Epidemic in Rochester -- 1918 and 2020

On October 13 of 1918, Hermann Dossenbach, Conductor of the Rochester Orchestra, was still counting on his October 21st concert,

with guest soloist Mme Matzenauer, internationally-known prima donna contralto of the Metropolitan Opera House.  He was running promos and ads in the Democrat & Chronicle, with photos of his star and tantalizing descriptions of her recent concert in Denver, which was lauded by all.  

But on that same day — October 13th — on the same page as Hermann’s concert ads and write-ups, the D&C also published this headline: 

Still, Hermann remained hopeful because the article suggested that perhaps the concert venues will reopen in a week.   Think of all the planning that had gone into this performance, the rehearsals in which 50 - 60 musicians had to be brought together — and paid(!) — let alone the sheer good fortune of getting Mme Matzenauer to stop over in Rochester!  The show must — it must go on!  

Hermann felt determined, and so his eyes glazed over the final ominous tone to that 1918 D&C article about the hope of reopening in a week:  “This is not at all certain, however, and will depend on the factors in the epidemic situation as they appear during the next few days.”  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sounds familiar, from the vantage point of the Spring of 2020 —  right? — as we watch our COVID-19 pandemic numbers rise and then begin to fall.

I remember being astounded back in early March when, one by one, venues and places of businesses shut down — the colleges closing for the semester and sending students home, the concerts cancelling, the movie theaters abruptly stopping their schedules, doctors appointments and minor surgeries at hospitals postponed, public schools closed; eventually everything stopped except what was deemed to be essential.  

I remember a feeling of impending panic that week, in the days before the New York State Shutdown was scheduled to take effect on March 22.   I shopped at Wegman’s, two days in a row, getting there at 7:00am to avoid the crowds, only to find a packed grocery store.  It was disorienting, seeing whole rows of empty shelves where the toilet paper and paper towels should be, where the chicken and beef should be, where the bread should be.  Actually, because the bread wasn’t there, I couldn’t recall where it was supposed to be, and wandered and wandered looking for it.

The general talk amongst friends in the area was that maybe we’d be staying home for a couple of weeks, but who knows, nobody knew what was going on or what was going to happen.  I worried that we’d be stuck inside for quite a while, that prices would skyrocket, that more items would become unavailable.  

On the Friday and Saturday mornings before the Sunday shutdown, I filled my cart at Wegman’s.  How strange, walking up and down the aisles, trying to stay focused, looking at each and every thing — will we possibly need this?  that?  Meanwhile, the line of people ready to cash out extended from the checkout counters, snaking around the side of the store and the empty shelves of the toilet paper section, continuing around the back of the empty meat section, and kept growing, growing.  First I, and then, one by one, other shoppers incredulously asked those waiting in line:  “Is this the line for checkout?”  By Day Two of shopping, I was wiser, and when I heard the question being asked, assured the shopper, “Don’t worry, the line goes fast.”  

On the first day though, when I saw that long line, my panic rose, and I skipped the last few aisles and joined the line.  Hearing an older lady behind me say that she forgot to get her bread, I turned to her, saw the same look of disorientation and panic in her eyes, didn’t want to say that there was no bread.  Instead, I told her that I’ll watch her cart if she wanted to dash around and grab some items.  She replied that she’ll do the same for me.  We made eye contact, and I said to her, “yes, let’s help each other.”  

And that’s what we did.   Taking turns, we watched each other’s carts, pulled them along to stay in the line (not easy, pulling two carts).  She found bread (where was it? I thought) and bleach and pasta and vegetables, and I got coffee and storage ziplocs and looked for the $2.99 Wegman’s frozen pizzas — no luck on those though.  When we reached the checkout counters, and the employee who was monitoring the situation told me to proceed and pay, I turned to her once again, and we thanked each other, and wished each other a good day, and it happened so quickly because everyone was trying to move so quickly to get out of there, and afterwards I wished that we had exchanged telephone numbers so we could check in on each other.   

That was March 20th and 21st.  Today is May 14th.  We are still staying at home.  I have stocked up on groceries once since then, with everyone at the store wearing masks, everyone staying 6 feet apart, employees monitoring how many people go into the store and sometimes wiping down the carts before handing them to customers.  

Other than that grocery shopping day, I’ve only been out into the world twice, to buy movie popcorn from the downtown Little Theatre.  It’s strange how those little pleasures bring comfort.  

You order online, pay via Paypal, drive up to the theater, call a telephone number and give your name and order number, pop your trunk, and then the masked and gloved employee brings out the covered popcorns and puts them in the trunk.  He is a young man, he looks sweet and friendly, we smile and wave and wish each other a good day.  We enjoy this little bit of contact.  

We don’t know how long we’ll be staying at home.  I don’t mind it, I have so many projects, I have Bob to spend the time with, I have the dogs to take outside for walks.  I worry about others though, those whose home life isn’t happy, those whose situation is precarious, those who are ill or who have family members who are ill.  

It’s a strange, strange world we live in, that’s for sure.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And Hermann, and everyone else, must also have found it so, in October and November of 1918.  The War in Europe was still raging, albeit nearing the end, at least everyone hoped so.  And then to deal with an influenza epidemic that was taking their loved ones!  

On October 7, Rochester’s own First Sergeant Frank F King died at Camp Dix, of pneumonia, a victim of the

Frank F King
(photo courtesy Rochester Historical Society)

influenza epidemic.  His body was brought back to Rochester, his funeral held from his home at 381 Birr Street.   He had been a member of the Rochester Park Band, an organist for the Monroe Avenue Methodist Church, a pianist for the Piccadilly Theatre.  It is likely that the members of the Park Band played at his funeral, as this was something they did these days.  Death was everywhere.

Hermann’s big concert of October 21 was, indeed, cancelled; however, Mme Matzenauer sang for soldiers at Camp Custer in Michigan, lifting their spirits, giving them the oomph to go on.  During that week, and continuing into November, Rochester completely shut down.  By November 14, the newspapers reported that the flu epidemic was lifting.  This was good because a week earlier on November 7, Rochesterians had gathered in the streets to celebrate what they thought was the armistice, but it was false on this day, and they all had to go home and wait some more.  

But not for long — on November 11, the end of the Great European War was announced, and throngs of people amassed in downtown Rochester, feeling the joy, being close to each other, strangers hugging strangers.  

Experts still debate about the effect of that event on the waning influenza epidemic.  

But who can ultimately stop happiness and joy and the need for human connection?  

November 11, 1918 -- Rochester's Four Corners

(NOTE:  I'm having trouble with comments in this blog.  I can't figure it out -- why comments and replies don't always appear.  If anyone has any suggestions, I'd love to hear it.  And in the meantime, if you have a comment, feel free to email me -- lisamkleman@gmail.com -- and I'll gladly reply.)  

Ordinary Days are Historic Days

I am aware that I am alive.  What an odd statement.  One is always alive (until one isn’t), but one isn’t generally aware of that fact.  However, in these strange days of the COVID-19 shutdown, I am often aware —I am alive! — living during what everyone acknowledges is a particularly historic situation — businesses closed, events cancelled.  Someday people will want to know what it was like to live during these times.

Well, all times are historic, aren’t they?  All times are particular, right?  And that is my segue to another train of thoughts.  I begin to wonder, again, about times past, times when I wasn’t alive, but Hermann and Daisy were.  It was the summer and fall of 1919, and on this particular day, September 27, a historic day even if no one thought of it as such, Hermann and Daisy had placed a Classified Ad in the Democrat & Chronicle, selling their household belongings — their dishes, pictures, upholstered chairs, their golden oak dining room suite and dressing table and library table, their iron bed and mahogany bookcase . . . 

I had already researched and analyzed the large events which altered the shape of their lives — the Great War, the 1918 influenza epidemic which shut down events and gatherings in Rochester, George Eastman’s big plans for a new music school and theatre and orchestra — and how all of this led to Hermann’s exit from the music scene in Rochester which he had largely created.  

But this morning, when I came across that little Classified Ad, well, it stopped me cold.  It was this notice which caused me to remember that “history” happens to actual people, who are alive, and who are dealing, moment to moment and day to day, with the changes brought by larger events — selling their family home, choosing what to keep and what to shred, preparing to move on and into the future.  

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Suddenly, I am jolted back into the present day of my own ordinary life.  What time is it?  Ah, 11:30am, New York Governor Andrew Cuomo is giving his press conference — what’s happening with the virus today.  Cuomo is like a preacher, persuading, urging, hands and arms gesturing — “Stay home and save lives.”  

I paint while watching, using acrylics, bright colors decorating little shelves and wooden animals.  The action of the painting is soothing, and it is the best way to take in the disturbing news coming out of the press conference — the numbers of those tested positive, the numbers of those hospitalized, the numbers of those who have died, all the daily numbers, juxtaposed by the tactile feeling of the paint brush swaying back and forth, back and forth, each layer of paint bringing out the color and texture of the wood.  

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And as I paint, the Governor recedes into the distance, and 1919 zooms into the foreground of my mind.  Hermann Dossenbach, older brother to my great-grandfather, had been the Big Daddy of music in Rochester for two decades.  It was his world — Conductor of the Rochester Orchestra, Cofounder of the music school on Prince Street right next to the University, and Hermann and his musicians performing all over the city and beyond.  

It was an exciting world and it was his.  But then, suddenly, in the summer of 1919, that world was gone.  Supplanted by the super-talented violinists and musicians and conductors from Europe, who, during WWI, had fled their countries and flocked to the United States, especially to New York, looking for gigs and tours and more fame.  Some might call them carpetbaggers, but no matter, their music was heavenly, and many of them were attracted to Rochester by Mr. George Eastman’s promise of a world-class music school and orchestra, neither of which was to be led by the merely-locally-famous Hermann Dossenbach.   Hermann had been a big fish in smallish pond, but now that pond had widened, and there were much larger fish.  It was their world now.

On June 22 of 1919, three months before Hermann and Daisy chose to sell their household belongings, Hermann had walked out the side door of Mr. Eastman’s home on East Avenue, for the last time.  Violin in hand, music in his case, he left the place where he had been performing for small and large gatherings, of truly important people, for fourteen years.   Now that was a historic day, indeed.  I wonder — as Hermann strode down the driveway, did he turn and look back at the house?  Feel wistful?  Or did he forge straight ahead — Never let them see you cry.  

June 22nd was the final Quintette concert in Mr. Eastman’s living room.  Twice each week, from September through June, for fourteen years, violinist Hermann and his brother Theodore, playing the stand-up bass, had entered the side door through the portico, walked up the side stairs, and then again up to the 3rd floor, where they, and three other musicians (forming the Quintette) had rehearsed.  Twice weekly, for fourteen years, they would then stride down the curving, main staircase, instruments in hand and wearing tuxes so they looked grand, to the living room or the conservatory, where they played chamber music for the good folk gathered at Mr. Eastman’s invitation.  

George Eastman's Living Room (left courtesy GEM; right courtesy Elizabeth Brayer)

Dossenbach Quintette (with harpist),
Hermann 2nd from left, Theodore 3rd from right
(courtesy GEM)

Sometimes there would be a break and supper and then more music.  Now and then there was a big party, with Hermann’s full orchestra and Theodore’s Rochester Park Band providing the dance music or accompaniment to fireworks in the garden.  It was life as they knew it.  And who could ever have thought it would come to an end?

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jolt!  The mind moves swiftly and I am pulled back into the present.  Cuomo has finished; the shutdown has been extended into mid-May and the schools will stay closed through the school year; the numbers of those hospitalized and dead are dropping, but Cuomo says we can’t know if this trend will continue.  What will happen if all the people gather together again, at outdoor festivals, or at jobs, or at family gatherings?  Will the numbers jump back up again?  Fear for the future will keep everyone at home, communicating only through the computer, connecting through Facebook and video meetings. 

How strange.  Life, as we had known it, suddenly halted, changed course.  And there was nothing we could do about it.  What was once ordinary now seems a part of the past, like that day when I was shopping at Wegmans, just a few months ago, just an ordinary and everyday kind of day that I didn’t think much about, experiencing the Rochesterians’ love of their grocery store — Wegmans! — people smiling, being polite, idly chatting with strangers.  

“What is the best way to know if a cantaloupe is ripe?” I asked an elderly lady who was picking up cantaloupes and feeling them and putting them down until she found just the right one.  I was standing right next to this woman — can you imagine that? — and the woman gladly answered, something about the weight of the cantaloupe and whether it was too soft or too firm, whether with a gentle shake she could sense the inner contents moving about.  The woman smiled at me, and then walked away with her chosen cantaloupe in hand, and then I picked up one after another, but couldn’t sense any difference between them.  

It wasn’t even a memorable day, until it was.  

This morning, for the first time in four weeks, I ventured out again to Wegmans, which has been allowed to stay open as an essential business.   A very different experience

today.  Mask on, gloves on, keeping at least six feet apart from other human beings.  Painted directions on the floors with arrows showing where shoppers could walk, all aisles one-way only.  Gosh, I was so focused on my list and finding ingredients, and how the mask felt hot and scratchy, that I forgot to follow the arrows, and another shopper, from an ultra safe 10-foot distance, stopped short and squeezed right into the shelves and haughtily told me that I was going the wrong way.  The woman gestured towards the painted arrow on the floor.  “Oh, sorry,” I said, and turned my cart around.  The item I had wanted was right there on the shelf, just ahead, but I walked back down the half-length of the aisle, and up the full length of the next (the middle sections were blocked off, so there was no cutting through), and back around again to get my jar of green olives.  Green olives makes the shutdown a little easier, I remind myself.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the ride home, I again thought about Hermann and Daisy and that summer and fall of 1919.  Three months after leaving Mr. Eastman’s home, Hermann and Daisy placed their Ad in the newspaper.  I wonder — did they gaze at their possessions as the new owners carried them out of their house?  Will they miss the green Saxony rug which must have looked so chic next to the green davenport sofa?

One month after that, at the end of October of 1919, their home was sold, 261 Dartmouth Street, where they had been the first owners of the newly-built house in a new development, just off Monroe Avenue.  In 1906, they’d moved in, soon after Hermann began playing, with his quintette, at Mr. Eastman’s house, in 1905.

It was a historic day when they walked away, at least it was historic for Hermann and Daisy.  Did they go out through the front door and across the grand porch and down the wide stairs?  Did they linger on the sidewalk, and gaze at the home where they had raised children, where two of their daughters had gotten married, where Hermann had taught violin and rehearsed with his brother Theodore?  

Or did they march resolutely ahead, perhaps relishing a fresh start, determined to move into the future?

The Earliest Selfies

I recently read a fascinating article, “Why Do Selfies Matter? Ask Frederick Douglass,” and watched its accompanying video, “Frederick Douglass: Inventor of the Selfie,” both which you can access here: Frederick Douglass: Inventor of the Selfie .

The writer and video-maker posits that Frederick Douglass, the most photographed man of the 19th century, used photographs much like we use selfies today.  Even though he didn’t actually take the photos of himself, he managed them —  how he dressed, his facial expressions, the background — to not only influence how people thought of him, but to change the racist mindset of the American people towards black men in general. 

At the same time as I was considering how Frederick Douglass used the new medium of photography to create himself and his image, I was involved in a two-month-long project of scanning all of my family photographs at the Irondequoit Library.   Towards the end of that project, I came across a series of contact sheets from photography courses I took in 1985-1986 at Clark University in Worcester, MA (my alma mater).  

I remembered only a few of those photos, and so it was a thrill to see the whole of them, especially those of forgotten, and now mostly-demolished, places in and around Worcester, the old Worcester State Hospital (insane hospital with its Victorian Kirkbride buildings) and the famous (or infamous) Spags Department Store (“Spags no Bags”).    

But the images that really captured my attention were the ones of, well, me!  One of the assignments in the class was to take a self-portrait.  This was a most difficult assignment for me because I had been, for most of my childhood and all of my adulthood, filled with self-shame about my appearance.  I tried to avoid being in pictures, and was embarrassed of the ones in which I was captured.  

And this self-shame is evident in the photos I took during that course in 1985-1986, and how I strove to complete the assignment while not actually showing my face.

Attending to the nature of the self-portrait assignment, which should communicate something to the viewer about the person photographed, I incorporated personal themes, 

in this case, my piano — very important to me as a child, when I took lessons and played my piano all day, most days, but always alone in the living room, never in performance.  

When people would visit our house, I always stopped playing as soon as I heard them enter, and then would begin again when they had finally left.  I was, in fact, quite good, but was, also, quite shy.  

 I also incorporated the theme of family legacy, genealogy, and my own knowledge that who I was was someone who descended from others, and that I carried my descendants with me, wherever I went, whatever I did.

     But who I really was, the “me” that was setting up these photos, well, I was hiding, wasn’t I.  

Sometimes, these photos were quite sad, especially the one where I am sticking out my tongue at my child-self.  I was 27 years old at this time, with self-esteem issues which would keep me tangled up until in my 50s, when I at last shed them.  

      Here’s the one I eventually showed at my final critique.   My photography teacher didn’t like it, and I don’t blame him.

If I had it to do over again, I would show the following three self-portraits, in which I have the courage to look directly into the camera, to be seen, if only, at that time, by myself, and only in the one-inch image in the contact sheet, since I never chose to develop and print these photos into 8x10s.  

These were my earliest selfies.   And they tell me much, as all selfies do.  

And I salute that 27-year-old young woman.   I became me because of her.  And I thank her for saving the documentation which proved her existence, and for allowing me to see it, again, after all these years.  

The Influence of Popular Culture (Part 3 of 3)

The final part of my Influence of Popular Culture series is easy.  It’s really just a giggle. 

Back to that first season of the Fargo TV series.  There’s a scene in Episode 8 where two FBI Agents have screwed up their assignment — the mobsters they were supposed to be watching get murdered under their watch.  Oops.  So they get reassigned to what is for them the worst job imaginable.  

They are sent to the filing room.   For an indefinite period of time.

The scene shows them, with their boss, in the elevator, as it goes down and down and down. Then they walk through the long and increasingly dark corridor to where there are no longer any windows and the plumbing pipes are visible on the ceiling.

They are still trying to talk their boss out of this horrible reassignment.  “It was just a mistake.”  “We can do better.”  The boss says nothing; they reach one of the nondescript doors along the corridor, and he opens it — THE FILE ROOM! 

File boxes, piled one on top of the other, all neatly labeled, are the only things to be seen.  The two agents enter the room; the boss closes the door.   As one of the agents tries to figure out how to get out of this situation, and the other one is resigning himself to it, the camera pans around them, up and down the rows and rows and rows of boxes on their metal shelves, seemingly never-ending.  This is their worst nightmare!

Here’s what’s funny, I think.

If you had glanced at my husband, Bob, during this scene, you’d see his grimace, a look somewhat akin to horror; you’d note how he was pushing himself back into his chair, away from the TV.  A reaction fully in line with the intent of the scene.

If you’d glanced at me, a family and local historian, you’d see my look of pure delight — eyes wide, mouth open; I am leaning forward in my chair; I am almost pointing at the TV — YES!  YES!  YES!    

All I could think of was all of the information in that room.  All of the details and stories written down on paper, in obscure forms and notes and, oh gosh, photos!  With full access to all of it!  All one had to do was look.  

Oh, and, also, the challenges and joys of trying to get all of this organized!  I was already considering the indexes, the abc order, all that lost information of people’s lives found again!  

Yes — put me in this room for a year, I’m thinking!   It can’t get better than this!

So what’s this all about?  Nothin’ really.  Just the view from the mind of a historian and erstwhile genealogist, who will never be able to comb through all of the files and records out there, but who is certainly going to try.    

The Influence of Popular Culture (Part 2 of 3)

This week I am reading a biography of the songwriter Paul Simon (Robert Hilburn, Paul Simon: The Life, Simon & Schuster, 2018), which has inspired creative thoughts regarding this business of fiction and nonfiction.  In my post yesterday, I suggested that either, or perhaps both, of the following contradictions are true:

Consider the song, “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water,” with its sad and soothing, and ultimately hopeful, lyrics.  Paul Simon, who was known for being slow in writing and recording new music, describes this song as flowing through him, quickly and beautifully.  

He also states that the opening lines were memoir:  “I like the first lines of a song to be truthful, and those were . . . I was feeling weary because of the problems with Artie [Art Garfunkel, Simon & Garfunkel] and other things.  I was also feeling small.  But then the song goes away from memoir.  It comes from my imagination” (143).  

Simon further describes how his own awareness of himself helps him to be empathetic with others:  “I’ve always been able to feel what it’s like to be on the outside even though I’ve kind of been at the center of things in my own life” (143).  

When you’re weary, feeling small

When tears are in your eyes

I will dry them all

I’m on your side

When times got rough

And friends just can’t be found

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

When you’re down and out

When you’re on the street

When evening falls so hard

I will comfort you

I’ll take your part

When darkness comes

And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

All of this is lovely and perfectly understandable.  But then he describes the third verse, which came to him, also quickly, but much later in time, just as Simon & Garfunkel were in the studio ready to record the song.  This verse is one which has often perplexed listeners.  

In 1970, when I was 12 years old and this song was a hit, I loved Simon & Garfunkel.  I played their music on the piano, and sang (for no one, in my living room).  That third verse, though — didn’t know what it was about, but it was nice, and fun to sing.  

This week, while reading this book, and learning the autobiographical impetus to that third verse, I’ve reread this verse over and over, and spoken it out loud, and shivered, and felt immense gratitude to Paul Simon.  

Here’s what he tells us.  The morning before coming into the studio, Paul Simon’s soon-to-be wife found grey hairs in her head and was deeply upset.  This experience was on Paul’s mind when he wrote these lyrics:  

Sail on, silver girl

Sail on by

Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way

See how they shine

If you need a friend

I’m sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind.  

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.   While I loved the song anyways without knowing this meaning, I love it so much more now.  It has a story!  

Admittedly, I wouldn’t have identified much with that story in 1970, at 12 years old.  However, today, I can’t even begin to describe the beauty.  To think that in 1970, a man would have written a song to an aging woman (or, at least, a woman who felt she was aging) to show her that the best part of her life is still to come — gosh, wow.  

Well, I think I can say that in 1970, this was not an oft-heard message.  And, today, yes, things are much better, but, still, this is a great message to hear.  I’m 62 years old, and I can tell you that Paul Simon was right — Our time has come to shine, and our dreams are on their way, and we only have to allow ourselves to see it.  And we might not be as alone as we think.  

We don’t always need (or have a right) to know the autobiographical underpinning of a creative piece.  But, in this case, knowing it has transformed the song for me.  

But, you might ask:  Lisa, is the song nonfiction?  Is it fiction?  Or is it neither?  Or both?  

And what about our TV Series Fargo (written about in yesterday’s blog post)?  Well, that’s easy, that’s fiction, baby, pure fiction.  Right?  The people are made up and exaggerated; the setting is in a real place but seems fantastical.  The plot is not only made up, but is also, in fact, ridiculous.  Still, it’s well-written and it’s unbelievably well-filmed and acted.  

And here’s what it’s telling us overall:  

This writer (Noah Hawley) wanted to say that; he had a reason to say that; that reason certainly springs from real life.   If we knew more about his life, we would probably understand what he saw or experienced that caused him to want to write a show which delivers this message.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s a silly thing, really, this effort to try to make something this or that, fiction or nonfiction.  And who cares — if we like it, we like it.   

But for those of us writing about real people, it is something we think about all the time.

I’m writing a book about my ancestors in Rochester.  The history of these people, and the places they lived, and the times they lived in, is intensely researched.  The backbone of my book is based upon vast historical records.  Nonfiction.  

However, I’m drawing these people as characters.  I’m attempting to create the characters as close as I can to what I think they were like, based upon the historical information I find.  But there’s always an element of guesswork, especially when it comes to character.  How can I be sure that they were really like this?  Maybe I’ve got it wrong.

Furthermore, I’m creating scenes here and there.  In

Otto center, top row, with his family, circa 1905
(photo courtesy Gary and Jacque Fraser)

fact, I’m creating a break-up scene with Otto and Emma, who had a short-lived, tragic marriage, begun in 1887, and over by 1889.  I don’t, in fact, know where they broke up or how they broke up.  But I know where they lived, and I know what it looked like at that time, and I know the factors that probably led to the breakup (and what happened afterwards), and I know approximately when they must have seen each other for the last time.  And so I’m making up a scene, set in NYC, on a specific street and in a specific building.  It dramatizes them, helps us to feel them as people who once actually lived.  It seems the right thing to do.  

I hope I’ve got it right.  But I might be wrong.

Most of the book will be straight from history — history is so fascinating that you really don’t have to add to it or make it up.  Most of the book is true (hopefully).  But some of it is guesswork.

Am I writing fiction, or nonfiction?  

Have a listen to "Bridge Over Troubled Water," from the 1982 Concert in Central Park. And, btw, I WAS THERE!!!!