Appendix D When the transsexual marries [1] by Clara

EDITOR'S NOTE: Clara is a male transsexual, now operated upon and living a normal life as a woman. At the age of twenty-four, because of his mother's urging and his own desire to "try to be a man," he married a girl of seventeen and remained married to her for more than thirty years, up to the time of his sex conversion surgery. Able for a time to have intercourse with his wife, by means of fantasies, wearing of female apparel, assumption of the below position in coitus, and other adaptations, he fathered two children. At the start of the incidents here related, he was forty-five years old and had been married for more than twenty years. His total impotence after three years of marriage and his "dressing" made his relationship with his wife and children a torment for all concerned. The events described are rather typical of those which occur when the transsexual marries a normal partner.

Around the end of 1944, Walter (my son-in-law) used all of his and Barby's (my daughter's) savings to go into a small manufacturing business with a friend. To help out the young couple, we'd invited them to live with us indefinitely. Barby was pregnant by now, still helping out in the new venture, which grew slowly but seemed to be making encouraging progress.

This was the beginning of a time of trial and tension for me at home. As a wife and expectant mother, a change came over Barby. The clashes between her and me came more often and grew more frenzied. It was inevitable, I suppose, and what I'd been warned to expect all along. At the root of it was the same old conflict, the female clothing I was impelled to wear. The difference was in Barby, her grim and persistent attacks, leading to a veritable declaration of war.

"Walter knows nothing about it - so far," she said, her jaw set in an unbecoming way. "He must never know. Mother and I agree to that." She flashed a look at my wife May. "I'm sure you agree us this too."

I started to leave the room.

"Ralph, please!" May implored.

"Dad, there's only one way for us to make sure of that! You simply can't wear those clothes any more, that's all!"

"I've told you and told you," I said, raising my voice, "he will never see me that way."

"He will, it's bound to happen sooner or later! That's not enough, Dad! Isn't it time to kill it off, have it over with once and for all!"

"May, if you put her up to this ... "

"I? She's after me all the time! What can I do? But she's right, Ralph. What if Walter were to find out?"

"I don't give a damn about Walter!"

"You know you do," May said. "He's your son-in-law. You're going to be a grandfather."

"It makes me miserable, Dad! I've seen it all my life and I can't see it any more! If you don't stop it, you'll drive me to that closet of yours! I'll destroy every disgusting woman's garment you have in there!"

That made me furious enough to strike her. "If you ever do such a thing, one of us will leave this house! You or I! Your mother can make the choice!"

"Barby, this is your father's home," May admonished. "Don't you touch a thing that belongs to him!"

As I made for my room, Barby was saying: "He's got to put an end to it, he's got to!"

I found a lock I'd put away and attached it to my closet door. In her state of mind, my daughter might charge into my closet after all ... .

Barby's constant interference drove me to distraction. No longer able to wear my beloved clothes at home, I'd pace the floor like a caged lioness. Most nights she'd stand guard, to see that I made no attempt to dress up and go out for a walk. I don't know what Walter made of these doings. If he guessed the truth or had been told, he showed no sign of it. Only once in a while, when they were particularly tired and both went to bed early, did I manage to slip out in female getup. Those times I walked until my feet were blistered. On going to bed, I'd begun to experience stomach pain, which I attributed to gas.

Early in 1945, I went to work for the Veteran's Administration as a clerk at a small salary. It was trivial, uncomplicated work. I was too unnerved during this period to have spent my days at a more taxing job. I found two new friends in that office, Pat and Rick, both married and in their early thirties.

In July, my first grandchild was born, a girl. Barby chose the name Gail for her. It thrilled me to cradle an infant in my arms again. The little angel reminded me very much of her mother when she was that tiny. I was always urging May, Barby, and Walter to go out together and leave me to take care of my granddaughter.

Germany capitulated. The war was nearing its end. Other ex-servicemen were now working for the Veteran's Administration. Comparing notes, we came to realize there was open resentment against us, mostly on the part of older women who had long been with the government.

One day late in 1945, Miss Lockwood, my superior, turned on one of these veterans, a former airman.

"You veterans come back from a couple of years in service and think the world owes you a living!" she shrilled, so she could be heard all over the floor. "Get to work like everybody else, or there'll be no jobs for any of you here!"

When I stood up for him, she lashed out at me too. "You're no better than the others! This is no charity ward! I'll clean out the lot of you!"

From that time the antagonism between us grew steadily worse.

I asked to speak to the chief supervisor, a gray-haired woman who maintained good employee relations without ever resorting to hurling insults. She listened soberly to my account of what had been taking place in my section.

"We're all members of veterans' organizations," I said. "If something isn't done about this situation, I for one will take it up with my post."

Miss Lockwood was transferred to another position. Veterans of other departments heard of this and came to see me for advice. They had come up against the same sort of thing.

"People here start out with the attitude that we're lazy bums," they complained. "We don't get a chance to prove otherwise."

I conceived the idea of submitting a resolution through the Veterans of Foreign Wars, which would give seniority and other rights to veterans in government service.

With the Japanese surrender, we began to look forward to the homecoming of our son Paul. In the fourth week of 1946, we embraced a broad-shouldered six-footer, little like the boy who'd gone off to be a soldier. His face was stronger, and handsome, despite the eye-glasses which he would wear for the rest of his life. Unlike his father, his army record was unblemished. He had turned down the offer of a commission to remain in service, in favor of continuing with his education.

Changes had been made in Walter's business. His partner had talked a relative of his into coming in with them. This man was wealthy. He had much more ambitious plans. We gave Barby and Walter a loan of five hundred dollars. Between the three of them they had opened a larger factory in downtown New York. It had seemed to get off to a promising start.

After some months the third partner began to be restless. The profits were not living up to his expectations. With the aid of a shrewd lawyer, be withdrew from the partnership at no disadvantage to himself, leaving Walter and his partner holding the bag. These two made a valiant eff ort to carrv on with ever diminishing capital. Walter was rarely his cheerful self. Barby asked for another loan. May and I gave her the same sum again.

This year Paul marched with me in the Memorial Day Parade. Neighbors were out in front of the house again. One of them led a cheer for the Millers, father and son. Again I carried the flag. Paul had been placed in the first rank, just behind me. As we passed, Walter ran out in front, snapping pictures of us with the imported camera Paul had brought for him.

The column ahead drew to a halt. As we did the same, I turned around to look at my son.

"How are you doing, Dad?" he said.

"It's great to have you with us, son!"

He'll take my place, I told myself; he'll be the man of the house. It can't be much longer for me. I'm forty-seven, a grandparent, a soldier in a military parade, but nothing's changed. I must still find the way to be the woman that I am.

A week later I submitted my resolution at the meeting of the post. The comrades listened, as Commander Brooks read it to them. It was passed and forwarded to the County Committee, on which our former commander, Henderson, served.

Henderson was not a man to overlook any opportunity to advance his career. He made a few changes in the proposal and submitted it to the State Headquarters of our organization under his own name. From there it made its way to an annual convention, attended by delegates of VFW posts all over the country. Before long it was in the hands of a federal legislative committee and was finally passed by Congress as law ... .

On election night at the lodge, I was proposed for the presidency. All the others nominated declined and left the office to me. Installation night was more of an occasion for my family than it was for me. There were close to three hundred people present. As I made my short speech of acceptance, I looked down at May and our children.

They were all thinking the same thing: "Now they've made you head of this important society. No one here knows how you think of yourself as a woman and dress as one. Surely you will abandon all that and be the man they all think you are. "

My duties as president were many and exhausting. Besides conducting all meetings, there were special sessions with committees, funerals of deceased brothers to attend, and visits to those who were ill. At the end of the year, I was urged to consider taking the office again. It was too tedious and time-consuming a job. May was most disappointed when she heard I had declined re-election.

Paul was back in college, elected to the highest scholastic fraternity. My son-in-law's partner gave up and went to California, leaving the business entirely in Walter' s hands. From that time on, we all knew he was going to lose his fight to keep it going.

In her concern for Walter and fearful of their future, Barby was more of a problem than ever. There were flareups between us almost every day.

She made a theme song of: "We have a child in this house. Small as they are, they notice things. I don't want her to see you wearing those clothes."

Little Gail had been playing in my room. I'd just been to my closet and had left the door open. Barby came into the room. She stopped short at the array of dresses. Her eye went from the closet to the child.

"Why don't you get rid of that junk?" she said.

"This is my room, Barbara! What goes on in here is no affair of yours!"

"My baby is in this room with that damned closet open!"

"Then take her out."

She began to shout. I ordered her out of my room. She only shouted more. I lost my temper and began to push her away. She pushed back. I slapped her hard. She cried out. Paul came runing to her rescue. By this time all three tempers were out of conrol. Paul struck me a blow across the head. I fell to the floor. They left the room, taking Gail with them.

I picked rnyself up and lay on my bed.

When May got home, they described what had happened. From my bed I could hear everything that was said.

May spoke sharply to our daughter. "I've told you over and over again to leave him alone! If he's got to wear those clothes, he'll wear them! You stay out of it !"

"Yes, but Gail ... "

"Never mind Gail! This is his home! You grew up with it, didn't you? Stop bothering him, stop making it worse than it is!"

May came into our room. Her eyes widened when she saw the size of the bump on my forehead. Barby and Paul came to my bed.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Barby sobbed. "You've been good to me always. It's just because I love you so much. That's why I get so upset."

Paul said: "Forgive me, will you, Dad? I lost my head."

"I try to understand, Daddy. I guess I just can't. I don't mean to be unkind. I can't seem to help it."

"I know, I know," I told them. "Let's forget it. It was as much my fault as yours. Let's not let it happen again."

"No, never again, never!" Barby vowed.

It did almost happen again. I wish it had. Perhaps what followed would not have taken place.

It was early spring, 1947. The entire family had gone to bed, except for Barby and me. We sat in the kitchen, she reading a book and I playing solitaire with one eye on the clock. It was almost eleven.

I said: "Aren't you going to bed?"

"I'm going to stay right here," she said firmly.

"That book must be very interesting."

"It'll do, to pass the time."

I played another game. "You're tired, Barby, look at you. Go to bed."

She closed the book and folded her arms, looking at me steadily. "I know what you want to do. I'm not going to let you."

"Barby, why don't you give it up? You keep trying and you accomplish nothing. Your mother's tried to change me. So have I. It can't be done."

"The minute I go to my room, you're going to make for that closet of yours. And leave this house in women's clothes."

"It's been months, Barby. I've got to do it. Go inside."

She shook her head.

"I'll go anyway," I said, rising from my chair.

"No, you won't. Because I'll wake up this house before I let you past that door."

"Barby, you're living in my home with your family, You're here without payment of any kind, to help you."

"I know," she assented. "And this is my way of helping you."

My pleading gave way to louder protestations. "You have no right! You were brought into this world to lead your own life, not mine! I'm your father and this is my home! Now go to your room, I say!"

May woke up. "Barby!" she called. "Get the hell out of that kitchen!" She must have been furious to use such language. "And you come to bed, Ralph!"

Barby gave up and went to her room, I sat down to the cards again. It had been too long since my last night walk. Watching the clock, I let twenty minutes go by and went into the bedroom. May lay still. Quickly I gathered up my clothing and shutting the door after me, went into the bathroom. Impatient to be off, I made up my face, dressed, and put on my wig hastily. Then putting on a hat and coat, I made my way to the street.

A few blocks from the house, my shoe slipped off. The strap had broken. I sat on a stoop to fix it. A patrolman passed by. He was at the street corner a few minutes later, as I continued my walk. He followed me for two blocks. I'd turned down a side street, when he caught up with me.

"Just a minute, young lady."

I stopped.

He motioned me to the brick wall side of the corner building. The street was very quiet. He came quite close.

I said: "What do you want, officer?"

He smiled and put out his hand to touch me. I became panicky and slapped his face.

"You devil!" he said, shaking me. "Who do you think you are?"

He shook me so hard that my wig slipped out of place. I tried to straighten it and without being able to see myself, only made it worse.

"What have we here?" be said caustically.

He pulled me to a police box and called the station for a car. Twenty minutes later the police car appeared and I was taken to the station.

It had been a very long time since I'd last gone through the ritual before a police desk. I was no longer a disarmingly innocent youth, who could easily win the sympathies of a fatherly sergeant. This man asked a few gruff questions and in a matter of moments I had been booked for male prostitution. It was done so quickly, I was left dazed. It was against the law, I knew, to impersonate a female. I'd always taken that risk willingly. But male prostitution!

I made a desperate stand against the charge. They hardly listened as I pleaded that I was only taking a walk, minding my own business; I'd approached no one.

The patrolman who had arrested me was a rookie. He saw in this an opportunity to draw attention to himself. I was taken into the office of a police lieutenant. Bursting into tears, I went over the whole thing again with him.

"Are you a man or a woman?" he asked.

"A man," I replied.

He said: "Take off that thing." He meant my wig.

I removed it.

"Why do you do it?" he said.

The story sounded lame but it was the only one I'd ever had for these emergencies. I explained about doing housework and how I wore my wife's housedress to do it, to save my own clothes, and after I'd finished I'd felt the need for air and had stepped out for a walk before going to bed.

"You're married?"

I assured him I was, with two grown children and a grandchild. I spoke of my service in the army, that I'd been overseas and had taken part in the North African campaign.

The lieutenant listened attentively. I could see I was making an impression. After a few more questions and answers, he turned to the young patrolman.

"I don't see anything wrong," he said. "We can let him go."

The rookie disagreed. As the arresting officer, apparently he had the right to insist that I be charged.

"Okay, if that's how you feel," the lieutenant said. "But I don't see any soliciting in this case. We'll have to drop that and make it a misdemeanor."

"Why, lieutenant?" the cop persisted.

His superior became impatient. "Because you have no evidence of prostitution here! Without it you'd be laughed out of court! All right, take him to the desk."

An hour later I rode inside a patrol wagon, handcuffed to an iron pole within the vehicle. We drew up before a stone building in a part of the city I didn't recognize.

A policeman at a desk asked more questions, wrote down the answers and relieved me of my watch and whatever money I had with me. I was led down a long corridor, past a row of cells. The tapping of my high heels echoed strangely. Inmates of the cells pressed close to their bars for a look at me. Out came a chorus of comments and invitations, whistling and laughter.

The guard raised his stick. "Pipe down, the pack of you! Or I'll crack your skulls!"

I'd heard off-color remarks before, but never anything like I was hearing now.

I was locked up alone in a cell. My coat had been taken away. I sat in a thin dress until six o'clock in the morning. At that time the guard appeared with some of my own male clothing. May had brought it to the station, after they'd telephoned her and told her where I was.

I got into my own trousers, shirt, shoes and jacket. But with no access to soap and water, there was no way to remove powder, lipstick, eye makeup and nail polish.

At nine o'clock I was taken to what they called the bull pen, where all prisoners are assembled before being brought into the courtroom. Of course I was stared at. There was more ribaldry, hushed this time, with sniggers and guffaws.

My name was called. The guard opened the door to the courtroorn and motioned for me to go inside.

Judge _____ was presiding. I saw May, looking very red-eyed. As I entered, there was a flurry of excitement among the reporters and photographers at the rear of the courtroom. May stiffened, turned anxiously to the judge. I could see it sensationalized by the newspapers: "Ex-G.I., husband, father of two and grandfather, picked up on street dressed as a woman. In court with painted fingernails and cosmetics." I'd had no idea there would be so many people. Every eye in the huge room was on me.

May spoke up, going close to the bench. "Your Honor, I beg you, please!"

"Is this man your husband?"

"Yes, sir. If there are pictures and this gets into the papers, it would ruin us and our children! My husband is no criminal! He's never been in a courtroom before; neither have I! He has a job. He works for the government. I'm employed by a defense plant. We're decent people! This could disgrace us forever!"

The judge banged his gavel and announced that the court would be cleared of all newsmen and photographers. There were cries of protest. He ordered them out at once.

We left the courtroom and went into the judge's chambers.

"I have been told you were arrested dressed as a woman," the judge said. "How do you come to be wearing those clothes now?"

I explained that the clothing had been brought to me by my wife.

"It was the first thing I thought to do when they notified me," May said.

The judge had the arresting officer place my female attire on the table before him.

"Where did you get these clothes?" the judge asked.

"They're mine," May said without hesitation.

"Is that true?" he glanced at me.

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Does your husband do this very often?" he inquired of May.

"Oh no! Only once before."

He gave me an appraising look.

"You can believe her, Your Honor." All through it I kept thinking, why do we have to lie? Is the truth so wrong? Is there any crime against society if a person, with the appearance of a man, feels himself to be a woman? Outside of myself and my own family was anyone affected in any way by it? I realized that civilization is built on a complicated system of laws. The judge was there to interpret them. But is there a law that can delve into the feelings of a human heart?

"How long have you been married?" was the judge's next question.

"Twenty-four years," May supplied.

"Has he lived with you all that time?"

"Every day of all those years with me and our two children."

The judge sighed. "I can see you are a good woman. Your husband appears to be a well-meaning man. I will place him in your custody. Take him to Bellevue Hospital. He is to be examined there by the psychiatric department. You understand?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"If they give him a good report, I'll set aside the charge and he'll go free. If not, I will have to take other measures. Now will you be sure to follow my instructions?"

"Absolutely, Your Honor."

"You're to bring the report here to me personally. I'll expect you within five days."

"We'll be here," May assured him. "Thank you. I appreciate what you' ve done for us."

The next morning, a Friday, May and I were at Bellevue. She was made to wait outside, while I faced a psychoanalyst in his small, white-walled office.

Keeping myself well controlled, I listened carefully to his questions and thinking of my son, Paul, gave answers I would expect of him. My London background came in quite handy. I invented a theatrical career for that early part of my life. I spoke of the music halls, the shows that tour the provinces. Never having been to England, the man readily accepted the tale.

"Gave up being a performer, when I got married, you know," I said nostalgically. "Precarious life for a man with a family. Guess I never got over it."

I explained that at times I was quite overcome by the irresistible desire to dress up and play to an audience. To me, my wife's clothes were a costume. That's how I'd happened to go out wearing them.

"This unfortunate accident. It was quite a shock," I concluded. "Didn't mean any harm. Just a prank. Not against the law in England, you know. I'll never again take a notion to go out on the street wearing a costume!"

"Different lands, different customs," the psychoanalyst said smiling. "I've picked up some knowledge of Spanish. A perfectly innocent word in one South American country means something pretty awful in another. Got to be careful."

"That's what I mean to be," I agreed.

"Here you are," he said, handing me his report. "This ought to straighten things out."

The following Monday, we were back to see the judge.

He read the report, put it down and said: "I'm very happy to tell you you're a free man, Mr. Miller."

He had more to say, however, before letting me go. "I sincerely advise you never to be seen again wearing women's clothes on the streets of New York. If this were to happen again, it would not be easy for you. You know the penalty for masquerading as a female - six months' imprisonment."

He gave me the look of a Samaritan, gently admonishing a wayward sinner. I felt scorn for that look. I would have liked to remind him that nature is greater than man and his laws. Nature had made me what I was. Six months in prison would do nothing to alter that.

It was over. When we were home again, May let loose a violent tongue-lashing.

"The more we shower you with love, the more you hate us!" she accused.

"Hate you, May?"

"You must, or you couldn't deliberately, wilfully smash down everything we try to build up! I've fought all these years for you, for our home, to raise our children, to live decently! But to have to fight you too, that's too much! How much strength do you think I have? You go on and on with that hideous game of playing a woman! It's frightening, dangerous, but you won't give it up! Not until you've destroyed yourself and all of us with you!"

A game, she called it. That was all she knew of the basic instinct within me, too powerful to control. If only I could have pulled the veil from her eyes and let her see that I was a woman, just as much as she!

I blamed Barby for the whole miserable experience. By standing guard over me, arguing with me, distracting me, she was responsible for my distraught recklessness when I had hurried out to the street that unhappy night. She was upset by what had happened, but she felt no sense of guilt. My reproaches only led to more scenes. The hollering and screaming went on for days.

I arrived at work one morning in a wretched state. There seemed to be no pulling out of it all day. I went into the men's room and looked out the window. Pat came in soon after. He'd seen me go and followed.

"You've really been bothered about something for days," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Ralph, is there anything I can do to help?"

For over a year I'd known Pat, and Rick too, to be warm-hearted, the only men at the office I could really count on as friends. But experience had taught me to keep the details of my life to myself.

"Rick and I have talked about it many times. We think you're a nice guy, we like you, Ralph. There are things being said around here."

"About me?"

"You know how some of these fellows are. They can be pretty vicious. Do you know that they watch you when you go to the bathroom?"

"What are you talking about, Pat?"

"They say you sit down like a woman. One of them looked under the stall. He swears he saw you wearing pink underwear, women's underwear. Ralph, for your own good, I think you'd better watch out."

"You talk as if you've seen it too."

"I have. You opened the collar of your shirt one day. I saw what was underneath." He put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. "I'm not asking to pry into anything. I just want you to know you can call on me, if you ever need to."

As much as I would have liked to share my burden, I said nothing more to Pat that day. Perhaps I was afraid that, if it all spilled out, he would no longer be so eager to call himself a friend.

In the weeks following my arrest, Barby grew more militantly aggressive in her fight against my wearing female attire.

"While I'm in this house, you'll never put on another dress!" was her pledge, repeated not once but several times a day.

It became an obsession, which drove her to hammer and attack, as if her life depended upon it. She incited May to do the same. To be denied my women's clothing was the worst possible punishment for me. I had come to detest male apparel as much as I detested the earmarks of the male on my body.

The rain kept Barby indoors with Gail all day one Saturday. Paul came home in the early afternoon and closed himself up in my bedroom to study. Unable to "dress" even in the privacy of my own room, I fell into a state of near-despair. It was the wrong time for another bout with Barby. But we had one.

"You think you know me," I charged. "You know nothing, you see nothing! I'm a stranger to you!"

"You're my father."

"Only God knows how that happened!"

"It happened because you're a man! Nothing else, a man!" She kept hurling at me over and over, "A man, a man, a man, a man, a man, a man!"

She knew very well how that never failed to infuriate. This time, my response was even more drastic. I screamed and screamed until I thought the blood vessels in my neck would burst.

I ran from her into the bathroom, opened the medicine chest, and took out a bottle of iodine. I held the open bottle in my hand. There was a razor blade beside the soap dish. I picked it up and held it in my other hand, trying to decide which one to use. There was no more going on. The time had come.

I'd left the door open a crack. I listened for sounds in the other room. Everything was quiet. Did I really mean to do it, or was this motivated by histrionics? I raised the bottle of iodine to my lips.

The door swung open and crashed against the wall. Paul was coming at me. Barby must have suspected something and sent him. Yes, I thought, this was the way I'd planned it. But now I wouldn't fake; I'd go through with it.

I tasted a drop of the iodine before Paul reached out to pull the bottle out of my hand. He hadn't seen the razor blade. In the struggle, my hand closed over it, inflicting a deep cut in four of my fingers. The iodine splashed out of the bottle. Some of it hit my mouth. I licked at it, trying to swallow it down.

Paul took hold of my jaw and put his finger down my throat. I choked. The iodine came up. He gave me two stinging slaps to pull me out of the hysteria. He sat me down on the bathroom stool.

When he found his voice, it came through sounding as it did when he was a little boy . "Daddy, Daddy, why? For God sakes, why are you doing this? Why?"

Barby was at the door, frozen by the sight of the blood oozing from my hand, the iodine stains all over my face. She came to life, dampened a towel, and wiped my hand, wailing as she did.

"We love you, Daddy! Oh my God, we love you! You know we do! All of us, no matter what we say! Why do you think ... oh no, please, never do a thing like that!"

She caught something in my eyes. She blinked and turned her face away. I think at that moment she came to the decision that she and I could no longer live under the same roof.

I scrubbed my face many times before May arrived several hours later. Her first glance' at me caught the pale stains on my face. She looked down to the bandaged hand.

"What went on here today?" she asked searching all of our faces.

I left the room.

Later, she gave me long penetrating looks but said very little.

When we were alone in our bedroom, she said very quietly: "I'll go with you to see a doctor if you want me to."

I said: "I keep looking. But I never find one I can go back to."

"What we need is a good psychiatrist."

Sometime after we'd turned out the light, she said: "Are we so unimportant to you, Ralph? Does that foolishness of yours mean so much? Enough to make you want to take your own life?"

"I may be your husband and the father of your children, May. But I'm a woman."

"You've had a terrible day," she said with a sigh. "Get your sleep. Goodnight, Ralph."

A few days later Barby announced that she was leaving for Los Angeles, and that Walter, as soon as he could close down the factory, would follow her.
  

Footnotes

[1] This fragment is part of a book-length autobiography, I Am a Woman, written by Clara with the help of a professional writer. Publishers interested in seeing the entire manuscript may contact the authors of the present volume. Further material on Clara is contained in the case of C, beginning on page 248 [Appendix D, BIOGRAPHICAL PROFILES].