III. Jimmy Longhi’s Story
Arthur Miller eventually gained what he considered a veridical source on Panto, but in the treatment of that informant (included in Timebends), a major part of the truth was missing. The individual who would claim to enlighten Miller about Panto was a waterfront Communist, political operative, and lawyer named Vincenzo Longhi, a.k.a. Vincent Longhi, Vincent J. Longhi, “Jimmy” Longhi, and, in Miller’s skewed memory, “Vinny” Longhi. Longhi himself hated being called “Vinny,” writing in his own less-than-candid memoir, “my high school girl friends called me Vinny… I called myself Jim…to avoid being called Vinny, since Vinny made my flesh creep.” 
As stated in Timebends, Longhi called Miller one day, “a few months” after the latter had begun researching Panto’s case. Longhi had an associate, Mitch Berenson, who was “attempting to carry on Pete Panto’s work of organizing opposition to the Ryan domination of the longshoremen’s union. His base was the young American Labor Party in the Red Hook area.” Here is an obvious slip, for the American Labor Party (ALP) was not “young” in 1947. It was founded in 1936 as a force supporting the Roosevelt New Deal, while attracting Socialist and other voters among the working classes in New York, who would not vote Democratic because of the domination of Tammany Hall. It was quickly infiltrated by the Communists, and in 1944, it had split, its anti-Stalinist wing forming the Liberal Party, with the rest of the ALP left to Muscovite control.
Miller goes on to write theatrically, of Berenson, that “men of his views… were fair game for the Mafia, which in the anti-left fever of the later forties, would hardly be reprimanded for making them disappear.” Miller seems to have suffered acute hero-worship in the presence of Longhi and Berenson, since he comments, “the evolution of these two men remained for me for decades to come a kind of measure of radicals in our time.”
“Vinny Longhi,” as Miller describes him, was “a new member of the bar with political ambitions.” Longhi was in fact a repeat losing candidate for the Communist-controlled ALP, and his ambitions ranged widely, including a) performing as a musician, as “Jimmy” Longhi, which he did with leftist cabaret artists “Woody” Guthrie and Cisco Houston, and b) writing plays, as “Vincent” Longhi. One such, titled Climb the Greased [or Greasy] Pole, was produced in London in 1967. He was, in effect, a model of the leftist dilettante, though some of his Communist activities had been quite serious indeed.
Longhi, in turn, clearly worshiped Miller, having been acquainted with the latter’s novel Focus and first successful play, All My Sons. Miller writes in Timebends of Longhi’s “awe” being “embarrassingly overdone” and of his “glamour struck effusiveness.” But Longhi’s career as a sycophant of stars from the Stalinist milieu had not begun with Miller. In 1943, he had shipped out in the U.S. merchant marine with Guthrie and Houston, an experience that, 54 years afterward, resulted in a book of memoirs, Woody, Cisco, and Me, so extreme in its fawning affection, for two men who had been dead for decades, that “effusive” would be a mild description. Longhi has since made a new career, in his twilight years, as a lecturer on Guthrie’s life.
There is something slightly bizarre about the way Miller and Longhi write about their heroes. Miller described Longhi as “unabashedly romantic,” adding, “[h]is helpless sensuality moistened his gaze like syrup.” Longhi himself had recourse to a similar vocabulary when he described the folksinger Cisco Houston as “my beautiful Cisco.” In a murky passage at the beginning of Longhi’s memoir, after he has told his future wife Gabrielle that he intends to ship out, she comments, “You’re only shipping out because Cisco asked you!… Cisco is a very romantic guy.” This hesitation to see her boyfriend make his contribution to the war effort seems peculiar in a woman who, a page before, is quoted saying, “Of course the Red Army will destroy the Nazis! Otherwise, what’s the use of getting married?”
Miller wrote that Longhi and Berenson “had ‘worked with Pete,’ they said,” a wise circumlocation, since such a phrase could mean almost anything. The pair held Miller’s interest by their account of various forms of waterfront chicanery, some of which would show up in “The Hook,” such as taking bribes for work by overcharging for haircuts or wine. They also hit Miller for money, which he did not have – at least not in the amount they expected him to possess.
But, Miller wrote, “I had my entry at last into what had become for me a dangerous and mysterious world at the water’s edge that drama and literature had never touched.” Miller recalled awkwardly, “looking back, I see how volcanic this decision was for me.” What he meant was that his interest in the waterfront would produce “The Hook,” as well as his play A View From the Bridge, and a trip to Hollywood in an unsuccessful bid to sell “The Hook.” There he would meet Marilyn Monroe and, he concludes melodramatically, “come into direct collision with the subterranean machine that enforced political blacklisting and the ideological disciplining of film writers, actors, and directors.”
Yet before venturing into the topic of “The Hook” and its destiny in Hollywood, it is necessary to fully account for certain items involving subterranean machines and ideological disciplining in the New York Stalinist milieu of which Longhi was a hardened denizen. Miller writes of Longhi and Berenson as “what I took to be unambiguous men striking out heroically against unjust power. But of course in that also I was in for some surprises.”
Longhi and Berenson were, it seems, trying to organize a “rump faction” of longshoremen, who were under the gangster control of Anthony “Tough Tony” Anastasia, brother of the same Albert Anastasia who allegedly ordered the killing of Pietro Panto. For these heroic radicals, it would seem no corrupt union boss could be worse than the Anastasias. Yet according to Miller, “Tony was a complicated enough man to make Berenson wonder if he might one day be the means by which a revolt of the members could be mounted against the Ryan leadership.” Miller follows this surprising assertion with the statement, “It was an idea that would come very close to getting him killed, and perhaps Vincent Longhi along with him.” In plain, less convoluted language, however, the meaning is clear: the waterfront Stalinists sought an alliance with the mob, just as Stalin had with Hitler. Indeed, the logic was exactly the same as that employed by the “genius” of the Kremlin: that Hitler could be used to undermine capitalism in the West.
Miller finds ways to explain away this rather unattractive development. Longhi, he writes, “could not help identifying himself – and maybe even hating himself for doing so – with the stylish gravitas of some of the waterfront power figures,” i.e. the mobsters who had murdered his alleged comrade in struggle, Pete Panto. As Marxists, according to Miller, Longhi and Berenson “were thus freer to maneuver than those in the game for the purpose of gain.” Yes, they were after power rather than money, but that was the morality of Stalinism, not of the old Marxism, much less the established trade union movement, or the Catholic labor reformers. Can one imagine a scene in On the Waterfront where Father Barry, rather than counseling stern, firm combat against corruption, calls on the longshoremen to unite with the gangsters? Yet that is precisely the subtext to be found throughout Miller’s “The Hook:” that the gangsters may be used against each other.
Miller even compares Longhi, in what appears to me one of the most bathetic passages recorded in American leftist literature, with “Lenin in October,” as he orates on the waterfront, although, as the surrealist, Trotskyist poet Benjamin Péret put it, one could not imagine a “Lenin-Hitler pact,” the very idea of which seemed absurd on its face. Yet the alliance between Longhi and Berenson, on one hand, and “Tough Tony” Anastasia, brother of Panto’s slayer, was real. A few paragraphs later, Miller recounts, in a first person manner suggesting he was a witness, an incident in which Anthony Anastasia came to Berenson’s loft and threatened “then and there” to kill Longhi and Berenson. But the motivation for this threat, and its outcome, are deeply revealing. Anastasia was angry because he had “pleaded” with Berenson and Longhi to arrange for a boatload of strikebreakers to get around a picket line maintained by a Stalinist union, the United Electrical Workers (UE). This “plea” came about because, in Miller’s words, “Berenson and Longhi… had been feeling him out for an alliance.” But arranging to evade strike pickets was something beyond the power of two local agitators like Berenson and Longhi.
Miller, charitably, describes the fearsome Anastasia, at this point, as “very confused,” and further explains that Longhi speechified him out of killing the pair. Indeed, “they ended up in a state of abeyance if not friends,” a bond sealed when Longhi and Berenson offered the mobster tickets to Miller’s Broadway hit All My Sons! Whatever happened to “Tough Tony?” (Forget Pietro Panto, for now.) Unsurprisingly, Miller writes, “I was finding the waterfront as absurd as it was tragic,” a sentiment as impossible to imagine in the writing of Kazan or Schulberg as the aforementioned Lenin-Hitler pact. And while real longshoremen might find life on the docks absurd, they did not consign their unionism to that category.
But there is an even darker side to Longhi’s relationship with gangsters like Anastasia. In his memoir of shipping out with guitar minstrels Guthrie and Houston, Longhi nonchalantly mentions taking the two to visit the office of the Stalinist newspaper L’Unità del Popolo, which in a predictably dissembling style he refers to as “a little Italian antifascist weekly where I’ve been working.” On the way, he mentions, with equal obliqueness, that the Italian antifascist Carlo Tresca “had recently been shot dead near L’Unità’s office.” Indeed, Longhi’s trip to sea came soon after Tresca’s shooting, which had been carried out on January 11, 1943, at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 15th Street in Manhattan, by a noted Mafia killer, Carmine “Lilo” Galante.
Galante would later rise to the heights of Mafia power before being spectacularly gunned down in a Brooklyn restaurant in 1979, 36 years after Tresca. The Galante assassination has its own folklore – a photograph of the body, with a cigar clenched in its teeth, was widely reproduced in media, and one report held that an unknown man had walked up to spit on the corpse, remarking “That’s for Carlo Tresca” before vanishing into the crowd.
From 1943 on, however, there was speculation that the killer of Tresca, while owing a primary allegiance to the Mafia, was paid or otherwise guided by Soviet, Italian, or American Communists who sought the elimination of an eloquent opponent. At the time of his death, Tresca, was preparing an issue of “a little Italian antifascist weekly” of his own, Il Martello (The Hammer), replete with attacks on Stalinism. Tresca was a prominent anarchist with a considerable following in the New York garment unions. By the time of the Spanish civil war of 1936-39, if not earlier, Tresca had learned that Soviet Communism represented no less a menace to the cause he championed than Fascism.
The single event that seems to have pushed Tresca into active condemnation of the Soviet Union was the murder of the Italian anarchist writer Camillo Berneri in Republican Spain in 1937. Berneri was the outstanding younger personality in Italian anarchism at the time, known and beloved in the international anarchist movement, and hounded from country to country by Mussolini’s agents. Berneri was kidnapped and killed during fighting that broke out in Barcelona between, on one side, anarchists and the dissident Communist Partit Obrer d’Unificació Marxista (P.O.U.M.), and, on the other, Soviet-controlled police. (This fighting is best described in George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia.) At the time, the Stalinist purges in the U.S.S.R. were at their height, and Tresca saw the slaying of Berneri as an extension of the purge apparatus into the West.
Then, a year later, in 1938, a second case erupted in New York, after Juliet Stuart Poyntz, a well-known Communist intellectual and probable Soviet secret police agent, disappeared. Tresca and a small group of active anti-Stalinists charged that Poyntz was another victim of the Stalinist terror. These affairs and the 1939 Stalin-Hitler pact drove Tresca into a fury of opposition to the Soviets and their Communist supporters around the world. But it was the entry of the U.S. into World War II, with the U.S.S.R. cast as an ally in the struggle against fascism, that set the stage for Tresca’s murder.
Tresca was killed just as he was organizing a major political fight to influence the U. S. government in its wartime dealings with Italy. The Fascist regime was in deep crisis, an Allied invasion was clearly on the agenda, and efforts were underway to coordinate the establishment of a post-Fascist government. These last were centered in Washington, DC, in an entity titled the Italian-American Victory Council, set up under the authority of the Office of War Information. The Communists, vying for a leading role in postwar Italy, sought to participate in the Victory Council, but Tresca called for a close watch on them by the U.S. government. He also opposed involvement in the Victory Council of a New York Italian political boss with Fascist sympathies, the newspaper publisher Generoso Pope, whose son would create the National Enquirer.
Galante was arrested in the case, but was released and never charged. Indeed, New York authorities never indicted anybody for the killing of Tresca, as occurred in the Panto case in Brooklyn, and to this day Tresca’s murder remains officially unsolved. But curious coincidences point to Communist-Mafia collaboration. One is that two of the most notorious and extreme Stalinists in the history of American Communism, waterfront labor thug Frederick N. (Blackie) Myers, an official of the National Maritime Union (NMU), in which Longhi shipped out with Guthrie and Houston, and Soviet spy Louis Goldblatt, an official of the West Coast dockworkers’ union run by Harry Bridges, the International Longshoremen’s and Warehousemen’s Union (ILWU), were suspiciously close to Galante on the night of the murder. Another was that one Albert Marinelli, a New York politician with whom Lilo Galante, as well as Lucky Luciano and Vito Genovese, were associated, had also been involved in a Soviet espionage and terror operation in the U.S. For decades afterward, Italian American anarchists and anti-Stalinist Socialists declared that the Communists had worked out a quid pro quo with the Mafia in New York, with the former agreeing to mob control over certain unions, while the latter would “rub out” certain political enemies of Moscow. In the later pages of Timebends, Miller describes a visit to Sicily in the company of Longhi, where the two tourists happen to cross paths with none other than Luciano himself, who, of course, had been an associate of Pietro Panto’s killers, and with whom Longhi appears well-acquainted.
In his weepy memoir of life at sea with Guthrie and Houston, Longhi summoned up Panto’s ghost at several points. Walking with Guthrie and Houston after the former had purchased a new guitar and given his old one to Longhi, who could not play it, the latter describes an abrupt encounter with an African-American longshoreman, “Whitey,” who speaks Neapolitan dialect, and who has shared in “missionary work for L’Unità among the Italian longshoreman.” Whitey asks, “are you coming to the meeting?” Longhi is surprised to learn that an event is to be held “For Pete [Panto] – a memorial meeting for Pete at Saint Stephen’s.”
Longhi writes, “I translated for Woody and Cisco and started to explain about Pete Panto, but they knew the story of the young rank-and-file leader who was murdered by the underworld dock bosses for saying no.” The narrative includes no indication that any of the guitar-bearing trio were moved to attend the memorial. But elsewhere in his book, Longhi cites Panto as inspiring him to courage when he fears another seaman, embroidering with the extra detail that Panto had “held the great rank-and-file longshoremen’s meetings” at St. Stephen’s Church. And he claims to have suffered a “recurring nightmare – Albert the Assassin, standing before me, grinning, while I punched at him with all my might; but my arms moved in slow motion, my fists were soft as pillows, and Pete’s killer never stopped grinning.”
If, as one supposes, “Albert the Assassin” is Albert Anastasia, why should he not grin? Although this dream is described as an experience during the second world war, one also wonders if Longhi still suffered it after his friend Berenson had decided to seek an alliance with “Tough Tony,” brother of “Albert the Assassin,” and Longhi himself had introduced Arthur Miller to Lucky Luciano.
It is certainly unsurprising that Longhi should not have known of a memorial meeting for Pietro Panto in 1943, if indeed one was held. L’Unità del Popolo by then carried his byline, including an issue that coincided with the anniversary of Panto’s disappearance on July 14, 1939, but the paper was deeply concerned with other matters after the passage of four years, such as ridding itself of the suspicion that its staff had played a role in the murder of Carlo Tresca. While blaming the assassination of Tresca on “fascist killers,” the paper was also assiduous in promoting such Stalinist fantasies and slanders as the claim that David Dubinsky, leader of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union and an ally of Tresca, “wishe[d] to preserve the fighting power of the United States, not for use against Hitlerism, but for a fratricidal war against the most powerful enemy of Hitlerism and the most powerful friend of the United States, the Soviet Union.” It even took the time to attack the exile government of Poland, crushed under Nazi tyranny, for refusing the embrace of a continued alliance with Stalin.
Longhi’s trip to sea gave him, long before the publication of his memoir, his first taste of Stalinist stardom; on his return he joined Guthrie, Houston, banjoist Pete Seeger, blues singer Huddie Ledbetter (Leadbelly), and the rest of the cadre of cabaret “folk” entertainers, in recording a series of patriotic exhortations with the simplistic (but typical) title That’s Why We’re Marching, as if any American needed the war explained to him or her by Stalinists. “Jimmy Longhi’s Story” was included on the album, re-released in 1996 as a compact disc, with cover art depicting Guthrie and Houston. Vincent “Jimmy” Longhi got full credit on the recording, the kind of status he must have longed for all his life.
IV. “The Hook” in Hollywood
Miller had discovered that men like Longhi, by whom “for decades to come” he took “a kind of measure of radicals in our time,” could profess to mourn Pietro Panto while supping with his killers. Miller even comments, late in Timebends, “Tony Anastasia, doubtless as a consequence of [Berenson’s] and Longhi’s influence, would build the first medical facility on the waterfront for longshoremen, the Anastasia Clinic.” Ever the tourist on the working waterfront, Miller had no idea that longshore medical claims were (and remain) a rich source of graft.
The eminent critic Roger Shattuck, reviewing Timebends in The New York Times, noted of Miller, “He refers convincingly to a ‘moral center.’ But one remembers earlier pages about Lucky Luciano and organized crime, which suggests a tolerance, even a comic sympathy for them, that I find disturbing and out of character.”
Still, Miller had turned away from the waterfront as an “absurd” place, even though its “volcanic” energy had led him, with “The Hook,” to Hollywood. In some of the most famous lines in Timebends, Miller alleges that although he and Kazan tried to sell the screenplay there, they were thwarted by Columbia Pictures boss Harry Cohn (who, nonetheless, would soon release Death of a Salesman as a film), by Roy Brewer, the anti-Communist head of the powerful Stagehands’ Union (IATSE), and even by the FBI – all of whom tried to convince Miller that the corrupt union bosses and gangsters should be portrayed as Communists. “My heart froze,” Miller recalled. According to him, the FBI opposed his screenplay because “the Korean War was demanding an uninterrupted flow of men and materiel… unless Tony Anastasia was turned into a Communist, the movie would be an un-American act close to treason.”
Yet as Miller would admit, Tony Anastasia was a friend of the Communists, and no character resembling him, no cruel killer of his kind, appeared in “The Hook.” Would not the inclusion of “Tough Tony” and his alliance with the waterfront Stalinists, who in seeking his support dishonored the dead Pietro Panto, have served the truth, a greater truth even than that embodied in On the Waterfront – the truth of the Stalin-Hitler pact, the truth of all the crimes of totalitarians? What a film that would have been! But no film about Pietro Panto was relevant any more; as Miller himself wrote, “years of grimy rain had washed away the ‘Dove Pete Panto’ graffiti.” Since he could not escape from his own character, Miller had to add that the transformation of the “trade union idea” into “just another racket” had taken place “under the name of patriotism.” In reality, as Miller himself had shown, it owed as much to Soviet-lining “radicals” as to anybody of the ilk of Roy Brewer.
A final point must be made: when Miller took “The Hook” to Hollywood, he must have known how polarized the West Coast then was by the Communist domination of the local longshoremen by Harry Bridges and his ILWU. Indeed, ultramilitant dockworkers in a few Pacific Northwest ports like Tacoma, Wash., whose tradition was anarchosyndicalist, long refused to join the ILWU, preferring to take their chances with Joe Ryan and his ILA machine, than with the Stalinists. Early in 1951 Cohn and Brewer allegedly demanded changes in “The Hook,” to reflect a reality they knew only too well (Bridges had repeatedly sought to disrupt the mainstream unions in Hollywood). The year before, the ILWU had been expelled from the Congress of Industrial Organizations for its pro-Moscow record, just as Ryan’s ILA would be thrown out of the A.F.L. in 1953 for racketeering.
But Bridges was still strutting around, and Stalin remained alive until 1953, with the world’s waterfront workers considered a precious weapon in the Soviet plan for disruption of Western economies. Martin Gottfried writes foolishly that the Communists investigated in Hollywood and elsewhere “were guilty of nothing except holding unpopular beliefs.” Gottfried is an ignoramus about these matters: the Stalinists were guilty of assisting Moscow in every possible way. The American Stalinists had propagandized for the Stalin-Hitler pact. They had been key participants in the conspiracy to kill Trotsky, since in 1940, when the old Bolshevik was murdered, the Soviets had few agents in Mexico.
When Miller took “The Hook” to Hollywood, the CP line held that in American movies Stalin had to be portrayed as the enemy plotting against the U.S. Yet, in emulation of their master, who expediently had allied with Hitler, the American Stalinists on the waterfront had made deals with those they professed to abhor and combat, as Longhi and Berenson did when they sought an alliance with Tony Anastasia. Kazan and Schulberg, were right, and Miller was wrong. What a film that would have made – a version of “The Hook” showing how Stalinists and gangsters acted in common. And the question remains unanswered: dove Pete Panto?
* * * *
Stephen Schwartz lives in Washington, D.C. He was staff writer for Francis Coppola's City magazine in the 1970s. In the 1990s, he worked as a crime, police, and waterfront reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle. His books include two dealing with maritime unionism: Brotherhood of the Sea: A History of the Sailors' Union of the Pacific (Transaction, 1986) and From West to East: California and the Making of the American Mind (Simon & Schuster, 1998.) The latter also deals at length with Communism in Hollywood. In 2000, Mr. Schwartz wrote the screenplay for a short film for Bosnian television, Internationals in Sarajevo. His most recent book is the bestselling Two Faces of Islam: Saudi Fundamentalism and Its Role in Terrorism (Doubleday, 2003).
This article is taken from the Special issue of Film History, v. 16, no. 4, on politics and film. Minor copyediting errors were corrected in the printed edition.
 Miller, Arthur, “The Hook: A Play for the Screen.” Copy in the Arthur Miller archives section, Performing Arts Collection, at the Harry Ransom Research Center, University of Texas, Austin. I am grateful to Richard Schickel for providing me with the text as well as for many helpful and fraternal comments during the writing of this essay.
 Miller, Arthur, Timebends, New York, Penguin, 1995; first ed. New York, Grove Press, 1987. Hereinafter, “Timebends”.
 Gottfried, Martin, Arthur Miller: His Life and Work, New York, Da Capo Press, 2003. Hereinafter “Gottfried.”
 Bigsby, Christopher, The Cambridge Companion to Arthur Miller, Cambridge University Press, 1997.
 Johnson, Malcolm, Crime on the Labor Front, New York, McGraw-Hill, 150. An extremely rare book today, missing from the Library of Congress in Washington.
 Schulberg, Budd, “Joe Docks: Forgotten Man of the Waterfront,” The New York Times Magazine, December 28, 1952; “How One Pier Got Rid of the Mob,” The New York Times Magazine, September 23, 1953.
 Cited in Gottfried, p. 235.
 Gottfried, p. 230.
 Gottfried, p. 231.
 Gottfried, p. 117.
 Timebends, p. 146.
 Ibid, p. 147.
 “Amen Will Press Brooklyn Inquiry,” The New York Times, August 27, 1939.
 “Urge Amen Probe in Disappearance of Anti-Ryan Stevedore,” Daily Worker, August 28, 1939.
 “An Announcement,” Daily Worker, August 26, 1939.
 Lyons, Eugene, The Red Decade, Bobbs-Merrill co., New York, 1941.
 See http://webtext.library.yale.edu/xml2html/beinecke.DRAPER.con.html#a8.
 “Murder ‘Director’ Named by O’Dwyer,” The New York Times, April 7, 1940.
 “O’Dwyer Fears Plot Against His Witnesses,” Daily Worker, April 6, 1940.
 “Una dichiarazione di O’Dwyer,” L’Unità del Popolo, July 20, 1940. Also, Swanstrom, Edward, The Waterfront Labor Problem, New York, Fordham University Press, 1938.
 “Un comizio in memoria di Panto,” L’Unità del Popolo, July 27, 1940.
 Timebends, p. 152.
 Turkus, Burton B., and Feder, Sid, Murder, Inc., New York, Da Capo Press, 1992, unabridged republication of the 1951 edition.
 Ibid., pp. 470-473, 477-478, 483-484.
 See http://www.pww.org/past-weeks-1999/Waterfront%20documentary.htm.
 Timebends, p. 195.
 Schulberg, Budd, “Joe Docks,” op. cit.
 Schulberg, Budd, “How One Pier Got Rid of the Mob,” op. cit.
 Longhi, Jim, Woody, Cisco, and Me, New York, ibooks, 2004 (original ed. 1997), hereinafter “Longhi.”
 Timebends, p. 148.
 See note 26.
 Timebends, p. 148.
 Longhi, p. 273.
 Longhi, pp. 24-25.
 Timebends, p. 149.
 Ibid., p. 150.
 On this evergreen topic one can recommend only one book: Trotsky, Leon, The Struggle Against Fascism in Germany, Middlesex, Penguin, 1975.
 Timebends, p. 152.
 Ibid, p. 153
 Longhi, p. 23.
 On the Tresca case, see Gallagher, Dorothy, All the Right Enemies, New Brunswick, Rutgers University Press, 1988, and Schwartz, Stephen, Intellectuals and Assassins, London, Anthem Press, 2000, from which some material is here reproduced.
 Timebends, pp. 169 and ff.
 Longhi, p. 41.
 Ibid, p. 192.
 Longhi, Vincent, “Italian-Americans of the National Maritime Union,” L’Unità del Popolo (English section), July 10, 1943; Unsigned, “Sull’assassinio di Tresca,” L’Unità del Popolo, June 28, 1943.
 Editorial Notes, “Why We Fight Luigi Antonini,” L’Unità del Popolo (English section), June 12, 1943; Unsigned, “Aberrazioni,” L’Unità del Popolo, July 17, 1943.
 Smithsonian Folkways #40021.
 Timebends, p. 318.
 Shattuck, Roger, “He Who is Most Alone,” The New York Times, November 8, 1987.
 Timebends, p. 308.
 Ibid, p. 309.
 Gottfried, p. 196.