HARALAMBIE GEORGE CICMA: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHIE A Vlach’s Life in His Time Part VIII

Boston University

My train fare to Boston used up three dollars of my fortune; I walked directly (stopping only every other block to ask directions) to Boston University College of Liberal Arts. I showed the letter I had for the Dean to the first man I saw there. He showed me the way to the Dean’s office and the secretary took my letter in to him.
Dean Warren read Mr. Mr. McCrillis’ letter and asked that I be sent in; he received me cordially and, after he had looked at me thoughtfully for a short time, he said, “Well, young man, cheer up, there are good things ahead for you.” I explained my purpose in coming there and said that I would have to work my way through as I had no savings and no other method of support—no friends or relatives who could help me.

“That is nothing unusual,” he explained, “Many of our students work or have partial scholarships and you can, too. Try to find a job in a good restaurant where you can get your meals and arrange your working time to correspond with your study program. If they ask for references, tell them that you are a student at Boston University and then come to me for a letter of recommendation. I’m sure you will have no problems.”

Dean Warren took me, personally to the Boston University Employment Bureau and told the man in charge to do his best to assist me. He also advised me to be certain that I obtained a good room in a decent part of the city and finally he turned me over to the Registrar, Ralph Taylor. I now got all the information regarding the courses which I must take and I told them that I had certified credits in all my subjects except English. The Registrar took the name and address of Tilton Academy and assured me that they would let me know just as soon as the records were received.

I found a room on East Concord Street but, needless to say, I was too excited to sleep much that night. I was up at six-thirty the next morning and ready to go look for a job. I started at Scollay Square and walked down Washington Street, stopping at every restaurant. I would ask, in my still imperfect English, for a job and would add that I was a student at Boston University. Everyone said that there was no job available and many of them told me that they never employed students. I began to be very discouraged. Finally I came to Child’s Restaurant near Park Square. I entered and asked the cashier to let me speak to the manager. He rang for him and, while I was waiting, I noticed a very tall man who was standing at one side of the cash register, talking to various employees. The manager came and I told my story; before I had time to finish, he cut me short, saying that there was no work now and that they employed only full-time workers.

I turned to leave but the tall man called out that he wanted to have a few words with me. I waited and he asked which school I attended. I told him that I was registered at Boston University. He informed me that he was an executive of the Child’s Corporation (at that time, he had just completed a surprise inspection of the restaurant), he had a son in Boston University Law School and knew just how difficult it was for students who had to work their way through. He assured me of a job in that restaurant if I would bring him a note from the Dean.

I was so was so happy that I almost fainted. I ran back to the College and Dean Warren gave me the letter. I raced to Child’s and gave it to the gentleman. He instructed the manager to give me a uniform and let me give tickets at the door for the present and to instruct me in other jobs later.

I worked from six in the evening to midnight, Monday through Thursday. On Friday I began to work at six at night and stayed on the job until midnight on Sunday; catching a nap now and then whenever I had a chance. I averaged about 75 hours a week, was paid only thirty cents an hour, but all my meals were furnished. The workers were usually given beef stew or ham and eggs and a piece of pie and coffee. I was extremely fortunate as my benefactor instructed the cook to give me steak at least once a day and that this was to be covered with scrambled eggs so that the others would not feel jealous! Also, I was allowed to eat as much ice cream as I wished, they made their own and it was really delicious. I did all kinds of work, filling in for anyone who was out, so the job was never boring.

The beneficent executive came in one day and asked to have a talk with me; he told me that he was going to New York City for two months and would not be available to help me if anything unusual should come up. He made me promise that, no matter what happened, I would not quit the job before he returned. I didn’t quite understand what he was trying to tell me, but I did notice that after his departure, the manager tried to have me do things which had never been assigned to me before. Here my lack of English helped me, if I could not understand his instructions, I would not have to do the job, he finally gave up and I went along as before.

I became accustomed to the routine and decided that if I could get a job during the day I would be able to save some money and pay back Mr. McCrillis’ note. I registered again at the “Y” Employment Bureau and also began to watch all the want ads in the newspapers—I never had to buy a paper as three or four patrons would invariably leave theirs at the restaurant.

A few days later, I met a friend of mine who was working at the Rexall Drug Company, he assured me that I could get a job there from eight in the morning to five-thirty in the afternoon. They did give me a job and I was delighted and very eager to start—I also felt that I would be able to learn something about medicine but, alas, I was put in the shipping room and did nothing but pack bottles and jars all day long!

I would leave my room at 7:00 A.M., have breakfast at the Rexall Cafeteria, work until 5:30 P.M. then rush to Child’s and work until midnight, then home to bed. I was, however, earning $14.00 a week at Rexall and within a month I had enough money to repay Mr. McCrillis. I sent him a money order for the fifty dollars and a short letter telling him that I very much appreciated what he had done for me and, should there be any interest due on the note, I would sent it at once. He merely receipted the note and returned it without any remarks.

I managed to hold down both jobs for three months and then I became so tired that I could hardly stand up. I gave up my work at Rexall and continued to work at Child’s.

***

One day, about two weeks after I had registered at the college, I was surprised to receive a note from Dean Warren, requesting that I come to his office as soon as possible. He produced a letter from Tilton Academy which stated that they could not certify me in any subject. I was shocked. I begged Dean Warren to let me take this letter and assured him that I would try to straighten things out, I knew what my own marks were!

I went to the North Station and took the late train which brought me into Tilton at six in the morning.

I went immediately to the academy and as soon as I saw the principal, Mr. Plimpton, enter the building, I rushed like a mad-man into his office. He was very surprised and terrified at seeing me. He began to extend a cordial, phoney, bluff greeting to me. I was so angry that I could hardly speak. I handed him the letter and, disregarding his salutations, I demanded an explanation—quick.

He began to hem and haw, at last he tried to place the blame on his secretary. I was not so easily put aside and demanded my records at once. He could not do otherwise and so gave them to me. I returned to Boston on the next train.

I went at once to Dean Warren’s office and he was very pleased with my marks and felt that I had an excellent chance for successfully completing my studies. I, equipped with my correct records, was soon registered as an actual student with, of course, a condition on English. I selected my subjects carefully and arranged my classes so that I could continue to work (and eat) at the restaurant.

***

College opened in October and I felt that I was the happiest man there.  I was confident about passing all my subjects except English. I saw no way to remove the condition on this. The first day when Professor Sharpe gave us our opening talk, he told us that he had great expectations for us but, he wanted us to remember that we were no longer high school students. We were college men. He was not going to mark us on English grammar or even the spelling used, credit would be given for the subject matter chosen. Marks would be given on the title and our handling of the topic. Any students could write about “My First Bicycle Ride” or “Going on a Picnic” but anyone who did so would find his paper in the waste basket. Professor Sharpe would read no paper that did not have an intriguing title and contained interesting material.

This speech gave me a ray of hope; I could, of course, pick out good topics and, hopefully, some one would help me use partly correct grammar. I had no doubt about my other courses and I now began to believe that it might be possible for me to pass the English course.

This assignment was not due for three or four days but at once I picked out my subject, something about Macedonia, and with the help of my French-English dictionary I wrote my thesis crudely. I took it to school with me the next day and fortunately a classmate of mine—a young Jewish pre-medical student agreed to go over my paper and correct the spelling and English for me. He returned it the following day and assured me that I would have nothing to worry about, mine was certain to be one of the most interesting papers in the class. This seemed improbable to me but I rewrote it and handed it in just the same.

The day came when Professor Sharpe was to return the marked papers and everyone was trembling. He called the names alphabetically and, in spite of his warning, many students had chosen uninteresting subjects— he had been true to his word and these papers were in the waste basket. He read on through “A”, “B”, “C”, and began to read the “D’S”. I no longer trembled, I was now petrified, he hadn’t read my name. My paper must have been one of the poor ones. He continued to the end of the list and then, picking up the final paper on his desk, he called, “Mr. Cicma.”

“Present!”

“Now listen well, class. Here’s a paper which is written in very poor English. If you remember correctly, I said that I would not mark on grammar but on the subject and its treatment. This paper is the most interesting in the bunch.” He handed it to me—he had given me 90% as a mark!

This was absolutely the incentive I had needed, I continued to write on situations which were of interest to me, particularly about my native country. The professor found them all excellent and had some of them published in “Bostonia”.

I had submitted about four themes and was very surprised to receive a note from Professor Sharp. I understood the signature but not the note. I asked several students to help me decipher it but none of them could do so. As a last resort I took it to his office and asked his secretary  to read it; she could not but said she’d let me speak to him.

I walked in, shook hands and, holding out the note, I said, “I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t read this.”

He took it, studied it for a minute and then began to laugh. “Neither can I—and I wrote it!” Still shaking with laughter, he continued, “But, actually, I want you to go to dinner with me some day next week.” “Thank you very much,” I said, thoroughly surprised.

“Will Wednesday be convenient?”

“Certainly.”

“Good, meet me here at five o’clock, then.

I arranged to be excused from my job for a few hours and on Wednesday we went to the Business Men’s Club, near the State House. It was a splendid dinner and after it we retired to the lounge. Professor Sharpe asked me many questions about my life in Macedonia and my experiences in this new country. I told him several stories and, finally, I brought up the subject of languages. He asked what languages I spoke and I told him—Romanian, Greek, Turkish, Italian, French, some Latin, and a little German.

“But you also speak English of course,” he added.

“Well, not very fluently and I can’t spell the words nor remember half the grammar rules. I often get discouraged and I know that English is the only subject which may hold me back in college.

“How is that?”

“Well, I am taking English on condition, as you know, and I don’t see any way of removing it.”

“You have proved that you do well in English,” he responded. “It will be simple to remove the condition. All I have to do is go to the office and direct them to do it.”

The next day he went to Dean Warren’s office and had a talk with him. Professor Sharpe explain that, despite the short time I had been in America, I had obtained fine marks in his English class and he believed I deserved great credit for this. They agreed and the condition was removed. I was greatly encouraged and felt certain that nothing could stop me now.

About a month later the Secretary  the University took me to dinner at the same club and we, also, had a long talk about my past. A few days later he presented me with a pamphlet which contained a brief outline of my previous experiences. He had many of these printed and presented them to various students to encourage them to work harder to make a successful conclusion of their educational opportunities.

I continued to get good marks in most of my subjects. However, I started the Biology course and found that I could not make good drawings of the specimens. This irritated me as I hated to think that I might fail this subject because of my lack of artistic ability. Dr. Wysse, who taught this class, was also the staff advisor for the pre-medical students so I went to his office and explained my predicament. “I can’t draw diagrams, Sir; in the old country they do not teach any drawing. I can’t even draw a straight line, much less make diagrams. If you are going to base the marks on them, I may as well give up my idea of taking pre-medical studies.”

“I don’t mark on art,” he replied. “If you can look at a specimen and make squares or circles in relative size and name the different parts, that is all that is necessary,” as he spoke, he demonstrated his drawing method. I took one look and knew that I would get along—my own attempts were 100% better than his! At the end of the year, I was gratified to receive the best mark in the Biology class.

1 decided to remain at the University that summer to take some special courses in Chemistry. I spent much of my time in the laboratory; here I met a young man by the name of Lester R. Whitaker. He was trying to set up his apparatus to do an experiment and appeared to be encountering more than a little difficulty. I approached him and offered my assistance, this was gladly accepted. We finished the experiment together, conversing all the while. He, too, was a poor boy who was preparing to go to Medical School at Harvard. He was already an Osteopathic Doctor and was taking the summer course in Organic Chemistry, as I was, to get alittle ahead of his fellow classmates. He worked very hard and was extremely ambitious; all these things drew us together and we soon became very good friends. We worked together, for the most part, and when it was time for exams we collaborated and correlated our notes for study purposes. We both passed the course satisfactorily.

A few days after I had made Lester’s acquaintance, I met another young man in much the same predicament. His name was J. G. Joyce (I never did find out what his first name was, we always called him Joyce) and, in the course of our conversation, he told me that he was studying Theology and had absolutely no interest in Chemistry other than that it was a subject required for graduation.  I also learned that he was preaching at the Methodist-Episcopal Church in Newport, N.H. (of which I was a member) and this gave us a mutual bond of friendship and I assured him that he could count on me to help him do all the required experiments.

These two new friends made the summer session seem much shorter and before I knew it, I was plunged into my second year studies.

The church in Newport had been given a new organ by Mr. George Fairbanks and this was to be dedicated in November. Mr. Joyce arranged for Boston University’s President Mirlan to be the principal speaker at the ceremony. Naturally, all my friends were present to see and hear the president and—to tell him about me!

Mr. Joyce surprised President Mirlan by stating in his introduction that “The President of Boston University is interested in your town and  church, not only as a Methodist but because one of Newport’s own boys—Harry Cicma, whom you all know as a good Methodist and a brilliant scholar—is now enrolled at Boston University”. The poor president didn’t know me from Adam and he was as surprised as anyone in the congregation. After the meeting was over, everyone crowded around him and began to ask questions concerning me and my standing at the University. President Mirlan admitted that he had not known that there was such a person enrolled but, as they all thought so highly of me, he was going to investigate my activities as soon as he returned to Boston and he would make arrangements to meet me.

Monday morning, I received a note in which I was informed that I was wanted in the President’s office. I began to shiver. Was something wrong? I went to the executive building, entered his suite. His secretary rushed me into his office and introduced me to President Mirlan who rose and nearly embraced me. “Harry, my boy, I have good news for you and I want you to know how proud I am of you.” I was modest enough to be confused and to blush—I was so amazed that I could not speak.

“Yesterday I was in Newport and I was very glad to meet many of your friends. Everyone spoke highly of you. I have looked over your marks and I am delighted with them; from now on you are to consider me as one of your Newport friends and you must feel free to call on me at any time.” I left his office in a much better frame of mind and continued with my work more vigorously than ever.

President Mirlan invited me to his home for dinner on New Year’s Day, we became better acquainted and he learned all about my family history and my native Macedonia. I spent each ensuing New Year’s Day at his house, throughout my years in Medical School.

My two years at Boston University College of Liberal Arts were coming to a successful conclusion. At the end of my first semester, my marks had been so high that I was awarded a full scholarship, right through Medical School! I had been able to support myself with my work at Childs Restaurant, at Rexall Drugs and, occasionally, in the shoe factory at Newport during my vacations—I had even been able to save two hundred dollars! I realized that, in Medical School, I would not be able to continue to work, all my time must go to my studies. I was confronted with the problem of financing my living expenses for the next four years.

It was still my ambition to return to Macedonia when I had my degree, therefore I wanted to attend a medical school which was recognized internationally. I had seen Harvard School of Medicine many times and was, of course, properly impressed by the beauty and magnificence of the buildings. My friend, Lester Whitaker, had been enrolled at Harvard for a full year; he now took me on the “grand tour” of “his” school. I found that all the glowing descriptions he had heaped on me were actualities and, after we had talked over the situation, I felt that this would be the place for me to study medicine. Lester was sure that, as my marks were very good, it would be possible for me to secure entrance and he urged me to apply at once.

Having thus compounded my problems—I would now have to pay tuition—I had no recourse but to talk with President Mirlan. He received me cordially and congratulated me for the excellent work I had done in College of Liberal Arts. “Harry, my boy,” he continued, “Keep your chin up, a young man like you is sure to get through Medical School with flying colors. I have had you watched closely during these two years at Boston University and the report given me is: no drinking, no smoking, no dates, your daily routine is to college, to work and then to your room to study. Really, you have been an exemplary student and I am very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” I replied, “But I have two really big problems right now and I have only you to advise me. First, I have made up my mind to attend Harvard Medical School, it is the oldest school in America and is also internationally recognized; but how will I be able to get the money to go there? I have been able to save only two hundred dollars and that will not even cover my first year’s tuition, never mind eating and sleeping.”

“Well, Harry, if your heart is set on Harvard, I suggest that you put in an application for entrance. If you are accepted, I will try to obtain sufficient money for your tuition and other expenses. You are right about the superiority of the school, but I am working very hard to have Boston University School of Medicine given international recognition and I hope that this will be accomplished soon. As to your money problem, I am certain that you will be able to obtain a full scholarship for your second and succeeding years at Harvard. I have great confidence in your abilities and in your future and I will back you to the fullest extent of my power.

After this inspiring conversation, I was so relieved and elated that I stopped at the nearest church and gave my thanks to God and prayed that President Mirlan would forever be kept under the shelter of God’s all-powerful hand.

I sent my application to Harvard as soon as I had completed my classes at Boston University. In August, I received a letter stating that, out of six hundred applicants, I had been accepted into their medical school. I was to report on the morning of October first.

That summer I worked very hard, my usual jobs and any odd jobs that I could find. I saved an additional three hundred dollars—giving me the grand total of $500.00 to finance my medical education.

I had a short meeting with President Mirlan, about a week before school was to open; he told me that he had taken care of my tuition for the entire first year and had opened a checking account for me at his own bank, funds for my monetary needs would be deposited there for me! He wished me the best of luck and told me to call him at any time, if I needed further assistance or advice. What a wonderful, considerate and understanding man—with him in back of me, how could I lose?

(To be continued)