The rabbi could wait. The Beatles were here.

February 7, 1964

Marjorie, as always, was late. And today, it mattered.

Not usually. “Punctuality is a sign of a small mind,” she liked to tell her parents loftily, when they begged her to turn up on time for doctors’ appointments, job interviews, college classes, and her older brother’s wedding reception.

On this Friday, Marjorie had come to JFK Airport to meet some VIP author. Deadly boring, but right now it seemed a good idea to keep Father from hitting the roof as he did so often, so she’d rather grumpily agreed to go.

Father, of course, had given her detailed instructions. Be pleasant. Make him feel at home. He’s a rabbi, so behave yourself, Marjorie. We’ve been negotiating about rights for this book for almost two years, and I want to get the business finalized quickly. I’d meet him myself, but I’ve got an important meeting in Hartford that I can’t miss.

Dull, dull, dull.

But here she was, half an hour late, and instead of a few sedate adults waiting in the arrivals area, the place was a wild mix of screeching teenage girls — thousands of them — photographers, and men in suits running around looking important.

Wowee! This was something different, not the usual yawn-filled reality of her life. Marjorie guessed that some celebrity was arriving on Pan Am Yankee Clipper Flight 101 from London Heathrow — and now she would be able to meet him! Maybe she could even get his autograph.

Using her elbows and shoulders, and occasionally giving a screaming girl a rough shove, she made her way to the front of the crowd of teens climbing the stairs to the roof of the Pan Am building. She had almost reached the top when she plowed into a teenage girl, pushing her to the stair below. Somehow, a pang of conscience forced its way into Marjorie’s excited thoughts. After all, even though the girl was blocking her way, she didn’t want her crushed by the mob. She stopped her fevered progress and offered the hapless young woman a hand.

Forgetting that it had been Marjorie who’d sent her flying, the girl shouted her thanks.

“Who’s coming?” Marjorie shouted at her.

Amid the hubbub, Marjorie could barely make out the answer. But she heard one word, and that was enough: Liverpool.

The unknown celebrity could only be the “four lads from Liverpool,” whose songs had become runaway hits, and whose sound announced to the world that a new generation was here and wanted everyone to know it. Hoping for a glimpse of these singing sensations, she reached the roof and joined the noisy, rollicking crowd.

The rabbi could wait. The Beatles were here.