Pilot Aboard

As usual, L'Humanite was a day late with the news. The non-Communist Paris press had it from the government, which had it from its ambassador in Moscow, that French Communist Laurent Casanova had asked for four visas: one for himself, one for Maurice Thorez, one for Thorez' wife Jeannette Vermeersch, and one for a secretary. It was two years and five months since French Communist Leader Maurice Thorez had been struck down with brain hemorrhage and whisked off to Moscow for treatment; ever since, the air had been filled with reports of what wonders Soviet medicine had done for him.

Maurice Thorez, leader of France's Communists, was returning none too soon. Cried Communist Poet Louis Aragon:

With the pilot away the passengers travel

Between dark rocks and unlit lighthouses,

The Floundering Days. Poor navigation was threatening to wreck the French Communist Party. Since the buoyant days of 1946, 1) party membership has been almost halved; 2) Communist support in the powerful C.G.T. labor organization is only a quarter of what it was; 3) the circulation of L'Humanite is down two-thirds; Ce Soir and half a dozen provincial dailies have folded. The party still has an elite of probably 30,000 hard-core Communists, but the rank & file have been gravely affected by the Moscow damning of two of their great heroes: Old Communist Andre Marty and World War II Resistance Leader Charles Tillon. Now "our dear Maurice" would put things right.

"He returns." The bikes in the city

streets Speak together with their nickel all

aglow;

"Do you hear, boatman? He returns,"

"What's that? He returns?"

"I am telling you, docker, he returns,

yes, He returns." The motorman stops his

streetcar; "Comrade, you say he returns , . ,"

Inspired by such exclamations, about 300 enthusiastic young Communists, with red roses and carnations in their hands and the Internationale on their lips, gathered at Paris' Gare du Nord on a chilly, drizzly morning, waiting for the Nord Express and their idol. But the Communist Party was not yet ready to expose the wonders of Soviet medicine to their view. At St. Quentin, 80 miles from Paris, the door of a special Polish private car attached to the Nord Express opened, and Thorez showed himself.

The Long Way. Two attendants took him under the armpits and hoisted him down the steps. In his left hand he gripped a cane. His right arm was hidden inside a dangling coat sleeve. Thorez looked worried as he noticed the 150 yards he had to go to his car. Flanked by his wife and the saturnine Casanova, he walked with difficulty, taking small steps, with a pronounced limp. It took him ten minutes to cover the distance. Outside the station he struck a smiling pose for photographers, carefully hiding his right arm. Someone said: "How do you feel?" Said Thorez: "Very well, you see." He was helped into a black Delahaye limousine and stretched out on the back seat, his back propped up on pillows. The Delahaye sped off. He could not be found in his house at Choisy-le-Roi, but the car turned up. Said the chauffeur: "He is very tired."

This was the pilot who was going to steer the party through the lightless seas and black reefs of Communism.

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