 I was a communist for the FBI. Starring Dana Andrews in an exciting tale of danger and espionage. I was a communist for the FBI. Many of the incidents in the story you're about to hear are based on the actual records and authentic experiences of Matt Severick, who for nine fantastic years lived as a communist for the FBI. Here is our star, Dana Andrews, as Matt Severick. Music may be the universal language to all peoples who appreciate beauty, but during my nine-year stretch with the Reds, I learned that communists can't carry a tune. They stifle the talents of their great artists and find their melodies only in the cry of terror, the shriek of pain, the whimpers of defeated men. This story is writhing with communist music. In a moment, listen to Dana Andrews as Matt Severick, under coverman. Andrews as Matt Severick, under coverman. This story from the confidential file is marked, Rapsody in Red. I don't dislike classical music, I just don't understand it. The opera makes me sleepy. A good symphony confuses me. I don't know a glissando or a condenser from Ville's, Calipini, but I'm a music lover. No, not because I love music. I'm a music lover because the communist party says I'm a music lover, because Comrade Kafka, the communist overweight estate, has assigned me to love music. Not a rostromatotic? No, Kafka, annoyed. The food is good, is it not? Yeah, delicious. What is your complaint? I don't like this new assignment. Too bad. Look, Silvestro Bocini may be a great violinist. The greatest. Okay, the greatest. But the last man in the world to care whether or not Bocini is permitted to enter the United States is me. You care now, though, don't you, Comrade? No. Yes, you do, you're a music lover. You and all the other lovers of pure music here in America will refuse to let politics deprive you of Bocini's genius. Good work, Kafka. Bocini was active as a communist in Europe. The American government will never approve his application for a visa. He's announced that he quit the party, you know. You think they'll believe that? Perhaps. Nevertheless, this foolish government of the Americans are so proud of his actually delusion it can be twisted, bent, even broken by organized pressure. You, comrade, are to organize that pressure. How? Cultural groups adore Bocini's music. You will send out pamphlets, write letters, run paid advertisements, make speeches at women's clubs, hold rallies. All with one theme. Music knows no politics. Let Bocini in. Why is the party so anxious to get him over here? I'll pass the bottle, will you, Schwerding? Vika, this is Red. Hi. What's new? Say, has the FBI cleared Bocini's visa yet? The violinist? Yeah. Looks pretty clean. Did he actually quit the party? Or is that just whitewash talk? No. Why do you ask? The Reds want him over here. They're organizing a pressure campaign to get Bocini into America. How come? I don't know. And I can't find out. Or the Attorney General passes on the visa. I'll give us a chance to re-examine the case. Okay. I'll keep on fishing. Maybe I'll hook a revelation. All right, Matt. Get your lines tangled. From then on, I became the busiest commie to the side of the Kremlin. The Universal Language League was organized, and I was appointed chairman. Our goal? Music without politics. Chapters were set up by Red groups in major cities all along the eastern seaboard. Members were recruited from sincere music lovers, professional and amateur, with ears for immortal melody, but no eyes for communist treachery. Schwerding. Schwerding. What is this letter? Oh, that's one of the four letters we're sending out. Shall the music lovers of America permit the so-called government of the people to deprive them of Bocini's violin virtuosity? It's no good. What's wrong with it? The signature, idiot. The signature. It's signed Universal Language League. That's the word. We want your signature, stupid. On every piece of literature you send out, your name. Matthew Sweatick, chairman. Matthew Sweatick, chairman. Sign it or the letters, the ads, the pamphlets, everything. Don't know why they're doing it, Matt. No, Beaker. They're obviously setting me up for something. Oh, my playmates will claim that they did it with that Universal Language League. Fine. You were chairman. You'll be a hero. When's Bocini arriving? Sometime this week. Stay close to it from now on, Matt. If there's something we don't know about the maestro, you're the only one close enough to find it for us. Sit down, Comrade. Sit down. Thanks. Walnuts? No, thanks, Kafka. You don't mind if I... Would it make any difference? No, not at all. Um, Bocini arrived today. Yeah, I know. It was in the newspapers. Mm-hmm. Phone him. Phone him? Me? He's at the Empire Hotel. Look, Kafka. Bocini's an international celebrity. A world-renowned virtuoso. You won't have time to talk to me. It is the phone, and... Comrade, your name is Swetik. Matthew Swetik. The name that led the campaign to admit Bocini to America. Here, phone him. Tell him you want to meet him. You are a dedicated music lover paying homage to a great artist. Call. With Kafka cracking walnuts at my elbow, I dialed the number and asked him, what's his name? He said, I dialed the number and asked for Maestro Bocini. I was told the Maestro was resting from his journey. But when I mentioned my name, there was a flurry of activity, and suddenly I was talking with Bocini's accompanist, Anton Genet. After being told in elaborate phrases how eager the Maestro was to make my acquaintance, I was invited to meet him at very night. Well? Tonight, eight o'clock at the hotel. Mm-hmm, fine. Do you think you can forget those walnuts long enough to tell me why I'm seeing Bocini tonight? The final link. At 8 p.m., the red chain becomes complete. What chain? I thought Bocini quit the party. He was even cleared by the FBI. He was cleared. In fact, he has become an ardent enemy of our cause. Then what? Bocini is not the man we care about. Our comrade is his accompanist, Anton Genet. Genet? Our secret comrade, Swetik. After seven, eight years, you know Bocini's been on a concert tour of Europe. Yeah, I know. Comrade Anton was with him always, of course. They visited just about every country on the continent. They spent enough time in every section for Anton to establish contact with local party leaders. Two collect plans, progress reports, membership rosters, and such from all of them. And now, all this information is being passed on to me. A tedious, long-range procedure, Swetik. But tonight, at eight o'clock, the results of Anton's work will be placed in your hands. I had until eight o'clock, a little less than three hours, to tell the FBI about Anton Genet. They had to get to him before I did. Once he handed me that packet of commie papers, I'd have no choice. I'd have to turn them over to the party. Kafka would give me no chance to do anything else. But if I could just get word to the FBI before eight o'clock... Let's have dinner, Swetik. I'm not very hungry, comrade. Join me anyway. Come along. You're not eating, Swetik? I told you I'm not hungry. Worried about your meeting tonight? A little, yes. You should be. Anton has spent years accumulating that information for us. A slip-up now would be catastrophic. The gravy, please, Swetik. Swetik, the gravy. Oh, the gravy? Yes, yes. Look out, you idiot! Gosh, I'm sorry. I apologize to me, you fool. You spilled it all over yourself. I'd better get some water and wash this out before it stains. Just a minute, Swetik! I'd ruined a pair of trousers to do it, but it was a good investment. At least I was free of Kafka for a few minutes. Long enough to put a phone call through to the FBI from a phone booth just inside the men's lounge. Be careful. Swetik, open up. Open the door. Who is this? A funny way to remove gravy stains from your clothes, Swetik. Whom were you calling? Well, I was calling my cleaners. Cleaners? Yeah. He closes at seven. I wanted him to send up a suit for me. So, why don't you just stay here, finish your dinner, and I'll run home and change and meet you at the hotel? I have finished my dinner. Let's go to the hotel together. I knew I couldn't reach the FBI now, but with Kafka becoming more suspicious every moment it was just as well, at least Comrade Anton Genet would be there when he arrived at Buccini's suite and Kafka would be satisfied. The maid admitted us where we're led through Buccini's luxurious suite to the room in which the maestro was practicing. Ah, it is no good. No good! Is something wrong, maestro? Wrong! The world spins on its axis upside down and you ask what is wrong. Which of you is my friend, Swetik? Oh, I'm Swetik. This is Mr. Kafka. How do you do, maestro? You must forgive me, gentlemen, to meet you in this state, but what use is it? He's gone, gone! Gone? Who? My accompanist, gone! Anton Genet, gone! Where? Where did he go? He did not go, he was taken. I'll come and take him away. What? FBI? What for? Why? For questioning, they said questioning. I wonder how they knew, Swetik. I wonder how they knew. Calling as Matt Severick, and I was a communist for the FBI and the second act of our story. They had sent him all over Europe, hiding in the shadow of maestro Silvestro Pacini to collect information for the commies. They had sent him across the Atlantic to America to deliver that information to the Communist Party USA. And now, Anton Genet was gone, taken by the FBI, and Comrade Kafka seemed certain that I was the cause of it all. Maestro Pacini, a micro! Tell me, what reason had the FBI to take Anton? What matters the reason, Swetik? He is gone! The greatest accompanist, the world over, and he's gone! But why? It does not matter, Swetik, the harm is done. I think we should leave the maestro. No, not yet, Captain. To think I had to be the one. I, his friend, his colleague. What is that, Maestro? The essence of our friendship. Heartbreak that I was forced to do this. Well, it almost sounds like you turned him over to the FBI. I did. What? You? I wonder how he knew Kafka. I wonder how he knew. Pacini told us how he'd come to suspect Anton during their last European tour. How Anton would spend hours at dismal proletarian cafes when he should have been rehearsing. How local red leaders appeared backstage in every city. I was clear of Kafka's suspicions now, but those party papers were still at large. He was frantic to find them. If the FBI had them, they had enough evidence to incriminate commie leaders on three continents. If Anton had hidden them, they had to be found quickly. But until we knew Anton's fate at the FBI, there was nothing we could do. Kafka and I parted at Buccini's hotel, and on my way home, I made that telephone call I'd been trying to make all evening. Because this was red. Hi, Buccini's pianist, I suppose. Yeah, has he tucked away for keeps? He's been released. Released? No evidence to keep him. But he's a red courier beaker. A top bracket courier. He's brought over a packet of party information that he's going to... We didn't find it, Matt. We haven't even got proof that he's a commie. Those papers will prove more than that. And Anton knows where they are. He must know. Well, we'll make sure we know where Anton is. Maybe he'll lead us to the evidence we need. Just a minute. Just a minute. Matt Svetik? That's right. I am Anton Genet. Anton Genet? Come in. Come in. I hope you will forgive a visit at this unearthly hour. That's all right. I come to you for there is no one else. I know no party name but yours. And since I cannot return to Buccini... I know. You put the party in a pretty tough spot. I had no idea the old fool was that smart to suspect me. You were careless, Comrade. Overconfident. Now all that information you brought over here for us... will fall into enemy hands. No, no, no. It has not as yet. That I know. Where is it? I was taken by complete surprise... when the FBI agents appeared at the hotel suite. I could not let the FBI find that party data on my person. He left it in the hotel suite? Oui. Inside a violin. What? Inside one of Buccini's violins. One of his violins? How many does he have? A Stradivarius, which he uses only in concert. And three others, on which he practices regularly. The Stradivarius kept in the hotel vault. Then the papers in one of the other three. Suppose he uses that one. He's bound to discover the papers. That is why I have come to you, to arrange that we repossess the papers from the violin. Before... before... You are a fool, Anton. No, Comrade. I had no choice. I had no time, no range in which to work. My one thought was to hide that packet of information somewhere, anyway. You're coming with me. To Buccini? No, then he will know you are a worker for the cause, too. Not to Buccini. To Comrade Kafka at party headquarters. But why? For discipline, Comrade. I'll let him decide your punishment. For failure. This was the only way I could be sure Anton would be kept out of the way. I knew Kafka would keep him in custody before turning him over to the control commission. And I knew, too, that I could talk Kafka into sending me to Buccini's. For I was still the maestro's champion. The chairman of the Universal Language League, fighting to keep music free of politics. When I was ushered into Buccini's suite, the maestro was in conference with four or five earnest-looking businessmen. He excused himself, met me in the hall, and waved away my apology for intruding. Business problems. I hate them. You have something on your mind, my friend. Well, this is just a little something about the Universal Language League. It can wait. The league did not wait in its fight for my visa. What can I do for you? Well, the league is preparing some publicity pictures about you and your story. Good, good. I will be delighted to pose. Soon? As soon as my violins are returned. Returned? Yes. Alio has them. Who? Alio, the greatest violin maker this side of the Atlantic. Oh, I see. And this Alio... An old man but a virtuoso of the repair shop. He works quickly, a day, two days, and the violins will be back with me. Then, my friend, you may have all the photographs you wish. Vika, listen to me. Listen hard. Okay. Those papers we're looking for, they're in the hollow one of Buccini's violins. Anton hid them there. Good. That'll be easy. No, I just left Buccini. In fact, I'm calling from the hotel lobby. He sent his fiddles out for repair. Oh, fine. A violin maker named Alio has them. Who? Alio, E-L-I-O, downtown on 8th Avenue. We'll find him. We'll get there fast, Beaker. There, done. Barring any unforeseen obstacles, those papers were destined for the FBI files. I hung up, stepped out of the phone booth, crossed the lobby toward the exit, and bumped right smack into one of the unforeseen obstacles. Well, Swetik, you look pleased. Oh, Kafka. You found the party documents, I trust. No, no, I haven't. You haven't. Then where are they? Buccini sent the fiddles to a violin maker downtown. No. Yeah, they're down there now. Is that why you were making that phone call? Oh, yes. I was calling Alio, the violin maker. I wanted to be sure he hadn't started work on the violins yet. And? Well, he hasn't. If the papers are there at all, they're untouched. Then let's go. Oh, no. Come on, Swetik, let's not waste time. We were on our way to Alio's place while I prayed secretly that the FBI had had time to get there first. One moment, Swetik. That's the shop up there, is it not? Yes. There are free violins here, you say? Yeah. If one contains that packet of papers, it is bound to have a muffled tone, correct? Sure. Or do you have to play them to find out which one? Exactly. We will have our newfound friend, Alio, play them for us. Is Alio in? I am sorry. Alio is out for a little while. Is there something I can do for you? I am his wife, Tina. Well, we... No, I guess not. We'll come back later. Just a minute. We are old friends of Alio's, Tina. This is Mr. Swetik. My name is Kafka. How do you do? But I don't recall... The last time we saw Alio, we talked about Silvestro Bocini, our idol, you know. Oh, Bocini. Oh, yes. He's a great artist. Alio claimed that Bocini's tone, that gorgeous rich tone he's famous for, is more the work of the violin maker than the virtuoso himself. Well, now Alio talks big sometimes, you know. Well, Alio promised the next time he had one of Bocini's fiddles in his shop, he would demonstrate how the tone is produced. Oh, why? We have three of Bocini's right here now. Ah. See? I'll show you. Well, can you play them for us, Tina? You mean play or no free? If you don't mind. Well, if you do not mind poor playing. We're here. Try this one first. Well, let me just get some roses. Three violins. If the FBI had not been here before us, the packet of commie papers would still be inside one of them. We'd know by the tone of the instruments. Tina was raising the first one to her shoulder now. She plays very well, doesn't she, Sweaty? Yes, very well. The tone of that violin sounds all right to me. Yes, almost too fine. You want more? Ah, let us hear this next instrument now, Tina. I wish. One down, two to go. Never before had the tone of a violin seems so important to me, never. And this one is pure and is unmuffled as the first. Oh, sounds good, Kafka. Yes, good, too good. There is only one more, Sweaty. It must be that one. It must. Are you playing better all the time, Tina? Thank you. Can you judge the tonal differences in the instruments, gentlemen? Well, not too well, but then we're just... Here, here, play this one, hurry. Sweaty, the papers, they're gone, Sweaty, they're gone. That's beautiful music, Tina, very beautiful. Sweaty, he lied. And to lie to us, he lied about those violins. He lied about the papers. Don't stop, Tina. It's beautiful. Just beautiful. Are you coming with me, Sweaty? Where to? Party headquarters. There is a large score to settle with Comrade Anton. Lies in competence failure. He will be held fully responsible for whatever becomes of those papers. Well, I'll, uh, I'll stop by later. Where are you going? Pachini is giving his first American concert tomorrow night. Called it by a ticket. I'm a music lover now, you know. Kafka went his way, I went mine. Thinking of Anton Genet. A top bracket courier. At the mercy of the treachery he advocated. He didn't have a chance. You never do when you run with the commies. It's smarter not to run at all. It's safer to walk. Much safer to walk alone. Dana Andrews will return in just a moment. This is Dana Andrews, friends. In the story you've just heard, names, dates and places are fictitious to protect innocent persons. Many of these stories are based on incidents in the life of Matt Sevetic, who worked undercover for the FBI. Next week, another fantastic adventure. Join us, then, won't you?