But the NBC team was not bluffing. In fact, the lawyers thought they just might have the evidence they needed to corroborate Bentley’s story. If her allegations could be proven true, then Remington would lose in court, truth being an unassailable defense in libel cases. Months before, a Knoxville attorney had written NBC offering to set up a meeting with a man who had investigated Remington many years ago and could provide proof that he had been a communist. In late December, with the out-of-court settlement stalled, the lawyers traveled to Knoxville to interview the man and left two days later with a list of eighteen witnesses who presumably knew about Remington’s communist activities while he was working for the Tennessee Valley Authority. If any of this panned out, Remington would be discredited, and he would surely lose his case against Bentley. But interviewing and deposing so many people so far from New York would cost a lot of money, perhaps as much as $10,000. Bentley didn’t have the money, and the insurance company covering NBC’s libel policy would never approve such an expenditure. It would cost more to win the case than it would to settle it, and the insurance company cared about the bottom line, not about Elizabeth Bentley’s public credibility. The NBC lawyers moved to settle.
When Bentley’s personal lawyer heard about this, he was furious. He told the attorneys representing the network that Bentley would never issue a retraction and never contribute a cent to the settlement. To Bentley, he wrote that under no circumstances would he participate in any negotiations. “All along I have had complete confidence that if the matter were put to trial, you would be vindicated,” he told her. Meet the Press producer Lawrence Spivak wrote a long and vehement letter to NBC’s insurance company begging them not to settle. Spivak told the press that he did not believe a libel had been committed on his show and that the settlement was based purely on expediency.
In Chicago, the settlement took Bentley by surprise. Anticipating a trial, concerned about her ability to hold down her teaching position while making regular trips to New York and Washington, D.C., she had handed in her resignation to Mundelein. Her teaching career had lasted barely a semester. She told the press, which treated her resignation as a significant news item, that she left the college to make herself available for work in Washington. Her frequent subpoenas “did not help class morale,” she said. She told the FBI she was afraid the libel suit would embarrass the school. But there were rumors of another reason. Bentley, it was said, was living with a man “openly and notoriously,” and Mundelein’s president, Sister Mary Josephine, thought it would be best if she left. Bentley did have a history of promiscuity. And she was alone in a new city and undoubtedly lonely. She had lived with a man in Italy and had made a life outside marriage with Golos. But she also had many detractors more than willing to concoct damaging stories. And she had a legitimate reason—or thought she did—to quit her job that winter: the Remington trial. In public, at least, Mundelein seemed genuinely sorry to see her go. “It was very hard to replace her,” a member of the college staff told the Washington Post. “She fitted in here very well.”
By early 1950, Bentley was back in New York, living temporarily at the Hotel Commodore. She was enraged at the thought of an out-of-court settlement, but there was nothing she could do. NBC’s insurance company was in control. Her own lawyer was powerless. On February 17, the official announcement came: The $100,000 suit would be settled for $9,000, and, although it would have been expected in these circumstances to require one, a retraction was expressly not part of the settlement. When a New York Times article implied that the settlement had been made on the basis of a private retraction, Bentley’s lawyer immediately wrote to the paper, sternly correcting the misconception and emphasizing that his client was not a party to the settlement and did not agree with it.
The settlement itself—because it was a small fraction of the amount of the suit and especially because it did not include a retraction—was neither a stirring vindication of William Remington nor a strong indictment of Elizabeth Bentley. But Remington had undeniably won two important battles against her, emerging victorious from both the loyalty review and the libel suit. The war, however, was not over. There was too much riding on Remington as a measure of Bentley’s credibility.
Chapter 18
The Spotlight
FOLLOWING HER DRAMATIC appearances before the two congressional committees in the summer of 1948, Elizabeth Bentley began a new chapter in her life. Driven by her desire to live a meaningful life, her need to absolve herself of past sins—and her ego—she sought out the spotlight, participating in, adding to, and in some ways orchestrating the media frenzy that now surrounded her. But the longer she stayed in the public eye, the clearer it became to her that cultivating a public persona was a double-edged sword. Publicity could be personally painful. Journalists and others could—and did—attack her in print, calling into question her motives, her memory, her integrity, even her sanity. She was a liar, a fake, a gossip, a stool pigeon. She was, her most unkind critics said, an old maid starved for attention, a frustrated spinster, a hysteric. As a woman, and as a woman alone, she was particularly vulnerable to the most personal kind of slander. It couldn’t have been pleasant to read about oneself in those terms. But Bentley’s new identity as a hard-charging anticommunist, and her self-worth, were tied to her public activities. She would have to learn how to live with the fallout.
In public, at least, she handled the surrounding controversy with poise and composure. Her first real test was appearing on NBC’s Meet the Press radio program in mid-August, toward the tail end of her testimony before HUAC. She accepted the invitation knowing the format of the show, understanding that it was live and that she would face a panel of combative reporters who would pepper her with questions for half an hour. The program’s announcer set the tone. “For weeks now,” he began, “the front pages have been full of stories of two congressional investigations. Names were printed in bold type that shocked the nation…. At the roaring center of all this was an American woman. Is her fantastic story true? Could all this be a figment of her imagination? Why did she become a communist…Who was at fault?…Why did she change? Only Elizabeth Bentley can answer…these questions.” In NBC’s New York studio, Bentley fielded the first question from Frank Waldrop of the Washington Times Herald.
“Miss Bentley,” he said, “these are pretty exciting times.” He probably intended the comment to be an affable opening gambit, a nonthreatening nonquestion to ease into the session. But Bentley didn’t take it that way. What did he mean by “exciting?” Was he implying that she was getting a thrill out of naming names? She didn’t quite know how to respond. She was quiet for a long moment, then answered carefully, warily, “Yes, they are.”
“Are you scared?” Waldrop asked. Again she paused, trying to figure out what he might mean, trying to see a trap before she fell in.
“Scared of what?” she finally answered.
“Scared about suffering reprisals from communists,” he said, “scared of the publicity, scared of anything?” Now she knew what to say.
“I think you rather get accustomed to it,” she answered, her voice even and calm, “although there are moments when you get a little shaky.”
The reporters were understandably dubious. Bentley had told a largely uncorroborated story to the subcommittees, both of which seemed entirely too willing to believe her. The people she accused of wrongdoing, those who did not invoke the Fifth Amendment, adamantly denied her accusations. Now she faced reporters, men—and one woman, May Craig from the Portland (Maine) Press Herald— whose professional responsibility was to doubt, who prided themselves on their skepticism.
“It’s obvious from the testimony I’ve listened to that someone is lying,” Lawrence Spivak said. Spivak was a writer for American Mercury magazine who would soon take over as the show’s moderator and producer. “Isn’t there some way that you can present testimony that would prove beyond a doubt that the people you say are communists really are, or is there no way, and is that the r
eason the grand jury was unable to take action against some of these people?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, Mr. Spivak.” Bentley said. “I only know that there are my facts, which I have, and that the FBI itself made a complete investigation.” Once or twice she was a little testy, once or twice a bit wary, but throughout the broadcast she seemed unintimidated, even by the most pointed questions. Her answers were measured, articulate, and generally self-confident. Her performance, live on national radio, was, in fact, astonishing. She seemed more at ease, sharper, more verbally adept than her questioners. Her answers didn’t sound rehearsed, yet it was clear she had an agenda, the first and most important item of which was to position herself as a born-again patriot and zealous anticommunist. When Waldrop asked her how she could have had such a poor opinion of her own country’s government as to embrace communism, she talked about the problems she saw when she returned to New York in the depths of the Depression.
“And what do you think now?” he asked.
Her response was immediate. “I think it’s the best government in the world,” she said.
Later in the program, she appealed to current members of the Communist Party to “leave it and come forward to help.” Five days later, on a CBS radio special broadcast from Washington, D.C., she repeated the plea. “It isn’t enough,” she said, “to just quit being a communist, as I know hundreds have. Come forward now and tell what you know while there’s still time to undo the damage we have so foolishly done.” Her anticommunism may have had roots in something other than ideological revelation, but it was sincere, as were these pleas to fellow party members. Of course, her entreaties served selfish purposes as well. If she could induce others to talk, her own importance would be enhanced. She would be more valuable to the government, more respected and appreciated. If she could induce others to talk, someone might corroborate parts of her story.
With both vindication and income in mind, she hit the lecture circuit, speaking in venues across the nation during the next several years. To a packed house in upstate New York, she urged patience with turncoat communists like herself. “Sometimes,” she said, “the greatest sinners make the greatest saints.” To 1,400 Catholic college students at a Newman Club communion breakfast in Manhattan, she stressed the importance of religious faith. Lack of faith, she told them, had made her a “pushover” for communism. Addressing 600 members of the Knights of Columbus in Brooklyn, she blamed her agnosticism and the fact that she was “surrounded by procommunist professors” for her downfall. As a guest of the Brooklyn-based Bay Ridge Catholic Action Guild, she spoke of the danger of communist propaganda spreading to young people. In Huntsville, Alabama, at a talk sponsored by the American Legion, she presented herself as a victim of brainwashing who was “molded into the communistic pattern of thought.” In Hollywood, she spoke at the American Legion Auditorium, along with John Wayne and character actor Charles Coburn, at a meeting sponsored by the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals.
Bentley was a good speaker, forceful, emphatic, and articulate. She presented herself well, always conservatively dressed in tailored suits, her hair freshly curled, her lipstick carefully applied. Audiences may have come to hear the Spy Queen, thinking they would see a wild and wicked—although penitent and now reformed—secret agent, but they left understanding just what Bentley wanted them to understand: that communists looked just like everyone else, that communism was a largely invisible threat. She told her select audiences what they paid to hear: that communism was the twentieth century’s greatest evil and that the enemy was still very much among us. Much in demand, she traveled to Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, Missouri, Nebraska, and Colorado to deliver lectures, charging $300 an evening. It was, for a time, the best of both worlds. She was maintaining a high profile while effectively controlling her image. She was making money while doing what she considered the most important work of her life.
Bentley was now also in demand by the government as an expert witness. She might have little more to add to her own oft-told story, but she could be tapped by congressional committees and prosecuting attorneys as an “insider,” an authority on communism, the party, and the espionage apparatus. Bentley was an insider by dint of her own experiences as a courier and network handler, but in the grand scheme of things, she had been “middle management.” It was her close association with Golos that gave her the real insider’s view. He had been on intimate terms with American communist party leadership, with Russian nationals in the United States who worked for the KGB, and with KGB officials in Moscow. Through Golos, she met and became friendly with Earl Browder, the head of the American communist party, and came to understand the relationship between the party and espionage activities. Golos had known, or known of, just about everyone involved in espionage before and during the war. He met many people. He mentioned many names to her. Over time, he told her more than he should have. Bentley was indeed an expert.
In May, June, and August of 1949, the Senate Subcommittee on Immigration and Naturalization held hearings on proposed changes to U.S. immigration policy. Bentley was invited to appear as an expert witness to offer her opinion on amendments the senators were considering, one to bar subversives from entering the country, another to deport aliens who were involved in subversive groups or activities. She told them just what they wanted to hear—that restricting immigration would “cut the lifeline between here and Moscow” and throw the Communist Party off base. Furthermore, she said, “if you deport aliens who engage in subversive activities, you are taking away from the party the brains behind it and making it exceedingly difficult for them to operate.”
Her testimony was even better than the committee hoped for. She told the senators that every Russian in the United States was potentially a Soviet spy. “I was told,” she said, “that every member of the Russian embassy and consulates is working on espionage of various sorts…. The same is true of the Russian nationals in Amtorg [the Soviet trading commission] and in TASS [the Soviet news service],” she added. She said that agents were sent into the United States in the guise of businessmen from satellite countries like Poland and Lithuania, that agents served in the Soviet Union’s United Nations’ delegation and on the staff of foreign-language newspapers published in America.
Later, when the senators asked her to send them a list of the sources she had named for HUAC, she surprised them by including six additional former government employees and four others she said had been information suppliers for the Soviets during the war. But the committee seemed interested in only one man.
“Are any of these persons who you knew in the American government, who were giving information to the agents of the communists, presently in government?” the committee chairman asked Bentley.
“So far as I know,” she said, “there is only one.”
“And who is that person?”
“Mr. William Remington,” Bentley answered.
“In what department?”
“I understand he is still in the Department of Commerce, Senator,” she said.
“Remington?”
“Yes, Mr. William Remington.”
The senators took note. Then they moved on.
From the late forties to the early fifties, Bentley was one of the most outspoken and one of the most knowledgeable former communists in the country. It is therefore not surprising that she was called on to play an important role in the most important trial of the Cold War period. In March of 1951, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg stood accused of espionage in connection with the top-secret Manhattan Project, which brought many of America’s leading scientists to the desert of New Mexico to create the atomic bomb. It was the largest single project in wartime America and, at more than $2 billion, the single most expensive scientific endeavor in human history to date. The making of the atomic bomb was America’s most closely held secret. But it apparently was not held closely enough.
Julius Rosenberg, a passionate and enthusiastic communist
who joined the party before the war, an electrical engineer by trade, was accused of masterminding the theft of atomic secrets through the efforts of his brother-in-law, David Greenglass, whom he allegedly recruited into espionage and who ultimately turned against him. Ethel’s participation in all of this was limited to the allegation that she typed the notes Greenglass had given her husband. Defenders of the Rosenbergs, who were legion, called the case a “hoax conspiracy” concocted to convince Americans that they were in grave and immediate danger from the communists. But to J. Edgar Hoover, it was “the crime of the century.” U.S. Attorney Irving Saypol, who had just successfully prosecuted Alger Hiss, was in charge of the government’s case with the assistance of the voluble Roy Cohn, who would two years later leave the U.S. Attorney’s Office to serve as an aide to Senator Joseph McCarthy. Elizabeth Bentley was not the star witness by any means—that distinction fell to Greenglass. She was not the one to identify Julius or offer damning testimony about his espionage activities. In fact, she had never met him and knew nothing of his undercover work. But her role in this drama was considerable.
She was, first of all, an important guidepost on the investigative road to the Rosenbergs. Greenglass, Ethel’s brother, was the accuser. But the FBI had gotten to Greenglass through a man named Harry Gold, a spy courier, and the Bureau had gotten to Gold through Abraham Brothman, the Long Island City chemist Bentley had identified as a source in her original 1945 statement to the FBI. Thus, when Bentley named Brothman, she initiated the investigation that eventually led to the Rosenbergs. But Bentley’s appearance as the final witness for the prosecution was even more important.
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