Communism

Communism

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The lure of easy women almost made me a spy and traitor to my country
"Sex Lead Me To Communism"
from
Man to Man
Vol. 2, No. 2, 1951
SEX, woman's most resistless weapon through the ages for the domination of the male, has proven one of the most successful and insidious devices in the secret arsenal of the Communists to recruit their unsavory army of spies, saboteurs and disruptionists in the grimly declared war on the United States and all decent mankind.
In the relentless effort of the Kremlin to turn the whole world into faceless slaves in order that "The International Soviet shall be the human race," as their official song, The Internationale, declares, there is no honor or conscience, and promiscuity is the rule, not the exception. The only vice the Reds frown, upon is drinking!
I know, because I was one of those witless persons who fell into the mantrap set by the modern Delilabs who follow the Party line. They stopped at nothing--absolutely nothing--in order to enlist their fellow Americans into the great conspiracy to subjugate, and later to liquidate, every human being who does not deify the unholy trinity of Marx, Lenin and Stalin.
First came Sonia, with her full, cherry lips and her brown, limpid eyes. She was a secretary, a graduate of a woman's college and as unscrupulous a little witch as ever shook her clenched fist at a passing flag of her country or stuck a pin into a patrolman's horse.
Next came Margie, a full-bosomed redhead, a new comer from England and an expert dress designer. She had made it her life work to lure men into Communism.
Then Mildred, a honey blonde with a Vassar degree. She was the gay and sophisticated type on the surface, but underneath she was deadly serious about her radical beliefs. She had a cozy apartment and seemingly plenty of money. She liked to discuss the social significance of Shakespeare over cocktails and make converts to the "cause."
Then Terry, Betty and several others whose names I have forgotten. And lastly, Gladys, a banker's daughter who had run away from home, landed in New York's Greenwich Village and become the most radical of all the Communist girls I met.
Talk about free love! This was really something. You tired of one, and there was always another at your beck and call. No Turk could boast a more variegated harem.

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MY first experience with the Communist conspiracy work for the "triumph of Soviet power in the
United States," began simply enough. It was during the days of Hitler, and the come-on had been a mammoth rally for "peace and democracy." No right-thinking citizen could have any objection to that.
The build-up for the meeting had been terrific. Madison Square Garden in New York was packed to the rafters with a throng attracted there by a star-studded cast of Broadway and Hollywood celebrities, high churchmen, civic leaders, scientists, musicians, doctors, educators, authors, musicians and sports celebrities. Each was to get up and do his stuff and then speak a little piece about how Hitler was plan- rung to enslave the world.
Oh, yes, there were one or two Communist leaders among the various political shades on the platform, looking quite insignificant and meek and greatly im pressed by all their betters. Of course no one could resent them being there, because they were for peace and democracy and militantly against Hitler, too.
What few suspected, however, was that these few grubby-looking little men were actually pulling the strings, and all the rest on the platform were merely their puppets.
It was while we were all filing out of the huge auditorium, that I first saw Sonia. The girl with the come-hither eyes was giving me a keen once-over. Perhaps it was because I looked too well dressed, with a fresh shirt and my suit pressed, that made her surmise that I was not a Comrade.
But the fact that I had attended the rally, drawn there by curiosity through pamphlets liberally scattered all over the campus and plastered on every bulletin board, evidently marked me as good raw material to be worked over.
As I elbowed my way through the crowd and started up Eighth Avenue, I glanced over my shoulder and saw her following me. In my time I'd followed girls, but I'd never had one follow me before. The idea gave me a chuckle as I stepped into the nearest beer joint. A few minutes later, Miss Thither-eyes stalked in, looked the crowd over and then stood up to the bar at my elbow.
"Like the rally?" she blurted, with no inhibitions. "Wasn't it wonderful?"
"Yeah, it was pretty good," I said nonchalantly. She didn't look like a tramp, but I aimed to play cagey. "Too many speeches and not enough vaudeville, though, like they advertised. Have a beer?"
"No thanks. Too bourgeois. I'll take a Pepsi."

WITH the ice broken, the going from there on was easy. Frankly, the girl amused me. I wanted to see if I could find out what made her tick.
As she sipped her soft drink, she kept pumping me about myself. When I told her I was a senior at Queens College, on Long Island, she waxed enthusiastic. Seems she had some friends there, especially a guy named Joe ---. I knew the name. He had a rep as being a leader of the radical fringe. He was a wild-eyed, unsavory fellow. I'd marked him as a nut.
"You really must look up Joe," she gushed. "Tell him Sonia sent you."
When she'd finished her drink she said, "Let's get out of this dump. It's early yet, so why not come down to my place in the Village? I think you and I have a lot in common."
That was OK by me. We took a subway to the Village and repaired to Sonia's fourth floor walk-up in a remodeled tenement building on Thompson Street. They were nice diggings, not too arty. It was plain to see that Sonia was the intellectual type.
Book cases lined two walls, and the volumes were deep ones--philosophy, history, social science, travel. As I made myself at home, she brewed tea in a samovar and served it in glasses, with lemon, Russian style.
We talked and drank tea and drew each other out. I learned that her father was a retired business man; Sonia was ashamed that he was so rich.
"He lives on blood money," she remarked bitterly. "He bled the proletariat--sweated them to death in a knit goods factory." That led her into a tirade on "bosses" and from there she went on to the "comes the revolution" theme I be came fascinated as she tipped her mitt more and more, telling me how the Comrades were planning to turn the United States into a perfect Utopia.
This paradise, following a workers' revolt, was going to afford riches to all. Key men were ready, she said, to take over the government, religion would be obliterated, the school system would be changed to teach only the "truth."
"It sounds wonderful," I said, half convinced by her earnestness. I didn't realize then that she was talking treason, that she placed herself and her comrades in a category of actual, open war against life as the majority of Americans want it. I did not sense that the girl was power-hungry and was grabbing at all the opportunities that Communism offers the unscrupulous.
"But it seems to me that you are promising more than you can deliver," I argued. "More money for less work, security against poverty all sounds fine, but can you deliver?"
"Can we deliver! Certainly! Remember, for every Party member there are ten others ready, willing and able to do the Party's work. By our ability to infiltrate government agencies, civil affairs, churches, schools and women's clubs, we are molding a new way of life.
"The real center of our power is within the professional classes. Our strength depends on the support of teachers, preachers, actors, writers, editors, business men, union officials, doctors, lawyers and even millionaires...
"Oh, we're going a long way and--and I want you to help us. You're respectable, American-born and will give us the front we need. Just don't think poor people join the Party because it's a 'working class movement--it isn't at all! Promise me you'll see Joe and let him convince you that you mustn't remain a reactionary all your life!"
"Sure, I'll look him up," I promised, getting up to go. "It was an interesting evening, and I'll be seeing you, I guess."
"Don't go--" Sonia said winsomely. She came across the room and twined her arms around my neck, pulling my lips down to hers for a kiss that actually made me giddy. "I think we can make the evening more interesting--if you like," she said.

I LOOKED up Joe--on Monday morning, and he was effusive. "I'd sure like to have you working with us," he said, pumping my hand. "Sonia had me on the phone and told me all about you. We have a pretty active little cell here on the campus, and you'd fit right in. You don't have to carry a card if you don't want to. You can be a fellow traveler if you like."
"A what?"
"I mean, you can sympathize with the Party and serve the Party's purpose without actually becoming a member. In many respects you'd be more vital to us. You can serve as a hook with which the party reaches out for funds and respectability, and the wedge we can drive between people who oppose us. You can join front groups devoted to idealistic activities. We've captured a lot of them by using just such people as you to put across resolutions and vote right."
"Let me think it over," I said. "But if I join you, I want to be honest about it and carry a card."
"Fine! Fine!" gushed Joe. "When you make up your mind, contact me and I'll arrange to get you into an indoctrination group."
Sonia phoned that night, and I went down to the Village where she used all her wiles to coax me to take the fatal step. I succumbed to her allures, and before I knew it, I was entangled not only by her wantonness but by her persuasiveness.
The next day I told Joe that I was completely sold on the Party and all it stood for, little realizing that I was to have the baseness of Benedict Arnold, that I was going to traitorously serve Soviet Russia in a criminal conspiracy to wreck and ruin the United States, and act as a tool for spies and saboteurs in the defense industries of the nation.
The indoctrination course was held in a room in a shabby building off Union Square, close to Communist Party headquarters at 35 East 12th Street. There were seven of us in the class, including three women. Our instructor was a newspaperman, or so he said, who worked on a trade journal.
Of Russian origin, he stressed all the struggles--which he pronounced "stwuggles" the people all over the world were having in order to gain social and economic justice. He preached pie in the sky, and it was easy to see how the Red brand of "idealism" would ap peal to the underdog.

AFTER six weekly indoctrination meetings, I was officially admitted to the Party and assigned to a specific unit. My job was to agitate on the campus, bringing up all sorts of controversial issues In classes, attending student meetings and offering resolutions for adoption that fitted Into the Party line.
Reading the Daily Worker and the magazine New Masses gave me my "leads." The Worker was my Bible. I had to accept every word in it as gospel truth, no matter if the New York Times had an entirely different version of the same thing.
The Times and all other capitalist newspapers I was told to regard as "fascist, warmongering" sheets. The truth came only from Moscow, and the "line" came down to us through Party agents returning from frequent trips to Europe.
I didn't realize it then, but I had become an obedient instrument of the Party--a robot. I had to obey the Party in all things, or disappear into silence, oblivion and perhaps death.
But the fact that I suddenly had no honor or conscience didn't seem to bother me. I was convinced I was working on every conceivable battlefront of the human mind. I had no time for frivolities--only Party work. Even any relaxation with the girls was in the category of improving my mind with dialectical discussions.
Came graduation, and the long Summer. It had all been arranged that I was to get a job with the New York City Department of Welfare--a rich field in which to plant my insidious seeds of treason. Before going to work, however, it was suggested that I spend a month at Camp, in the Berkshires.
This was a beautiful spot, on a small lake, with boating, hiking, riding and all the other pastimes of a swank resort. It cost the Coimmies $100,000, but it must have been well worth it, as the camp was always filled with labor leaders, Federal and State jobholders, teachers, ministers, students, writers and others who came to mingle with the party big shots.

ON arrival at the camp late one afternoon I was assigned to a small cabin. When I lugged my suitcase over from the office I was not at all surprised to see that the place already had another occupant. Dresses were neatly hung in the closet, and other feminine accessories were scattered about.
I was curious to see who had been assigned me as a "Party wife." I had not long to wait before a buxom redhead casually sauntered In, sat on the edge of her cot and regarded me with a strange expression which plainly said, "Well, look at what Uncle Joe sent me!"
At last she said, in a clipped British accent, "I'm Margie." I introduced myself and she said, "I know--I expected you on an earlier train. You're all that they told me you were--plus. I hope your dancing is as good as your looks. We're having quite a party tonight down in the recreation hall."
Thereupon, she unashamedly took off her playsuit, stood primping in her undies before the mirror, and donned a cotton dress for dinner and the dance. She was a looker, and I could not help but stare at her in frank admiration. This, I told myself, was a dish. And she was!
There must have been at least 500 people in the big mess hall that night. Considering that the cost of room and board was only $17 a week, the food was better than average. But even at that price, the poorer comrades could not afford the luxury of a camp vacation. Certainly there were none of the Great Unwashed there.
After dinner, there were various games of chance on the front porch. The prizes were Communist books. Even during times of fun, they never let you forget there were serious things that had to be studied, digested and preached to the unbelievers.
There was a great air, too, of expectancy before the dance. William Z. Foster, head of the Communist Party of the United States was expected in the course of one of his ceaseless tours of the State. When his motorcade of three cars ar rived, bedlam broke loose. Even though he was a minor cog in the international conspiracy, he was hailed as almost a demi-god.
The dance that night was a gay affair. There were some visiting Russian dignitaries with Foster's party, and the glee club first staged a concert of revolutionary songs.
My dancing must have been pretty fair, because that night Margie complimented me on it, and even showed slight traces of jealousy over the way some of the other girls snatched me away for a whirl around the floor. From the way Margie ragged me, you'd think we'd been married a dozen years instead of just starting a brief Bolshevik honeymoon!

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