his barking and the lack of my response, he would grab my hair, or my ears, and forcibly ram my head into the Latin book lying open on the table before me.
Failing to decline a noun or translate a sentence in a timely fashion, Woodman would press my head down onto the table. Each time those attacks occurred, silent tears filled my eyes. Belittling and physical abuse was not unique to me in schools. After all, I had experienced worse attacks in China. No, it was the ongoing humiliation in front of my foreign peers that was painful. Early in that academic year I developed an intense dislike of Mr. Woodman, he a nasty person and an inept teacher.
As for Latin, it was some time before I came to appreciate its logic and discipline. Eventually, the language became a “friend,” particularly so as I continued to study English and other European languages.
Learning Disappointments
As I recall, my 5th (in Shanghai) and 8th-grade (in Switzerland) years of education were not particularly rewarding. Certainly, the schools I attended were seen by many as fine educational institutions. But, from my perspective, many of the teachers with whom I came into contact seemed disinterested or, at least, unable to get their messages across to me. Worse yet, their methods of teaching all too often incorporated varying degrees of intimidation, belittling and occasionally even abuse.
During those years, I felt I was benefitting little from most of my teachers. Few were able to infuse the excitement of learning. Even today, I sense those lost years failed me. To me the learning process was seen as a means to an end. Going to school was no more than part of growing up. I sensed that one was expected to navigate through and graduate from high school and then college so as to get on with life. Learning was tedious and not fun.
At Le Rosey students were permitted to study in their rooms unless, of course, a teacher determined the student was not up to standards. If so, the student would be assigned to a common study hall. I abhorred study hall and very soon figured out where my grade levels had to be permitting me to work in my room. Only once during the entire year was I sent to study hall.
It was only after college that the dying embers of learning/curiosity suddenly rekindled. It was then I began to take charge of my own learning process.
Looking back at my pre-high school years, I recall only a few impressive teachers. One in particular was a monk (5th grade) at College Sainte Jeanne d’Arc in Shanghai, who rose above the fray. He encouraged and always sought to enrich every one of his students. With an engaging smile, the gentle monk referred to his students by first name. In his class, each of them began to feel good about themselves and, in the end, made every effort to succeed. Punishment was not integral to his modus operandi. Interestingly, his students stood when spoken to and when reciting lessons. A teacher’s teacher, he made me a better student.
Another unusual teacher (8th grade) I recall was a Polish refugee teaching at Le Rosey. He too was able to awaken my interest in learning. It was he who ignited within me a life-long interest in the science of mathematics. And, it is he to whom I still remain grateful.
Rome Vacation
Jock and I went home to Rome for a four-week, well-earned Christmas break. Our family never tired of Rome’s many beautiful and ancient sites. On Jock’s and my return, almost daily our family explored Rome and its fascinating architecture and surroundings. We often benefited from private viewings at many locations. There seemed to be no end of Roman art and history.
During the “Holy Year of 1950,” the family was invited to attend one of Pope Pius XII ’s massive celebrations in The Vatican’s St. Peter’s Basilica, perhaps Michaelangelo’s finest masterpiece. Even Life Magazine’s camera crews were seen throughout the exquisite building documenting this particular, high-religious event. Powerful music filled every nook and cranny of the Basilica. Our seats were surprisingly close to where Pope Pius was being carried through the crowds on a golden sedan chair. Even the details of the Pope’s face and his brilliant vestments were extremely prominent.
During the busy, seemingly endless service, Dad urged some of us to follow him. He led us to a tiny door located behind a massive wall tapestry. Entering the unlocked, wooden door, we climbed a spiral stone staircase single file to a walkway overlooking the audience far below. There, 50 feet above the Basilica’s floor, we were able to see the entire procession. In the distance and located on a very narrow ledge, we could see Life Magazine’s crew with its whirring cameras. That holy celebration provided a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Opera
It was Christmas 1950 when Mom and Dad introduced Jock and me to our first opera at the historic Teatro dell’Opera di Roma. In all, it was a glorious evening affair. Mom was exquisite in an elegant gown while Dad was handsome in his white tie and top hat. Jock and I wore our best blue suits and neckties. It was a privilege being with my parents for such an event. Though neither Jock nor I appreciated opera, our parents were in their element. While I do not recall the name of the opera, I do well remember the extraordinary dinner later that evening.
Return To Gstaad
Following Christmas breaks, Le Rosey’s student body always returned to Gstaad rather than Rolle. The school’s Gstaad campus was located within the old village. It seemed to snow every night. The older, more classic chalets had large rocks positioned on their roofs to secure them against ferocious winter storms. Across the countryside, and among the valleys, many of the working farm chalets displayed beautifully carved shutters, colorful window flower boxes and brightly painted front doors. Even in the village, most buildings, including those belonging to the school, were stylish chalets. Gstaad’s winter wonderland was a sight to behold. Throughout the town horse drawn sledges replaced all private vehicles. The horses’ harnesses bells could be heard ringing everywhere throughout most of the day and night.
By 1950-1951, Gstaad still had not been discovered as the elegant skiing mecca it is today. It wasn’t long before this quaint village was to become a glamorous, year-round playground for the glitterati. It’s most notable resident at the time was one of Britain's military war heroes, Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, 1st Viscount Montgomery of Alamein.
First Time On Skis
The three principal skiing mountains within easy reach of Gstaad included the Wasserngrat, the Wispile and the l'Eggli. To and from these three skiing areas, Roseans always managed to be towed free on skis by those riding the horse drawn sledges. And, if not, the mountains were no more than two miles from school.
Jock and I had 1930s, hand-me-down ski equipment from Dad and Mom. As mine belonged to Mom, it was quite out-of-date. The skis, for instance, had well worn, green plastic edges in stark contrast to the modern sharp steel edges. They had metal bear-trap bindings operated by cables and springs. My used boots were fastened to the ski’s boot plate with leather toe straps. And, the skis had neither releases nor brakes. Their length exceeded my height by perhaps two feet, way in excess of today's standards. The ski poles were of real bamboo with baskets made of split bamboo strips, leather and metal wire.
Monsieur Stickel, a math teacher, served as ski instructor to the school’s newbies. On the very first day, we novices were instructed by Mr. Stickel to suit-up for skiing and then meet him at the base of Wispile Mountain, two miles or so from the school. None of us knew how to suit-up properly or even where the mountain was. Once ready for skiing, we all looked like ragamuffins. By the time we “lost souls” had trudged down the long road to the Wispile, we were late for our first skiing class.
Jock and I in no way were dressed appropriately. Out of ignorance, the other newbies likewise were wearing moth-eaten wool, hand-me-down clothing. Some of us simply layered warm coats on top of our school clothing. Ski trousers ranged from corduroy, to blue jeans, or, well-used, hand-me-down ski pants from earlier years. Indeed, we newbies were a motley group.
It didn't take us long to observe what other, more experienced students were wearing. Most were in fashionable skiing outfits. Some wore hand-made, knitted sweaters with Le Rosey’s coat-of-arms emblazoned on the front. Elegant, white parkas and tailored, creased, gabardine ski pants were then in vogue. Clearly, elegant Roseans stood out on the slopes. Interestingly, colored clothing was not de rigueur. In the early 1950s, fashionable ski clothing was limited to grey, black, or brown, and occasionally white.
Ski bindings of the more advanced skiers incorporated long leather thongs. Using a system of metal eyelets and hooks, a thong from each ski would be wrapped tightly around the skier’s ankle. Thus, the skier's leg and ski became one. While more stylish and providing greater control, this non-release system lent itself to easier leg and ankle breaks.
At that time, most boots were lace-ups. They were made of brown or black leather and provided only limited ankle support. At that time, boots were designed with squared toes and provided minimal insulation. My feet were always cold.
Mr. Stickel, a mathematics teacher, was tall, leather-faced, former army ski trooper and a licensed Swiss alpine guide. He oversaw all of us newbies.. On our first day out, our outlandish costumes made us look as though we were part of a circus troupe. That afternoon was spent becoming proficient climbing slopes on skis using the "herringbone" technique. Then, while following Mr. Stickel back down the “bunny slopes,” we learned to make lazy “Ss” and snowplow turns. We students spent as much time wallowing in the snow as we were upright on our skis. It was tiring work, day after day.
After a few days of "herringbone" and snowplowing exercises, Mr. Stickel called me over to say he would be taking three students, I being one of them, up the Wispile on the t-bar lift for our very first ski run. Fortunately, Mr. Stickel was my partner on the t-bar. Due to his mastery of skiing, together we survived my precarious first experience on a t-bar. Reaching the top, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere. Handsome, snow-laden conifers were everywhere. Before us was a wide, ribbon-like, snowy trail that dropped off down through the trees. Clearly, this was not where I wanted to be. In his usual calm but authoritative voice, Mr. Stickel explained in French the details we three students were to follow down the piste close behind him. Fearfully, I proceeded erratically down the trail from one side to the other trying to execute long graceful carving turns interspersed with short stem turns. With each disastrous crash, we were instructed how to get up, realign our skis and, again, point them downhill. A chill was setting in. Snow was everywhere, inside both my clothing and goggles. I ached all over — my mouth was dry and tears of fear and frustration nearly blinded my eyes.
Half an hour into the stressful downhill lesson, Mr. Stickel stopped to assure us that we were now sufficiently proficient in the art of novice skiing. He had decided to leave us by ourselves. We were to ski down the rest of the mountain and back to school by ourselves. That meant we were left on our own and to return to school in time for dinner. Before receiving rebuttals from any of us, Mr. Stickel gave us a wink and a smile before disappearing in a flash down the course.
It wasn’t long before the two other older students managed to abandon me. It was cold and lonely there on the mountain as the sun set. Frozen snow stuck to my clothing. In the solitude of the mountainscape, the only sound to be heard was my heavy breathing and muttering. My sole focus was to persevere. It seemed forever before reaching the bottom of the Wispile. I was exhausted and beat — but not defeated. Fortunately, as the evening turned to night, I obtained a hitch from one of the last sledge rides back into town. I had just accomplished my maiden downhill ski run. Late that evening I ate supper still dressed in my soaking, outlandish ski clothing.
By the end of the skiing season, most of Le Rosey’s students were proficient in alpine skiing. If I recall correctly, downhill races were organized one day every week for all students.. Officials with time clocks and colored flags were seen everywhere along the designated race course. Jock and I raced apart but still within the novice group. The monitoring of student progress and prizes were sponsored by the Swiss Ski Federation. Their awards consisted of patches that we sewed onto our parkas. Our degrees of proficiency ranged from 1 to 10, ten the rating of “Expert.” By the end of that skiing season, only after my last and near-suicidal downhill qualifying race down the l’Eggli did I barely achieved my level three patch. What good things might be in store for skiing the following year?
Hollywood Visits Gstaad
It was on a weekend when Amyn Aga Khan, an energetic schoolmate, stuck his head into my room shouting, “Tony, would you like to go to a movie with some of us?” I reminded Amyn there wasn't a theatre in town. In his inimitable manner, he fired back that a couple of his friends and he were headed to the "Palace,” the grand hotel at which his step-mother presently was staying and had offered to show us a movie.
Today, that five-star hotel is called The Gstaad Palace. Even in the early 1950s, anyone of note stayed at the elegant "Palace," perched regally near the base of the Wasserngrat.
As background, Prince Amyn Aga Khan, fourteen years old, was a son of Prince Aly Khan, then Pakistan's representative to the United Nations, a racehorse owner and one of the world's noted playboys. I considered Amyn to be a friend-in- passing, rather than a close friend.
His older brother, Karim, then fifteen, would eventually succeed his grandfather, The Aga Khan, imam and spiritual leader of 15 million Nazari (Sunni) Ismaili Muslims spread out across more than 25 countries. Both brothers were confident, talented athletes and very smart.
With great anticipation, we all arrived by sleigh at Amyn’s stepmother's vast hotel suite in the "Palace.”
As we entered the gorgeous hotel suite, we were warmly welcomed by Rita Hayworth, Hollywood’s diva, actress, dancer and Aly Khan's second wife. He was her third husband. At the time, she was known round the world as "The Great American Love Goddess." Even Fred Astaire referred to her as his best dancing partner. Then again, in real life she was every bit as beautiful and charismatic as she appeared on film. Staring at her became a problem. She was truly stunning — a veritable bombshell with flowing strawberry blonde hair and a sultry voice. That afternoon as we munched on delicious Swiss pastries while sipping hot chocolate, we watched her 1948 release, "The Loves of Carmen," starring Ms. Hayworth and Glenn Ford. Such afternoons are rare indeed.
Still today, I remain mortified at not having written Ms. Hayworth a thank-you note for the memorable high-tea and movie at The Gstaad Palace.
Professional Hockey
Le Rosey students typically took part in ice skating/hockey programs daily on the town’s large public skating rink an hour prior to lunch. Jock and I skated with our friends with hockey sticks. Even then Jock skated well. I was a novice.
In 1951, the Stanley Cup Champions, the Toronto Maple Leafs, were touring Europe to compete with some of the Continent’s best teams. At that time, it was said Le Rosey had one of Switzerland’s better hockey teams, a team made up of both students and teachers.
Near the end of that winter, the Maple Leafs arrived in Gstaad to play our team. The entire school closed that afternoon. Our school was to challenge Canada’s (world’s?) best professional team. The town jury-rigged an elaborate set of bleachers to accommodate all the fans and the curious from far and near. In all likelihood, the Leafs won the day, but not without a great deal of cheering and the waving of large flags representing Gstaad’s canton and Le Rosey’s coat-of-arms. Whatever the score, it was Gstaad’s golden day.
School Competition
Le Rosey's last trimester was always spent at its Rolle campus overlooking beautiful Lac Leman (Lake Geneva). The school's spring highlight involved its 8th through 12th grade student body in a four-day/three-night, whirlwind competition traveling across much of Switzerland by train. All participants were divided into teams of three. Two members of each team consisted of 11th and 12th grade students. The third member was usually an 8th or 9th, or occasionally, a 10th grader. All of us were provided four-day Swiss rail passes.
The objective of each team was to collect as much evidence of having visited the most cantons, capitals of cantons, cathedrals, tourist sites, etc. throughout Switzerland. Proof of having visited a site required an official rubber stamp, a photograph or a sketch, etc. If a rubber stamp, for instance, could not be obtained, a photo or some other acceptable evidence could be obtained in some way. An elaborate point system was established and, in the end judged, by the school.
In addition to me, my team included two bright, high-energy and innovative seniors. Obviously, I was the "pipsqueak" of our trio. My primary responsibility was to oversee all of our baggage, making sure it was transferred expeditiously from one train to another throughout the entire four-day adventure. One of my team members was a tall, artistic and fun Frenchman whose specialized talents included logistics, photography and sketching. He was the one who programmed all of our train connections in great detail. His artistic talents and expensive cameras very much helped in reaffirming our documented proof.
Our team leader, Michael Korda, was an English-born senior. In the end, he organized the team’s required final report in great detail. Michael came from an artistic background. His father was an Academy Award winner. During World War II, his uncle, Sir Alexander, a film magnate, used clever techniques to deceive the German’s photographic aerial sweeps of the British Isles leading up to Germany’s hundreds of bombing raids. He also played a key role in the lead-up to the Normandy invasion.
Michael Korda eventually became a writer, novelist and editor-in-chief of the publishing house, Simon & Schuster, in NY. During his tenure, the company published a number of books about high-profile writers/personalities, (e.g. William L. Shirer, Ronald Reagan, Will and Ariel Durant). His most recent (2014) biography is Clouds of Glory: The Life and Legend of Robert E. Lee.
Even in 1951, clearly both of my partners were heavyweights academically. From the very start, our team was focused on winning this competition. Our attitude was in stark contrast to many others who saw the four-day break as a lark, a fun interlude apart from their daily lessons.
Our team’s logistics were planned thoroughly in their application. We would cover as much of Switzerland as time permitted. In the end, we had to preclude Switzerland’s easternmost canton (Graubunden) and those abutting Italy to the southeast. Instead, our targeted areas included the north (Schaffhausen), the west (Jura), and the south (Vaud and Valais). Our French teammate scoured Switzerland’s train schedules seeking to minimize running times between our many connections. Swiss trains are noted for their punctuality.
For example, in the case of a village with an historic church, I would disembark, recount and stash our baggage in the station before we spread throughout the village in search of the church. Once we located and gained entry into the building, we had to find anyone (usually the resident priest) who had access to the cathedral's official stamp. On rare occasions when no stamp could be located, Michael improvised by "borrowing" one of the hymnals as each had the requisite stamp inside its cover. Eventually the hymnals would be returned. Or, if we had to sketch the church or its altar, our French partner could finalize the sketch on the train later as we headed to our next site. Between train connections, I would pick up our lunches and drinks at the local boulangerie.
In advance of overnights during the competition, a number of teams agreed to meet for dinners typically at their assigned hotels. Using Le Rosey’s apportioned travel funds, everyone enjoyed sumptuous meals along with a good portion of beer. One night in Zurich, I was thrilled to connect with my brother, Jock, and his team. Singing at those dinners was the rule. Those were wonderful moments.
During one of the four days of competition, as we approached the Swiss/German border, Michael came up with an idea. Why not try to circumvent the lax Swiss border guards in order to obtain a rubber stamp from the German guard house only a hundred yards beyond the Swiss border? At that time and shortly following World War II, there were neither fences nor barriers dividing the two countries. Our French teammate and I were selected to obtain yet another valuable team asset.
Michael knew I held a Diplomatic Passport, an advantage that might be helpful should our caper go awry. Using the passport as insurance, I was game to venture into Germany.
Michael then walked over to the Swiss guard house to obtain a border stamp for our growing collection. While he involved the Swiss guard in discussion, my French “partner-in-crime” and I slipped behind the guard house and into Germany. There we successfully obtained a German border stamp. Unfortunately, due to our team’s illegal technique, in the end Le Rosey’s judges invalidated the prized German rubber stamp.
Few obstacles got in the way of our searches. We traversed Switzerland back and forth like whirling dervishes. Much of each day was spent on trains. We operated by the clock. Little time was wasted in any one place. With the exception of dinner, we usually ate on the run. At times I sensed my two teammates were personally covering some of our team’s expenses. We regularly used costly taxis asked to travel at high speed to and from sites, some of them well off the beaten path.
As the third member of the team, my allowance of one Swiss franc, about US$0.25, was of little financial help to the team. Back in Rolle, the cost of a chocolate frappe was about ½ franc. Nonetheless, in spite of my meager cash flow circumstances, money simply wasn’t a problem for our team.
First Prize
And so, in the end our team's ingenuity, clockwork, and determination assured us of winning Le Rosey's annual Swiss Tour Competition. Our prize consisted of a beautifully bound book on Switzerland personally inscribed by both school heads, Mme Schaub et M. Johannot. Following accolades by the headmasters, copies were presented to each of us in the presence of the entire school. The applause was thunderous. It was a big deal. I gained a lot of stature throughout the school from that day forward.
As a result of that particular experience, I became more self-assured. During the four-day competition, I began to recognize risk and its varying degrees of consequence. Likewise, I learned to take on greater personal responsibility.
Spring Sports
As the spring trimester began at the school’s Rolle campus, skiing and skating were replaced by tennis, track, and crew. All new students were required to try out for every sport before choosing their favorite.
While in China and Taiwan only a few years earlier , I fell victim to several debilitating diseases most of which weakened my body considerably. By the time we arrived in Europe, my height, weight, and muscularity were substandard. My legs were unusually thin and not strong which, even today, I attribute to a bout with polio in Taiwan. When suddenly required to become involved in competitive sports at Le Rosey, I was very concerned with my ability to participate.
I was first introduced to tennis at Le Rosey, the sport that was to become my sport-of-choice for the rest of my life.
A track coach introduced me to long-distance running, relay, javelin, shot put and discus. But, crew (rowing) really caught my fancy.
Jock already had earned one of the four seats in the “moyen” (mid-level grade) lake boat. Before the season was over, his crew earned sufficient recognition to travel to Germany to compete at European levels. It was big news for Le Rosey.
I, in turn, managed to earn one of the four seats in Le Rosey’s novice’s lake boat. Our coach (and coxswain) was the school’s assistant head, a delightful 50 year old Englishman who, as I recall, always smoked a pipe even as we practiced back and forth on Lake Geneva. His English mannerisms always made me smile.
By the end of the school year, for the first time I had been introduced to a fair number of competitive sports. Some included: skiing, ice hockey, crew, shot put, javelin, discus, track events, long distance running and tennis. Eventually, over the years my preferences included tennis, downhill skiing, long distance hiking, wrestling and cycling.
Overall, it was a good year at Le Rosey.
Rosean Gourmands
By mid-July, 1951, Le Rosey’s spring trimester had come to an end. Jock’s ninth and my eighth grade years were completed successfully. It was time for us to return home to Rome for a summer break. We were jubilant.
In preparation for leaving school, Le Rosey made sure all students had their packed bags, passports, their key telephone numbers in hand, a one-way travel ticket, and a modicum of currency to cover travel expenses. On the trip south, Jock and I were accompanied by another American whose home was in Milan. Together, we three boarded a train in Rolle for Lausanne. We all were dressed in white shirts, blue blazers and ties in accordance with Rosey’s standards. The overnight trip would carry us all the way from Lausanne to Rome.
On arriving at Lausanne, for some reason Jock went on a spending spree and used most of his travel allowance. He even borrowed from us to buy comic books and other assorted items. As we boarded the evening train, suddenly we realized none of us had sufficient funds with which to buy our meals. The only food we were able to find in our backpacks were a couple of tiny boxes of Sun-Maid raisins.
Several hours later and well into the evening our train crossed into Italy. We were penniless and famished. We had already read and thrown away the comic books Jock had purchased. Now we were depressed as our stomachs growled. We faced the remainder of the trip without food.
Out of curiosity, I decided to explore the entire length of the train as it sped south through the night. I walked to the end of the train and then forward observing the differences among the first, second and coach classes, the club and dining cars, and the sleeper section. My exploration provided me with a better understanding of the organization of European trains.
Even before reaching the dining car which was located immediately in front of ours, I could smell the galley’s aromas wafting towards me. I noticed that many well-to-do European passengers enjoyed sumptuous dinners often leaving behind on the table substantial amounts of yet untouched food. An idea dawned as I returned to our seating area.
I spoke with Jock and our Milan friend. “Do we want some food -- or not,” I asked? Though there was some doubt among us, we all agreed that food was paramount.
Reviewing a plan, I asked Jock to serve as my co-conspirator. He agreed to go to the rear of our coach and stand ready to signal me should a porter approach our car from the rear of the train. Keeping an eye on Jock through the connecting doors and with an empty canvas bag in hand, I headed forward into the dining car. There were a number of families still eating. Unnoticed in my coat and tie, I shuffled along reviewing each table. Not more than twenty-five feet inside the dining car I came across the first vacated table that had not been cleared. Slowly, I leaned forward and began to gather a selection of untouched food. I scooped up a number of bread rolls, several succulent pieces of roasted duck, a couple of boiled potatoes, a few pads of butter and, for whatever reason, a handful of radishes.
At the very front of the dining car there were two tables still occupied by Italian families. As I continued to inspect other tables for additional tasty tidbits, the dining Italians in their loud conversation were oblivious to my presence. Even the two chatting waiters at the far end of the car never looked up. No one seemed interested in me as I scavenged a nearby vacated table. Within less than 10 to 15 minutes, our caper had been completed and unnoticed.
Leaving the dining car and returning to our coach seats, grinning, the three of us savored our new-found, 1st class dinners. Our long, hungry, overnight train experience had been transformed.
Without realizing it at the time, I was beginning to learn why and how to take the initiative that resulted in constructive results. By early July, nine-months at Le Rosey had transformed me. From a disastrous introduction to the school, I had finished a year replete with new experiences.
Return To America
After a year’s assignment in Rome, in July of 1951, Dad was reassigned to the U.S. Naval War College in Newport, RI. That summer our family, with Flirt and Alex in tow, embarked on the S.S. Constitution at Naples bound for New York.
