Abstract
In an old café on Calle Florida in Buenos Aires Mario Goloboff told me that he felt Jewish to the marrow. It isn’t that unequivocal for many other Jewish writers from Latin America. Writers such as Alicia Steimberg (1933-2012), who would have been delighted had she lived to see herself as the headliner for this festschrift, knew that however strong or weak her self identification as a Jew, others would see her as such “con solo ver mi apellido.”
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