“We were part of its community life. But we were Jewish, and not from the old families that had fought in the Confederate War.”

The earliest dream I can remember is of gateposts. A pathway in Hampton Park leads along an open area to a line of low trees and thickets. Next to and beyond it is the garden to which we are bound, and in front of it stretches a wire fence. The pathway leads to an opening in the fence next to the trees and thickets, through two narrow, dark green wooden posts. As we approach, a Confederate soldier materializes from one gatepost, marches across the open pathway, and disappears into the other post. He is followed by another, and another, walking silently across the pathway one after another, never more than one in view at a time, to vanish into the gatepost. There is a haziness to the scene—dark trees and shrubs, the shadows, the dirt pathway, the soldiers.