I STILL hadn’t made up my mind what to do. I was edging toward cooperating with the committee, but of all the people I might name, the one for whom I felt the most concern and affection was Clifford. I certainly couldn’t name him—if I chose that way—without his permission. I made up my mind, as I asked him to have dinner with me, that if I found him in accord with my old “loyal leftist” position, which is what I expected, I’d not name him, not name anyone.

We ate at Clifford’s favorite restaurant, The Lobster, just off Broadway, where the environment was down to earth, the seafood fresh, and the waiters familiar. Then we walked slowly uptown, and I told him that I was of two minds, but seemed to be veering toward telling the committee everything I knew about the Party in the Group. Yes, I’d name the others in the cell with us, all seven of them, and name him too. Then I told him that if he did not agree to my naming him, I’d do as others had done, refuse to cooperate with the committee. I’d give up filmmaking and work in the theatre; I was prepared for that. “But,” I said, “both you and I know what the Party is. I remember you explaining the Stalin-Hitler pact to Frances Farmer sympathetically, but those days are long gone, aren’t they? You wouldn’t do that now, would you? Not sympathetically. I don’t have any respect for the Party’s secrecy and won’t mind breaking it, and I don’t have any respect for their program. I do have respect for the truth and the effect that it would have if it was spoken. I believe we should all of us name all of us, establish the truth of what went on. That would make clear how small the scale was, and this thing would be off our backs. But you are one of my best friends, and I won’t even consider that without your permission.”

He was silent. Naturally he’d given the issue a great deal of thought. To my surprise, I found that what he needed from me was what I’d needed from him, permission to name the other. We were, it turned out, in agreement, and when his time came he did the same thing I did, he named names.

The sad fact is that what was possible for me hurt Clifford mortally. He was never the same after he testified. He gave away his identity when he did that; he was no longer the hero-rebel, the fearless prophet of a new world. It choked off the voice he’d had. The ringing tone, the burst of passion, were no longer there. What in the end gave me strength drained him of his. I realize now that my action in the matter had influenced him strongly. I wish it had not. I believe he should have remained defiant, maintained his treasured identity, and survived as his best self. He was to die before he died.