Sylvia Maynard '44 was a columnist for The Radcliffe News.

Suddenly, these young anthropologists ask me--as eldest survivor of a remote, disappearing culture--to record my tribal memories, chants and alphabets.

All right. What was ancient Radcliffe like? Sorry, we didn't drag water in gourds from a well in the Square; but Harvard Square in the early '40s had no Holyoke Center, no sidewalk cafes, no cappuccino, no chic, no beggars and only one subway entrance. Farther off, Memorial Hall (with tower) rose in splendor above wide lawns (now gone, where traffic zooms through the underpass).

Scuffing dry leaves along brick pavements, in our saddle shoes or loafers, we never passed huge, funny-angled buildings. Around us lay a quaint and quiet village of woodframehomes--many elegantly gracious on tree-shadedlawns. Peaceful--except that, somewhere else, awar was going on.

In Cambridge, because of Hitler, gender wasdestiny. Where Uncle Sam's finger pointed, Harvardstudents disappeared--or reappeared as look-alikesin a line of naval uniforms stretching, at drill,the length of the Yard. Males in a moment lostsafety, choice and freedom.

We females could stay in college, free,privileged not to wonder if we'd still be alivethis time next year. Girls with boyfriends, ofcourse, worried, wrote letters, knittedcompulsively through class. Many "accelerated" tofinish college in three years; some left to marrytheir love before he vanished overseas.

In 1943, the Navy took over two floors of mydorm to house WAVES. Marching into Briggs, in theniftiest uniforms, these hearty young women soondisgusted us by leaping from their beds at an hourwhen most of us had barely crawled into ours, toperform loud, thumpy calisthenics in hallways,then marching around our Quad shouting theiranthem (a rousing descant on "Anchors Aweigh").

To them we lost our private rooms; out with thebed, in with the double-bunk (happily, SibylBeckett '44 and I had fun, despite the crowding).Breakfast became self service, and rationing tookhold (mournfully did I stare into a fullhalf-gallon of coffee, to view the bottom clear asa coral reef in Tahiti--you had to drink it all toget any kick).

Coming to Radcliffe as a transfer in thefall of 1942, I trekked between Briggs on the Quadand the Radcliffe Yard, where everything-inparticular our classes--happened. That meant, inthat final year of young ladies' separate butequal education, an instructor, ending his lectureat Harvard, had to Cash on foot or bike acrossMass Ave, to repeat himself for our delicatefeminine ears. Nobody seemed to question this, andinstructors got their exercise.

But as war drained Harvard's faculty in thefall of 1943, the unthinkable became feasible.True, "coeducation" remained a dirty word; theterm used was "joint instruction." But in onemoment, all changed: we took classes with Harvardmen in Harvard halls.

Both before and after this revolution,remarkable teachers shared their passionateenthusiasms with us. In philosophy, Rafael Demos,with his halo of white hair, seemed to beSocrates. The noted psychologist Henry AlexanderMurray spoke more (to my relief) of people than ofrats.

And the famous but never smiling F.O.Matthiessen, the first senior tutor of EliotHouse, lectured on Shakespeare, annoyed that wedidn't know the meaning of "petard." Once, as Ipassed him on a path, he amazed me with a warm andfriendly smile. Two days later, he jumped from thewindow of Boston's Hotel Touraine to his death.

Professor Theodore Spencer, handsome andtweedy, led a thrilling dash through the historyof drama. When I told him I'd like to write mypaper on Aristophanes--because he was so likeGilbert and Sullivan--Mr. Spencer looked mildlysurprised but said he was glad that I didn'tobject too much to "the dirt." I hadn't actuallyrealized it was dirty, my guesses at the words Ididn't know seeming too impolite to be true.

A similar problem came up with my nice,pipe-chewing tutor, scarcely older than I andalready married. As he lit and intricately curledaround his pipe, Mr. Weld would point out how thispoem (any poem) of John Donne's was about sex.SEX?! Oh dear! Holding the gasp, I assumed a blasetone: Oh. Yes. That. Of course.

That, of course, was a matter ofconcern. Sometimes, brushing teeth in the dorm, Ioverheard conversations about exotic evenings with"dates: about nightclubs, liquor...or worse!

My own social life was limited to churchbreakfasts after choir, and strolls along theriver with conscientious objectors (like Harry whorode me on his bicycle handlebars) or boysclassified 4-F (like Eugene who was frequentlylate to class due to his habit of swooning in themiddle of Mass Ave).