MARIANNE HIRSCH AND LEO SPITZER
“We often visited my mother’s exceptionally close and German-speaking family,” wrote David Glynn from London in his “personal introduction” to subscribers to the Internet mailing list known as “Czernowitz-L.”1 “To me Czernowitz has always been a familiar concept,” he continued, “but I knew absolutely nothing about it. And I could find out nothing about it, since no books in England seemed to make any reference to the Bukowina at all. It was only with the advent of the Internet that Czernowitz began to take a concrete shape in my mind, and I have been amazed by the flood of information to be found there. I am looking forward to the reunion, my first visit to Czernowitz, as an opportunity to understand more of the context from which my family came.”2
David Glynn’s observation about the role of the Internet in concretizing his ancestors’ city of origin, and his eager anticipation of a visit to its present-day site as part of a group affiliated with Czernowitz-L, was shared by many on that same mailing list. Indeed, like other such journeys to lost homelands that are also sites of past suffering and persecution, the “return” trip that Czernowitz-L subscribers in 2005 voted online to call the “Czernowitz Reunion” emerged from the phenomenally increased availability of the Internet on a worldwide basis over the course of the last decade and its greatly expanded use as a source of information and vehicle of communication.
But can online interaction oriented toward a shared past foster the kind of community—whether virtual, imagined, or embodied—that might legitimately think of participating in a “reunion?” A feminist analysis of the mediations of the Internet sensitive to power structures and their dynamics of inclusion and exclusion is useful for parsing the stakes that a “return” journey to a site of a nostalgic and traumatic past holds for its participants living divergent lives in the present. It can reveal the divisions and inequities that inevitably ensue. We offer the “Czernowitz Reunion” in Ukrainian Chernivtsi (in which we also participated) as a suggestive case study.
The Idea of Czernowitz
In actual fact, of course, the city of Czernowitz can no longer be found in any contemporary atlas. Yet Czernowitz as place and idea has remained very much alive, carried in the memory and imagination of its few surviving Jewish émigrés and their many descendants—of persons like David Glynn and others now scattered throughout the world.3 The World Wide Web has played a significant role in this. Initially, it was an interest in genealogy and a search for roots relating to the Jewish community of Czernowitz and the nearby Hasidic center, Sadagora, that led to the formation of an informal Internet mailing list in 1997. In 2002 that mailing list was formalized into a moderated listserv, Czernowitz-L. We joined the list at this point, having visited Ukrainian Chernivtsi with Marianne’s parents, Carl and Lotte Hirsch, in 1998. As their daughter and son-in-law, and as scholars who had begun work on a book about the afterlife of Czernowitz in Jewish memory, we were particularly interested in the Internet as a site of memory and transmission. Carl and Lotte, already in their eighties but no strangers to e-mail, signed up as well. By 2003, as interest in Czernowitz-L further increased and individual membership subscriptions to it grew, one of its Canadian members, Jerome Schatten, created a Web site for the group (http://czernowitz.ehpes.com) and list members began sending him a variety of materials for upload.
In the years since its formation, list membership has come to include many (perhaps a majority) whose connection to Czernowitz derives only through parents or grandparents. Initially, a few active members still belonged to a generation born in Czernowitz before 1918, Carl Hirsch among them, while a larger contingent, like Lotte Hirsch, had been born in Cernăuţi, as the city was renamed after the Bukowina’s annexation by Romania in the aftermath of World War I and the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. These two native-born groups were largely composed of people who were products of an emancipated and assimilated German-Jewish Eastern European culture that had flourished from the mid-nineteenth century until its shattering and dispersal in the era of World War II. For both, the whole-hearted embrace of the German language, its literature, and the social and cultural standards of the Austro-Germanic world remained core constituents of their identity even during the interwar Romanian years.
But Czernowitz/Cernăuţi was also the site where Jews suffered anti-Semitism, internment by fascist Romanians in a ghetto, deportations to Transnistria during World War II, and Soviet annexation. Of the more than sixty thousand Jews who inhabited the city at the start of World War II, only about one-third survived its conclusion. When the bulk of these survivors moved away after the war from the, by then, Soviet-ruled Chernovtsy, they thought it was forever.
With the new availability of the Web, however, opportunities for remembrance, community, and the virtual reconstitution of place came to be unprecedented in scope. Indeed, thanks to the list subscribers, the Czernowitz Web site quickly developed into an invaluable collective digital archive, a repository for memoirs, articles, postcards, maps, family histories, documents, and bibliographic materials—all made easily accessible on a worldwide basis to anyone with access to a computer, an Internet connection, and a Web browser. It became a dynamic, “living,” and steadily growing virtual repository. Available to any user at any hour, it permitted casual surfers as well as more systematic researchers public entrée into an immensely rich trove of visual, testimonial, and documentary resources—to a broad range of uploaded informative materials that had been amassed over the years in previously unknown or hard-to-access private holdings and family collections. Documents in German, Yiddish, Russian, or Romanian—in their original languages but, increasingly, also translated into the Web’s lingua franca, English—have become broadly accessible for the first time.
Within the site, the reference tools are multiple and easily managed. In addition to a lengthy, albeit critically incomplete and eclectic, reading list, they include a table of “Notable Czernowitzers,” a “Family Finder,” and an “Address Finder,” listing ancestors of listserv subscribers, their relationship, and their last known residence address in the city—a street address most often known to them by its German name but also findable (using the included “Czernowitz Street Name Translator”) in its Romanian, Russian, or Ukrainian revisions. Through its “Czernowitz Jewish Cemetery” link, the Web site also accesses a searchable database that makes graves findable by name, death date, location, and digital photographic image. It additionally enables the viewing, downloading, and printing of detailed maps of the city and region and of a sizable collection of low- and high-resolution postcards from the Austrian, Romanian, Soviet, and Ukrainian eras.
It is, however, through the many hundreds of photos of people and places in Czernowitz/Cernăuţi from the pre-1945 years, submitted to the Web site from family albums and private collections, that one gains the fullest sense of how a notion of Czernowitz, the city and its people, is shaped in virtual space. Browsing through these, and connecting what they seem to show with other available information, we can understand how Czernowitz persists as image and idea in the mind of its present-day surviving emigrants and their offspring. Picture after picture of persons and locations within the city reinforce, enhance, and detail a notion of Czernowitz transmitted visually across time.
Of course, given that many, if not most, of the contributors and subscribers to the Czernowitz-L discussion group and Web site are Jews, it is largely Jewish Czernowitz—and, to a significant extent, bourgeois Jewish Czernowitz—that survives in this manner, although many photographs also include working-class Jews as well as non-Jewish friends, schoolmates, neighbors and coworkers. The predominantly English-language http://czernowitz.ehpes.com, moreover, also provides links to other regularly maintained Web sites in several other languages and locations—in Germany, Switzerland, Israel, and the Ukraine—and these, in turn, provide portals to additional resources. Altogether, the various portals and Web pages establish a digital network, an informational matrix: a series of chronologically, spatially, and linguistically interconnected and linked digital pathways that convey a tremendous amount of cultural and historical data about Czernowitz and its subsequent political iterations.
Even so, however, while the ubiquity, numerical abundance, and vast informative range and quality of items posted to this seemingly ever enlarging cyberarchive enable richer and more detailed landscapes of memory, the Web page resources exist and remain within the realm of the digital (even when downloaded and printed), with qualities immanent to that medium. Digital materials, often compressed, cropped, and attenuated, are no more than simulacra. They lack the smells, scale, and tactile physicality of the “real,” certainly, but also of the analog originals from which most of them were generated. They are neither objects from the past like their analog sources, nor do they carry traces of human physical touch from the moment when the analog was produced and the intervening years when it was viewed and used. Generally, moreover, they are missing the context in which the analog originals were first collected and displayed in family albums and in private and communal archives.
Despite all of the favorable attributes, therefore, and perhaps because of their extensive availability and ease of use, we would argue that digital images on the Web associated with a lost ancestral home, places like Czernowitz, stimulate a desire for touch. Their very multiplicity and accessibility generate a craving for the haptic—for a connection to the physical world, a longing for the materiality and embodiment of the actual.4
As many postings on http://czernowitz.ehpes.com and the Czernowitz-L Internet mailing list illustrate so well, moreover, the use of these sites also tends to foster and facilitate a sense of community and a feeling of shared purpose. In large part, this is due to the fact that list subscribers, no matter where they may actually reside, do share a common interest in the central topic of the list/Web page—in this case, in Czernowitz. Many also have a stake in one or more subtopics: in genealogy, or in historical/cultural details, or in the preservation or renovation of certain sites, the Jewish cemetery, for example. Those shared interests lead users to address each other informally—as “Czernowitzers” on this list—or familiarly, as though they were closely connected or well acquainted. As media critic Andrew Galloway argues, moreover, the digital network itself depends on a structure of “interactivity,” a collective “micro-labor performed by the network’s user-base… a work activity” that consists in clicking, creating files and folders, uploading them, searching for them, sharing them, and, as with Czernowitz-L, discussing them on the listserv.5 This “interactive… work activity,” generally unacknowledged, reinforces the participants’ sense of belonging to an Internet community—to a social network of acquaintances or “friends.”
In actuality, however, these Internet communities are virtual and disembodied sites whose individual subscribing “members” know little, if anything, about each other’s past or present lives. And, in the many instances where subscribers do not post photos of themselves (as was true with Czernowitz-L in the 1990s and early 2000s), they remain faceless as well. What happens, therefore, to the notion of community established in digital space when many of its members decide to meet together in actuality? What surfaces in such a gathering? What is transmitted?
The Reunion
In all likelihood, it was the illusion of community fashioned on the Internet, in combination with a yearning for the tactility and materiality of the “actual,” that led a number of Czernowitz-L subscribers like David Glynn to propose the organization in 2005 of “a reunion”: an “embodied and not virtual,” get-together “on the streets where our ancestors lived” (as one list member put it)—in the “wonderful place [that] for decades was… lost to us, Czernowitz.”6 Many list members responded enthusiastically to this idea, indicating that, yes, they would be interested in participating in such a gathering and that they would indeed like to “return” to “Czernowitz” in a group journey rather than by themselves or in the company of their families.
After a good deal of online “discussion,” participating list members agreed on May 18–25, 2006, as the date of the “reunion.” They then elected an organizing committee online and began to address the practicalities of group tourism in Ukraine. Throughout these preparatory stages, all final decisions were negotiated through an elaborate system of online votes. In this respect, the event itself became an online negotiated group project based on a limited knowledge of the personalities and qualifications of members nominated or self-nominated for leadership. But it also took on characteristics of a group pilgrimage—a journey addressing assumedly shared secular and spiritual desires. Through the committee, would-be participants planned for an exploration of key urban sites and monuments associated with Czernowitz’s Jewish history, a prayer service at the Chernivtsi Jewish cemetery in the company of the small Jewish community now residing in the city, and a series of meetings, discussions, and memorial events in which the entire group would participate to share reminiscences, honor the past, and assess its persistence in the present. Indeed, in promising participants that their Czernowitz trip would enable them to feel elation from the fact that they would experience—“in the flesh”—physical and cultural sites that a few had remembered from their youth and the rest had only imagined or envisioned, planning for the Czernowitz/Chernivtsi sojourn, as for all pilgrimages, strongly appealed to the senses. It served the need, as Jack Kugelmass has indicated, “to peer behind surface representations to re-experience culture as fully three-dimensional, as real.”7 The divergences between the culture that was remembered or desired by returnees, however, and the city’s present reality were not taken seriously into account.
In the course of the organization for this gathering, a number of fundamental questions did not arise. What were participants actually expecting to find on-site? What of the past did they expect to be preserved and reflected in the present-day city? How did they expect to negotiate the divergences between their nostalgic memories of a past “home” and the traumatic recollections of the suffering they or their relatives had endured in the city? And, finally, what did the terminology list subscribers had agreed upon by vote—to hold a reunion—actually mean?
Given the generational, geographical, national, linguistic, political, and even religious differences between subscribers and users of Czernowitz-L and the Web site, who (or what community or group) was, in effect, “reuniting”? While none of the participants had actually been alive in pre-World War I Habsburg Czernowitz, a number of them had been born in Cernăuţi in the interwar years and had left the city or region as children or young teenagers after surviving the war. Conceivably, persons belonging to this group might wish to reunite. But the majority of other list members were only indirectly connected to the city—through their parents, relatives, or research interests—and for them the implications of the notion of reunion were much less clear and, in fact, turned out to be problematic.
Sixty-eight participants from nearly a dozen countries in Europe, the Americas, and the Middle East, including the two of us, convened in Chernivtsi representing at least three principal and, in some ways irreconcilable, agendas motivating interest in the gathering:
For the half-dozen or so participants of the “older” generation—persons born in the 1920s or early 1930s in Romanian Cernăuţi—it provided a late-life opportunity for a return-visit-to-place, either by themselves or with their spouses and/or children and grandchildren. In essence, these returnees sought to retrace, revisit, and touch places they associated with their past residence in the city and to transmit accounts of that past, on-site, not only to their offspring but also to other reunion participants. When they did so, we observed, their language of transmission was generally Hebrew or English—the primary spoken languages in the countries where they now resided. But, as we also noted unsurprisingly, everyone in this group could still easily switch into what one of them referred to as “the home language of our youth”—German.
German came less easily to the much larger component within the Reunion group that belonged to what Susan Suleiman has termed the “1.5 generation” who were born in Romanian-ruled Cernăuţi or in surrounding villages in the late 1930s or early 1940s.8 These participants had spent only a few years in the city as very young children before they were deported to Transnistria with their families or, if more fortunate, before they emigrated to new sanctuaries in Europe, Palestine, or the Americas. For individuals in this cohort, the Chernivtsi gathering enabled a material search for roots. Some had lost one or both parents during the war and had come back to look for gravestones or markers in the cemeteries of Czernowitz or Transnistria. The visit provided them with an opportunity for the rediscovery of vaguely remembered or subsequently learned-about childhood sites—family residences, neighborhoods, streets, schools, classrooms, parks, and playgrounds. And it enabled them to search for and reclaim personal documents that had been lost or never formally acquired—birth certificates, certificates of marriage of parents or grandparents, residential or property records. In so doing, it allowed them to certify, in concrete and material fashion, both to themselves and to others, an identity that had been severed from its foundation through expropriation and displacement. The retrieval of documents and addresses, the visit to sites, seemed to compensate momentarily for the vagueness or insufficiency of memory. It seemed to help authenticate, confirm, and detail a past that had haunted them, and for some of them it held out the hope of some form of repair. This promised to be especially true in the context of a group gathering in which memories could be augmented through collective discussion and shared experiences exchanged even among those who did not know each other in their childhood or youth.
Lastly, for the sizable contingent of second- and third-generation participants—the children and grandchildren or nieces and nephews of “Czernowitzers”—born after the war and after their parents or grandparents had emigrated from the city—the gathering provided a related yet different opportunity. Those in this group also viewed the Chernivtsi trip as a chance to “return,” but to a world they had never actually known personally. It is this second-generation group within which the two of us also identified. Like those in the “1.5 generation,” we too were interested in the discovery and recovery of documents and testaments from archives and official holdings. Yet we also seemed fundamentally driven by a desire to concretize, through direct experience with the city, narratives and images that had been conveyed to us by our parents, parents-in-law, and grandparents over the course of our lives with them. Through this journey, a largely mythic but also profoundly absorbing dimension of a personal identity we had connected to the place and idea of Czernowitz could now become tangible. And we were moved by another desire as well—to bring our parents and grandparents back with us, if not in actuality, then through their words and stories, through the objects they had bequeathed us and the scenes they had so often evoked. Movingly, several second-generation participants brought messages from relatives who were too old to accompany them—excerpts from memoirs they were eager to read aloud to the group, thus conjuring forth their parents and including them within the solidarity of the group.
Return to place for the memorial generation, and coming to place for the postmemorial one among Czernowitz–L users, did thus permit resolution of long-existing material and psychic quests—the yearning to turn virtual Czernowitz, built and detailed from a seemingly limitless digital archive, into a three-dimensional, tactile entity. Returning to and strolling about the city on the Herrengasse, the Ringplatz, Theaterplatz, in the Volksgarten, Jüdisches Haus, the Gymnasia, and university—in places we only knew by their German names—we could situate these in actual physical space, in proper scale, concretely and in color, textured by smells and surrounding sounds.
But even though the return/reunion did enable all this, it was much less successful in evoking the sense of community many had come there to find. Pretrip e-mails had already begun to reveal troubling fissures. Some, for example, had wanted to limit participation only to “Jewish Czernowitzers and their descendants.” Spouses of the latter were to be included as well, even if not Jewish, but when a non-Jewish Romanian researcher writing a book about Jewish Czernowitz asked to join the trip, one of the organizers vociferously defended denying access to “outsiders.” We were not “objects of study,” she insisted, nor would we want onlookers when we might be “moved to tears” at the experience of our “common” past.
Despite the controversy generated in these e-mails, however, the Romanian researcher did come along, joining friends among the participants. But, to the distress of many of us who were deeply disturbed by these exclusions and who initially failed to understand the impulses behind them, the divisive, nasty, exclusionary conflict around her presence continued. The young researcher, we soon saw, became a scapegoat for the objectors, a representative of Romanian anti-Semitism that some participants and most of our ancestors had to suffer, a catalyst for the expression of the very divergent interests and investments in the trip. Arguably, the conflict around her participation became a symptom of the tenuousness of our connection with one another and of our anxiety about our identity as “real Czernowitzers.” This unease and sense of competition revolving around identity and authenticity accompanied us through the trip and haunts listserv communications to this very day: who knows more about Czernowitz and its history, who remembers more accurately, who has more interesting stories to share?
Current inhabitants of Chernivtsi, both Jewish and non-Jewish, presented a different occasion for anxiety and unease. Beyond collecting donations for a Jewish communal and medical organization, most participants in our trip showed little interest in the life ways and situation of Jews now living in the city, almost all of whom were postwar immigrants (or their offspring) from elsewhere in the ex-Soviet Union and thus clearly not “real Czernowitzers.” The distance and estrangement was even more intense from the city’s current Ukrainian majority. We caught ourselves, and members of our group, relegating these Chernivtsi inhabitants to the background—into a kind of invisibility. Present-day city residents imparted services—in the hotel and restaurants, in shops, as taxi/bus drivers, occasional tour guides and informants, and as providers of access to documentation and other archival resources. But, as Sergij Osatschuk, a Ukrainian Fellow in the Bukowina Research Institute in Chernivtsi, noted about “returnee” visitors to the city: in privileging “Mythos Czernowitz”—an idea of a no longer (and most probably never) existing city—many in our group also tended to regard Chernivtsi’s current inhabitants as interlopers in the urban space. Strolling through the center of Chernivtsi, using our old German-language street maps, with old photos overlaying contemporary ones, ordering coffee and apple strudel with Schlag in the renovated Café Vienna, we visitors exclaimed positively at the survival of so many Habsburg-era buildings and public spaces. Yet beneath this awe lurked a consistent critique of the present. Osatschuk identifies it well: “the stage set remains, but the actors are no longer present.”9
Indeed, some in our group even regarded non-Jewish residents in the city with a mixture of apprehension and unease. Because of personal experiences in a few cases, or a more general acquaintance with stories about pogroms, intense anti-Semitism, and the wartime displacement and murder of Jews with the acquiescence or participation of locals in the population, Ukrainians and the Ukraine still bore a reputation as potentially dangerous. In a couple of instances, participants who held resentments against Ukrainians expressed a long-internalized anger in denunciatory outbursts during our group sessions or tours. These aggrieved feelings highlight the fact that, beside the quest aspect involved in the journey, some persons might have come to the Ukraine motivated by deep wishes to settle old scores. Together with the divisions and exclusions and the arguments over authenticity that marked the trip, they are symptoms of the irreconcilably divided and contradictory recollections a “return” visit to a site like Czernowitz activates. Trauma and nostalgia, longing and revulsion, sadness and elation: all these and more are activated by the encounter with a place that had so far been no more than a memory and an idea generated in virtual space. And, no doubt, they were activated quite differently for different participants, explaining perhaps the surprising flare-ups in the group.
Imagined Communities
“You must never undertake the search for time lost in the spirit of nostalgic tourism,” Czernowitz’s best known non-Jewish German writer, Gregor von Rezzori, wrote of his own return journey there.10 Clearly, given the complicated and fraught relationship of the participants to “Czernowitz,” the “reunion” was more than an instance of nostalgic tourism. But what, in fact, did it accomplish for those attending the 2006 Reunion and for the reunion group? How did it inflect the memory of Czernowitz they carry? And how did it connect that memory with life in present-day Chernivtsi?
The trip did produce many more photos and stories to be posted on the Web site, more memories and topics to be discussed on the listserv, more videos to be shared, and more reunions to be planned. While frustration with the immateriality of the Internet did stimulate the desire for return, the journey also succeeded in enhancing interest in the Czernowitz Web site, in expanding its online archive, and in further consolidating the communal connections among the tenuously constructed listserv group.
Even if the actual encounter with the city did not significantly alter the mythic ideas about Czernowitz that most reunion participants had brought along with them and that the Internet had helped to enhance and circulate, the trip did in some ways respond to realities on the ground. In concrete terms, it revealed to participants how much needs to be done to preserve Jewish sites in the city and helped to energize further online discussions among returnees and other list members about how this might be accomplished. Reunion members thus took the lead in raising funds and convincing city authorities to allow the installation of a memorial plaque honoring Traian Popovici, a Romanian mayor who saved almost twenty thousand of the city’s Jews from deportation to Transnistria in 1941 and who remains virtually unknown in this Ukrainian city. Many also attempted to bring about the restoration of the shockingly neglected Jewish cemetery: they raised funds, engaged international volunteer clean-up groups, and hired local workers for this daunting job. The return, moreover, gave participants a renewed interest in the city—an involvement, for example, in contemporary events such as the Chernivtsi six hundredth anniversary celebrations that were held in fall 2008. In this regard, much of their energy was concentrated in efforts to gain acknowledgment and recognition for the rich cultural and material impact that Jews had on this city’s identity over the course of its past two centuries.
These acts of engagement continue. But they have not yet succeeded in producing a fuller connection between “returnee Czernowitzers” and present-day inhabitants of the city. Communities forged in virtual space through identification with an idea of a past that is remembered both nostalgically and traumatically remain tenuously constituted. Group feeling may be especially precious and thus also fragile, in need of being reinforced through repeated performances of belonging that depend on exclusions and boundaries—boundaries based on common memories, legacies, and experiences. In the case of “Czernowitz,” where populations shifted and the identities of perpetrators, bystanders, and rescuers are multiple and contested, “returnees” may have special difficulties trusting the city’s inhabitants, acknowledging their lives, and including them as fellow “Czernowitzers.” Sadly, therefore, although we all have stakes and responsibilities toward the very same urban space, there is, for now, still more that divides than unites us.
Notes
1. An earlier version of this essay appeared as part of a chapter in Marianne Hirsch and Leo Spitzer, Ghosts of Home: The Afterlife of Czernowitz in Jewish Memory, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010). For another account of the reunion trip see Florence Heymann, “Tourisme des mémoires blessées. Traces de Transnistrie,” L’Horreur oubliée: La Shoah roumaine. Revue de d’histoire de la Shoah 194 (January/June 2011), 319–342.
2. David Glynn, “Postings from 2006: Introductions,” http://czernowitz.ehpes.com.
3. For accounts of the history of Czernowitz, see Hirsch and Spitzer, Ghosts of Home; Hugo Gold, ed., Geschichte der Juden in der Bukowina. 2 vols (Tel Aviv: Oleamenu, 1962); Florence Heymann, Le Crépuscule des lieux: Identités juives de Czernowitz (Paris: Seuil, 2002).
4. For a detailed discussion of the term haptic in art history and media theory, see Laura U. Marks, Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), esp. “Introduction” and chapter 1.
5. Alexander R. Galloway, “Three Middles,” unpublished paper, presented to the Columbia University Faculty Seminar on the Theory and History of Media, November 2009.
6. See correspondence regarding reunion trip in Cz-L Archives, comments posted March-December 2005, http://czernowitz.ehpes.com.
7. Jack Kugelmass, “The Rites of the Tribe: American Jewish Tourism in Po-land,” in Ivan Karp, Christine Mullen Kreamer, Steven D. Lavine, eds., Museums and Communities: The Politics of Public Culture (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), 401–403.
8. On the “1.5 generation” see Susan Suleiman, Crises of Memory and the Second World War (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006).
9. Sergij Osatschuk, “Czernowitz heute und der Umgang mit dem gemeinsamen kulturellen Erbe,” http://www.czernowitz.de/index.php?page=seiten&seite=55.
10. Gregor von Rezzori, The Snows of Yesteryear: Portraits for an Autobiography (New York: Vintage International, 1989), 290.