This story was published Dec. 20, 1963. It was rereleased as part of the 100th anniversary edition of the Torch.
The class sits in stunned silence, not quite able to realize the full impact of the situation. A girl is quietly weeping at her seat, but most of the students are simply leaning back in awed amazement. The news of the shooting of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy has just come over the public address system.
No words are spoken; it is impossible for anyone to utter a phrase that can express the complete shock and unbelievability of the moment.
A visiting speaker who had been addressing the class halts his lecture and calls for a prayer for the President’s life.
A transistor radio informs the class of developments, but the students are waiting for just one piece of information.
All the problems of school work, all the apparent dilemmas of daily life now become terribly insignificant and trivial. Accepted classroom procedure has halted. Notebooks lie open but forgotten on the desks. Each individual is lost within the depths of his own mind.
Now the tears have stopped. In their place has appeared the grim, frantic look of a person hoping against hope, praying for a miracle.
Then a new voice comes across the room out of the radio: “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States is dead.”
Heads are bowed and sobs fill the classroom. The teacher walking to the front of the class murmurs, “Such a waste. Such a terrible, tragic waste.
Published 1963. Digitized 2026.