Diskin BARNEY DISKIN WAS A JEW. Everybody in the entire town knew it, so there wasn’t any hope for Mr. Diskin to fib, claiming he wasn’t when he righteous was. “Give him credit,” Papa said. “He ain’t ashamed of it.” “No,” said Mama. “He walks with his head up high, just as though he was a normal everyday Vermonter.” “A mite uppity,” said my Aunt Carrie, “seeing as he’s nothing more than a junk dealer.” Even before my weaning (or shortly thereafter), I had been informed that old Barney Diskin was Jewish, though beyond my toddling years I had little or no idea exactly what a Jew really was. Nor did I bother a fig. No sleep lost. Jews, in the northern mountains of Vermont, were about as prevalent as laughter in church, or folding money in a collection plate. In our town there was only one. Mr. Barney Diskin. Nobody seemed to care ample much. Several of the members of the Election Board swore up and down that Mr. Diskin always voted straight Republican, even as far back as Theodore Roosevelt.
