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anybody ever coming to see her. She seemed to have a neurotic an–
tagonism to other people. She couldn't stand any noise."
"What kind of noise?"
"Oh, radio--other people's parties."
"How do you know this?"
"Neighbors would mention it to me. They all disliked her in–
tensely. Once she threw hot water at some dogs frisking in front
of her window. I guess she was really pathological."
Suddenly he shifted his direction.
"Tell me," he asked, "would you say Caruso was a foreign–
sounding name?"
"I guess so. I never thought about it. You mean it's not an old
American name."
"Was she a foreigner?"
I was puzzled not only by the question itself but by his motive
in
asking it.
"I suppose she was a second-generation American, like millions
of other Americans."
My answer had a slight pitch of aggressiveness, or perhaps I
should say defensiveness, for my own genealogical line falls far short
of the Mayflower. But my inquisitor acted as though he were hot on
the
scent and pushed right on.
"Did Miss Caruso have a foreign accent?"
"No, not especially. She didn't have mid-Western or Harvard
speech. You might say she had a New York accent, or rather in–
flection. "
By this time, I had become disturbed by the tum the investiga–
tion had taken. The questions about her foreign origins were asso–
ciated in my mind with the usual reactionary attacks on any variety
of radicalism or liberalism. I would have no part of what is commonly
known as a witch-hunt, though I must confess
to
a divided mind on
the subject. The term witch-hunt implies that innocent people are
being persecuted. Yet we know that many people under investigation
are beyond doubt witches. And if anyone were to ask me whether I
am
against witches, what else could I say but that I am unequivocally
opposed to them? Any other position would smack of what I might
call psychopathic objectivity- the objectivity of a person who has
no relation to the real world of angels, devils and witches.
