ABSTRACT
I T WAS MY OWN TIME of total despair. Bit by bit, knowledge of the tyranny of Josef Stalin and the men around him was com-ing out of the Soviet Union. The death of Stalin had opened floodgates that would never again be dosed. Living in Teaneck, I had my only contact with the party now through The Daily Worker. After years of writing intermittently for The Worker, I had finally agreed to become a permanent staff member and was doing my regular column of commentary. For all my battles through the years with the editors and their policies, I loved and revered the paper. It was a newspaper of courage and independence unmatched on the American scene, and for all the ten thousand and more accusations against us that we merely echoed the Soviet line, we were independent.
