The Pink Pomade

Henry Wallace, the Iowa horticulturist, emerged last week as the centerpiece of U.S. Communism's most authentic-looking fagade. The facade was Wallace's helter-skelter following, assembled under careful Communist supervision at a founding convention in Philadelphia and brazenly labeled the Progressive Party.

The non-Communists never had a chance. With his self-effacing wife, Ilo, and eleven pieces of luggage, Wallace arrived triumphantly at Broad Street station. But the Communists, their fellow travelers and their stooges--many of whom deny that they are Communists but all of whom walk the Communist chalk line--were there before him. They moved boldly into committee meetings, more quietly on to the convention floor.

They worked with the efficiency of long practice. New York's tough, rabble-rousing Harlem Congressman Vito Marcantonio and his staff wrote the keynote speech for Negro Charles Howard, a Des Moines attorney, who had once been suspended by the Bar Association for misusing funds. Marcantonio himself took charge of the Rules Committee. At his left & right hand sat Hugh Bryson, leftist boss of the C.I.O. marine cooks, and John Abt, smart and sardonic New York labor lawyer, who managed to be everywhere at once throughout the convention's three days.

A Hoary Device. They ground out rules of organization which delivered the Progressive Party lock, stock & barrel into their hands. One rule permitted a "simple majority of those present" of the party's national committee to carry on the party's business. Where two or three were gathered together, that would be enough. This was a hoary Communist device, designed to give the leftists solid control of the party. The rules were gaveled through by Convention Chairman Albert Fitzgerald, president of the United Electric Workers, and round-faced puppet of the U.E.W.'s real bosses, Communist-line Julius Emspak and James Matles.

When it came to the platform, the Communists moved brusquely and openly. The nominal chairman of the platform committee was silver-haired Rexford Tugwell, onetime Roosevelt brain-truster, who in his earnest innocence thought the convention should go on record in favor of a European recovery plan. But Lawyer Lee Pressman, who was fired from the C.I.O. because of his leftist views, quickly took charge, assisted by the West Coast longshoremen's Harry Bridges.

Tugwell fought feebly, once stalked out of his own committee in anger. But with no support whatsoever from his beloved Henry Wallace, he was smothered by Pressman & friends. In the end, the platform repudiated the Marshall Plan. It also called for destruction of atomic stockpiles, favored "Big Four control of the Ruhr," demanded "cessation of financial and military aid to the Chiang Kai-shek dictatorship." In chapter and verse it was a faithful reflection of a lengthy resolution prepared for the Communists' own convention this month.

Hybrid Corn. Through all these preliminary maneuverings, the man who developed hybrid corn sat in his hotel room, holding court, conferring with his loyal campaign manager, C.B. ("Beany") Baldwin, an old associate from Department of Agriculture days. It was doubtful whether Wallace ever knew for sure just what was going on. It was even more doubtful if the delegates knew.

It was a sad parody of a political convention. The delegates had come from far & wide. Most of them were young, a few were Townsendite elders. They were the disgruntled, the discontented, the wishful, the wistful and the starry-eyed. They were a perfect front for the convention bosses.

They demonstrated lustily. But the enthusiasm was turned off & on by the convention bosses as though they were flipping a switch. From the corridors well disciplined marching and cheering squads moved on to the floor. Even in the middle of their well-organized frenzy the demonstrators briskly bought ice cream from the hawkers in the aisles.

"Sweet Sixteen." The delegates were rewarded with a fleeting glimpse of Wallace, who appeared briefly at Convention Hall, then was rushed back to his hotel. The climax came the next night at Shibe Park, home of the Philadelphia Athletics. Some 30,000 people, who paid 65-c- to $2.60 for seats, all but filled the vast, covered stands. Banks of blinding floodlights beat down on the speakers' platform erected near second base.

In response to the pleas of Radio Commentator and Party-Liner William Gailmor (who, at 29, was convicted of stealing an auto and sent to a sanitorium to be treated for a neurosis), the crowd coughed up big & little contributions totaling some $50,000. Their cheering was cued to the frenzied yelling of Vito Marcantonio, who spoke with violent arm-flailings, like a drowning man.

Grinning, clownish Glen Taylor mounted the stand for his acceptance speech to assail the Marshall Plan, assail racism, assail Wall Street and U.S. military leaders. When he finished, his wife, his three small sons and his brother Paul joined him on the stand; like a well rehearsed vaudeville act, they all sang When You Were Sweet Sixteen. The applause swelled, then seemed to roll right out of the park and up to a wan and waning moon as Henry Wallace appeared, riding in an open car, circling the outfield.

Glimmering Opposition. Wallace picked up where Taylor left off. He also attacked Wall Street, the military leaders, U.S. policymakers. He blamed U.S. leaders for all the woes in the world. Never once did he criticize Russia. He suggested that the U.S. pull out of Berlin. "We can't lose anything by giving it up militarily in a search for peace." The trademark of Marcantonio & friends was stamped on every page of the text. Said Wallace: "We stand against the kings of privilege who own the old parties . . . [who] attempt to control our thoughts and dominate the life of man everywhere in the world."

There was little to do after that. On Sunday, at the closing session, Gailmor in stentorian tones intoned the platform text to the delegates. Several innocuous amendments were offered and voted upon. A faint glimmer of opposition and dissatisfaction, smoldering among some delegates, flickered on the floor.

A small, bespectacled Vermont farmer named James Hayford rose to present an idea. He wanted an amendment stating: "Although we are critical of the foreign policy of the U.S., it is not our intention to give blanket endorsement to the foreign policy of any nation."

There was scattered applause, then a small uproar. Charles Zimmerman, Vermont boss, wrapped an arm around Hay-ford's neck and began whispering in his ear. Zimmerman finally rushed Hayford from the floor. With pudgy Chairman Fitzgerald excitedly banging his gavel and Pressman standing helpfully at his elbow, the amendment was voted down. Back in his seat, a scared and upset Mr. Hayford gulpingly told reporters: "Well, I guess the majority should rule." The insurrection died.

"A Sweet Man." The Progressive Party's founding convention was over. Among other delegates who packed their bags, heading for home, was the Rev. Arthur F. Stearns, delegate from Nebraska. Greying Mr. Stearns fairly bubbled over with enthusiasm for the new party. He had served on the Platform Committee. He had thought the Communists should be mentioned by name in a section on minority groups. The committee leaders, he recalled a little sadly, were against it. He didn't know much about the Communists, he said, "but they help us and we help them."

He explained: "Pressman handled everything. He's a smart man. You couldn't tell he was there he was so quiet. Yes sir, he was like a silken thread running through the whole thing."

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