I Survived Swiss
Boarding Schools

Part 3  “Victor”
1963 – 1966 Le Rosey
Chapter 3 — New Equipment

“Monsieur Johannot,” I began, “it seems that many boys would like to sign up for rowing next spring. In fact, I have asked around and here are some names.”

Johannot looked at the list. His expression indicated indifference, I thought, because the names were not any of the school’s jocks. All the “real athletes” were otherwise committed to track, soccer and swimming. Before he could terminate the unprecedented “meeting” with a student, I added:

“Monsieur, I was thinking that, if more boys want to row, we might be able to update the equipment.” He looked at me curiously. I thought he was about to accuse me of impertinence as I continued speaking.

“In fact, I was hoping you would allow me to write the parents of all the boys who sign up and ask them if they could contribute money for that purpose.”

Johannot, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette, replied: “Very interesting. Draft a letter and let me look it over.” He turned his chair back around towards his desk indicating that I should leave.

“But I already have, Monsieur,” I said, reaching into my pocket for another hand written note. Johannot looked somewhat taken aback.

“Here’s a letter,” I added.

Johannot took the paper, read it and replied: “No, you cannot say anything like ‘our equipment is damaged’ and ‘we respectfully request that you make a contribution so we could acquire new boats.’ Rewrite your letter saying that a small contribution to make minor additions would be appreciated. In fact, say that there is a five hundred Swiss franc maximum donation. You cannot leave the request open to people like…” he looked at the list again, “Mr. Niarcos or Elizabeth Taylor.”

Chapter 13 — The Swiss National Rowing Tournament 1966

Ich wuerde Dich ausquestschen wie die Zahnpaste von der Zahnpastentube.”  (“We’ll squeeze you out like toothpaste from a tube”) He yelled over to us.

Fortunately, my teammates did not understand enough German. I nodded and said nothing.  We drifted downstream passing under the bridge. Bob gave the “stop the boat” command, and the official grabbed onto our stern. Bern’s boat was already positioned on my left and Zurich’s boat eased into place on my right, the direction the Stroke looks as he rows. Now my opponent was very close and stationary. I would be able to watch him throughout the race.

“Reicher Fagot!” he yelled at us. We all understood that part, ‘Rich fag.’

The magic word had been uttered. A common cause had been handed to us on a platter as unknown power surged from within each of us. The race had now become something very personal — at least for me. We had to win to prove that he was wrong about us, and for all the underdogs and all victims of prejudice. Winning was the only weapon against being ridiculed. I turned around, looking at the team, and said,

“You got that, guys, right?”