 I was a communist for the FBI. I'm Matt Andrews in an exciting tale of danger and espionage. I was a communist for the FBI. I'm the actual records and authentic experiences of Matt Severick. How many of the incidents in this unusual story? Here is our star Dana Andrews as Matt Severick, who for nine fantastic years lived as a communist for the FBI. Your friends avoid you, your enemies smirk and say they always knew Matt Severick was a wrong number. Your mother accepts you as you are with a reproach in her eyes, breaking your soul. Your dad gives you ten dollars to change your name so you won't disgrace the name of Severick. Nine years of it and you're talking to yourself like I'm doing now. Matt Severick, undercover man. This story from the confidential file is marked where the red man roams. It's a brilliant morning with 21 carat sunshine and the air diamond bright, but I am seething. All morning I've been pushing doorbells, getting housewives to sign commie inspired peace petitions. Yesterday I picketed an aircraft factory. The day before that I dated a secretary to a war department official. Object sedition and the day before that I solicited ads for the workers daily and the day before that I... never mind. All I know is that I'm suddenly sick of it all. Work, the party, discipline, the revolution. Until you're dropping your tracks, Severick. Until you wind up in the booby hatch, boob. Finally I'm off duty and I go to a form booth to check out with Comrade Zelensky, the former MVD agent. Now my cell chief and my chief beef in the local red setup. Comrade Severick reporting and going off duty, Comrade Zelensky. But I'm supposed to be off for once. I want to talk to you. Well, talk to me now. Look, I've had one lousy tough week and I have a right... At the headquarters, comrade. Well, I haven't eaten. I'll get down when I can. When I've had some lunch. And not before, and maybe not even then. Zelensky? That was hours ago. I hadn't had breakfast or lunch. I've been on the hoof all... Hours ago, comrade Severick. I must have dropped off to sleep after lunch. You dropped off to sleep? Very sorry. Where did you drop off to sleep? Well, not on a park bench, that's for sure. Not at home, certainly. I called your home. Oh? You were not there. Well, as you know, comrade, I'm not very welcome at home. Mother and dad feel I've disgraced the family attending communists, so I only go home to sleep at night. We searched all over for you. All right. I took a room in a hotel. I was beat, I tell you. And I'm tired. Perhaps I can arrange a holiday for you. What sort of holiday? You know Jacques Sandoz, the pianist, of course. I know his work. He is working for us now. I know that, too. His last concert was picketed by capitalist hirelings. I certainly think he was asking for it. So? Oh. The man makes a fortune in American. When the orchestra struck up the national anthem in Detroit, Sandoz had set his tiana noodling at something. Whose national anthem? The Star-Spangled Banner, of course. Of course. Look, Zelensky, we're operating in America, when in Rome, common self-interest dictates that we do as the Romans do. When in Rome, comrade, listen only to Caesar. Okay, I'm listening. Tomorrow night, Sandoz plays before a crowd of 3,000 at Hiawatha Dales. We expect violence. Why? Because we are planning violence. That figures. We will instigate a riot and blame reactionary anti-foreign elements in the crowd. By such devices, we win the foreign element in cities to our side. What's my part in all this? What about my holiday? As is last on course, Sandoz will play Chopin's revolutionary etude. This will be the signal for some of our comrades posing as reactionaries to start a riot. I see. You will see that members of your cell are dispersed in the audience, prepared for action. That's my big holiday? You need not stay to the end. Slip away when the fighting begins. But the peasants do the dirty work. Candidly, you're too useful a man to risk in mob fighting. And you will enjoy the concert, I know. Now, how many tickets do you wish to buy for the concert? You mean I have to pay my way into this armed rhubarb? It all helps the party treasury. How many? How much? One dollar and eighty cents. One. Better make it two, Kamitsvedek. All I need is one. That will be three dollars and sixty cents, thank you. Burning. A holiday. The day and the evening often all I have to do is lead the fighting blood in my cell into battle at Hiawatha Dales. I wonder if the folks at home might have spilled something to Zelensky to make him honor me with this crummy assignment on my one day off in months. I find a pay station and dial home. Mom, I got a call from a man this afternoon. Did you answer the phone? Okay. Can I talk to Tip, please? Are you Tip? How's the Navy? A guy phoned for me this afternoon. Yeah. Did you tell him anything about me? I just told him. Oh, he didn't give me a message. I told him. He never said a word to me. What did you want? You like that, but I'll call you back this evening. And thanks, Tip. I'm sure, but thanks anyhow, Navy. Let me see. What's that new FBI number called? My adult FBI business. A big sit with you in the park and talk about picnics? I'm going back to the office. Now, wait a minute. Wait a minute, will you? Anyhow, I thought your family was cold on you. Well, that's just it. They think I'm a red and I've lost them. And then all at once, they ask me to go in a picnic with them. And Chief, Chief, I've got to. Yeah, but you've got to go to the Sandos concert, too. Go to the Sandos concert. Pick it. Get signatures. Report to the FBI. Get recruits for the party. Scrape and bottle Salinsky. Salinsky worked myself ragged for him, and he can't give me a simple message. That might mean an awful lot to me. The picnic you mean? The picnic, I mean. Look, I want to know, can I go to that picnic with Mom and Tip? It sounds like can I have a nickel for the movies years ago when I was a kid? I can't help it. Look, could you persuade your folks to hold a picnic near Hiawatha Delz? Say, that may be something. Then you'd be close enough to slip away to the concert and do your job for the commies, too. Sure. Fixed? Yeah, they'll go for that. They'll buy that, I know. Because you want me along so much. Hiawatha Delz. It's a beautiful place. Used to be an Onondaga Indian village. You'll like it. I'll be at the house at noon. Okay? Ah, yes. No cares, no worries. Just us, the Svetiks, huh? No, no, Mom. Anything but red. I'll see you in noon tomorrow. Bye, Mom. One, two, three, one, one. Told her to call this number. Oh, yes. I should, and I don't think I will. Why should I? Tricks of the Russian secret police. Watching me always now. Policing me of a girl named Tanya. Watchers. Finding out. Knowing. Reporting. Punishing. There's no escape. No escape. There's one of the better apartments and one of the better neighborhoods. I wonder if Ms. Tanya Joseph figures on comparable diggings comes the revolution. Then Ms. T. Joseph opens the door and I receive a non-proletarian jolt. Ms. Josephs is a looker. Right on time. You come in. Send the spider to the flyer. Pardon? Nothing. Practicing my mumbling is all. Most spiders are harmless. Even useful. Then you did here. Aren't they? Some of them are black widows. But it takes all kinds, doesn't it? I hate black and I'm going to marry a man younger than I am, so I won't be a widow. Shall I wear a coat? It's going to be chilly, but a coat won't help any. Maybe you'll help break the ice with your family. Is that what you mean, the family? I'm part of the chill. You'll tell me more about your folks in the drive-over, won't you? I'll tell you all about them right now. They don't like communists. Not even you? Especially not even me. Do I have to be a communist? Ask yourself that, not me. I mean to them. Can't I just be a girl you know? That might keep things on a pleasant or basis at that. Okay, you're a girl I know. Or red. Good, let's go. Well, now this is Ms. Tanya Joseph. I am hoppy. And I'm very happy to know you, Matt's mother. It's my younger brother, Tip. Oh, not so much younger. I live right, and he doesn't. Hi, Tanya. Hi. Where's Dad? Oh, he's feeling pretty good, but he'd rather stay home today. Oh, can't I see him before we go? Who for? He's nothing contagious. He likes pretty young girls like you. Hey, something's cooking. I make something for Papa. Pachanka, I... She's live then. You come to dinner some time. I'll make you pichets. Off to a fair start, anyhow. It'll work, Tip. We'll have fun. You'll see. Quite a gal there. When did you meet up with that? Let's not be disrespectful, younger brother. She's got what? Two years on me? Two years is two years. Where'd you meet her? Why? You're gonna ask. Why so mysterious? Does she know you're a red? I never told her. Is she? If she's a red, she never told me. That's good enough for me. It'll have to be. Don't get interested in this girl. Please. You're not serious about her, are you? No. Then what's the beef? For one thing. That may be. But I've lived. And I knew that I loved it and Mom and Tip and Dad as much as I hated being a communist. Even for the FBI. I had enough. Mom and Tip probably thought I was being a good sport about it, not to upset Tanya. It wasn't supposed to know I was a red. But I knew something and knew it surely. I didn't want to be a communist anymore for the FBI or anyone else. I wanted out. Planning escape. Searching for you. I've been here. It's a lovely evening. Been a wonderful day. Wonderful. But it's the life our philosophy sneers at. It's bourgeois. And hokey. And you love it. I never realized how much I missed it. Only you mustn't think or talk that way. That's why they sent you, isn't it? To see that I didn't fall for the old hokem bucket. Peace and simplicity and sentiment. To police me. Yes. I know the technique. I'm lucky. Other backsliders are invited to Moscow to get a refresher course on communism and they never come back. I'm lucky. I shouldn't say this. I'm sorry for you. I shouldn't say this to you. But I'm not going to the high with a bowl tonight. They might miss you at the concert. They might not in that crowd. Unless somebody warns them I'll be playing hokey. Somebody. And tip isn't red bait. I warn you. Shh, shh, shh. Come on, Matt. Tonya, would you help mom pack up the stuff or she'll never be ready in time for the concert. What concert? Oh, I forgot to tell you. Jacques Sandoz is playing at the bowl and tip said he'd take me. All of you. You're all my guests tonight. Fine. Well, I'll help you mother with a picnic breakfast now. Tip, there might be trouble at that concert tonight. Well, Tonya wanted to hear Sandoz. They're getting too interested in that girl. Except she isn't of that girl. It's been a good day, Tip. A nice day for all of us. It may never be this way again. I don't want to spoil Brace yourself, Tip. I've got news for you. Tonya Joseph is a communist. Like you said, Matt, it's been a great day. Like old times. We don't want to spoil it. No. When a commie wants to smear anybody, you call him a commie. Or her. That's not spoil it, Tip. Then let's all finish the day right and finish it together. I'll go to the concert with you, Tip. Okay. The girl wins. Getting late. Yeah. Later than you think. The big Hiawatha Del bowl was packed and packed with dynamite. I kept watching Mom enjoying every second of it. Wondering how much longer does she have on earth? I'm in a long, hard fight. And she might go before she learns that her matty was really on the right side all the time. How much longer? And then the last encore. It's Tip and Tonya. Tip's face is puzzled. What's that he's playing now, Tonya? Revolutionary A2. What's the idea? This Sando's bum is the guy who stayed set when the national anthem was being played once. Take it easy, Tip. Don't tell me he's playing that revolutionary A2 just by accident. It's a classic, too. Plenty of other classics. Why just that? He's a jumping red and everybody knows it. All right. It isn't all right. I like my propaganda music above board. Like so. There's a guy who tries to swing brass knuckles on him. And the battle of the bowl is on. But not the way the commies wanted it. The regular FBI headquarters, Matt. You understand that. How are you? Bruised. Head bloody but unbound. Have a Jerry come in, will you? Thanks. I have a confession to make to you, Matt. Anything you say will definitely be used against you. And I'll deserve it, too. But, Matt, I knew you had to go on that picnic. But I also knew the deep emotional and sentimental effect a fine day with your family might have on you. I couldn't risk your blurting out the truth to your folks. You were working for the FBI. So I sent somebody to guard against that. Matt, this is Geraldine. Hello, Matt. Tanya. Or Geraldine or Norm or K-124 or just somebody. One of our best FBI girls, Matt. And definitely our best looking. I had to do it, Matt. Line of duty. I thought Zelensky whisked you on me. We wanted. Nick's dad could do to think that. Okay, Matt. Okay. Great. Only we mustn't see each other again. Great. Good work, Matt. Goodbye, Matt. Yeah, not for a while anyway. Maybe when it's all over, Matt. Picnics, family, and sentiment. Goodbye to Katie Didz, wearing in the summer haze and whipple wheels in the dusk. Goodbye to sentiment, the old open bucket. I chose it this way. I'm a communist for the FBI. Andrews with a word about the stories you hear on these programs. Many of them, like the one you've just heard, are founded in fact, but with essential details disguised or modified to protect innocent persons. Next week, another exciting story based on incidents in the nine long years that Matt Svettik spent as an undercover man for the FBI. Be with us then, won't you?