Mar 282017

“You are finished at the Museum,” Sig Mickelson said. “We have a disaster on our hands with the Air Force. Be at my office at 8 tomorrow. Do you know Walter Cronkite?”

Mickelson had received orders from Bill Paley (his boss’s boss). I saw I was not to question him too closely.

Paley had been only an honorary colonel in World War II while Robert Sarnoff, the head of RCA-NBC, had been a full general. Two years earlier Sarnoff-NBC had done a twenty-six part series on the exploits of the United States Navy called Victory at Sea. It had been brilliantly produced and edited, with a score by Richard Rodgers. Paley-CBS called it Victory at NBC and in retaliation commissioned a series on the exploits of the United States Air Force called Air Power.

Air Power had not yet flown. A production staff of twelve, editing rooms, and tens of thousands of feet of stock footage were on 45th Street, unused. After a desk was reserved for the Air Force officer who acted as liaison, the staff became eleven.

I later learned Ed Saxe had recommended my predecessor for the job. Saxe was the CBS Vice President who had helped set up the administrative structure of the CIA. My CIA-approved predecessor had developed a brain tumor and had to be replaced for health and financial reasons. Mr. Paley wanted Air Power to be broadcast as soon as possible and the correspondent had to be Walter Cronkite, who had just become the anchor of the CBS Evening News. I asked if I might have Charles Collingwood. He and I had worked well together for almost three years. Or, given the time pressure, Edward R. Murrow, the most distinguished war correspondent in the history of radio.

Cronkite, said Sig’s face.  I learned later that CBS News was trying to get rid of Murrow’s boys. They were radio and they were World War II. Airtime had changed. Portentousness was giving way to sincerity.

Walter invited me to visit his home. He showed me a volume of the stories he had filed as a correspondent in Europe. He didn’t ask about my war experiences. I didn’t like to talk about combat and he had seen almost none. Once, he had jumped in a ditch under fire and there had been other close calls, he told me. I nodded. “Scary.” I suppose had I shown more admiration, even servility, he might have become friendlier, but things would worsen between us for the rest of my professional life at CBS News.

There was the matter of the Cold War. I learned much later that one of my principal researchers was a government plant. George Vicas never admitted it to me, although we became good friends. He spoke perfect Russian and his research papers were balanced and thorough. (In the 1980s the CIA sent him to Russia to make films in Russian to teach proper jurisprudence procedures to ex-Soviet court officers.)

Air Power was the first documentary series to be sponsored fully by one advertiser. They sent no memos or suggestions. If they had problems with the more controversial programs, I did not hear about it. The problems were between the correspondent, the Pentagon, and me.

The first film, the pilot to the whole series, was titled Target Ploesti. Ploesti was a Rumanian oilfield essential to German rolling and flying stock.

On August 1, 1943, 177 Air Force bombers in a surprise raid took off from North Africa to destroy the oilfields from low altitude. The target was 2700 miles away. The lead navigator made a mistake and flew directly over the German Air Defense Command headquarters in Bucharest. All surprise was lost. Ploesti was the worst defeat ever suffered by the United State Air Force. The footage of the raid was breathtaking. The bombers came in at one hundred feet, and cameras recorded the fighting. One bomber broke up directly before a camera and plunged into an oil refinery tower. No one could have survived the explosion.

The word “oil” was the key to the whole film. When Cronkite read my script he pronounced it in two syllables.

“Oy-yul “

“Walter, one syllable. Oil”

“That’s what I said. Oy-yul.”


“Oy-yul. That’s the way I say it; that’s how I say it.”

The tone was fierce, the glance dismissive. For that matter he dismissed the whole production, and never once came to the editing rooms. He was not yet the most trusted man in America. When later I had serious troubles with the Pentagon, I sent several drafts to his office for comment, but they were never acknowledged or returned. Walter was never made available to me. I turned his voice-over recording sessions over to an associate. He read what I wrote, without changes.

Cronkite never tried to contact me. Instead, as if Air Power were a theatrical production, he sent his two agents, Jap Gude and Tom Stix, to see me and to plead that I give their client more attention. One of the agents was drunk. I asked why Walter wouldn’t come to the office and help me.

“Do you know who he is? Walter is the star of the show.”

“If your client is the start of the show, why won’t he help me with the Air Force brass? They hate what I’m doing.”

“Cronkite is the anchor on the evening news, and that keeps him in New York all day long.”

“Tell him it’s his name on the front credits and get out of here.”

Target Ploesti became a shouting match when I presented it for comment to the public relations head of the Air Force. Robert L. Scott was an Air Force ace who had made many kills in World War II. He was a Flying Tiger, an authentic hero and a general who had written God is My Co-Pilot, later made into a movie.

I explained the architecture of the series. “The Air Force rises from defeat to victory, sir. You lose at Ploesti, you lose at Schweinfurt, and we lose at Pearl Harbor. We rise and win the war. Honesty is good dramatic construction.”

General Scott would not look at me. The projection room had a half dozen commissioned officers seated in it.

“Why would CBS put a foot slogging enlisted infantryman in charge of this series? What ever happened to the other producer? I flew him for a weekend in Mexico City. I thought we put somebody helpful in that office.”

God did not fly in the pilot’s seat. Scott had the stick and rudder; God was in the right seat where He could only be the co-pilot.

The Air Force was to be the star of the show. They had an agent, too. I found our liaison Air Force colonel rifling my desk. He was looking for the proposed outlines for other chapters. I took his keys from him and told him to get out of my sight. He left me a script written by my predecessor. It was marked “approved script” and signed by an assistant to Colonel Scott. Its theme was that the United States Air Force made no mistakes at Ploesti. I took the revisions to the head of CBS News. No self- respecting journalist or documentarian could accept their propaganda. Either CBS controlled the final scripts or the Air Force did.

Our lawyers were called in. The contract did not specify who had the final word. The assumption was that the series would follow NBC’s prize winning Victory at Sea. Both the network and the military would work together in common purpose. However in Victory at Sea the United States Navy never suffered a defeat after Pearl Harbor. It did take losses now and then. Ploesti was a defeat, not a loss.

Sig Mickelson, then President of CBS News, read the Pentagon’s version of the raid. He asked for time to work it out. It was never worked out, merely compromised. Fifteen years later in a broadcast I supervised, The Selling of the Pentagon, this conflict became the basis of the argument of whether the First Amendment guaranteed television the same rights as the print press.

Ploesti was an example of the paradox of war: How many should be asked to die for a target? Normally a ground force calls off an attack when casualties reach five percent. Elite corps like the Marines or SS will go to fifteen percent. The USAF took thirty percent in long raids deep in German territory. One out of three planes was lost on this August 1943 mission. Over 800 airmen were killed, wounded or missing. It was estimated that to stop the flow of oil from this source, at least seven more missions would have to be launched.

There were fifteen drafts of Target Ploesti. It was screened five times at the Pentagon and rejected each time. After the last screening Colonel Pitchford, the new liaison officer, was comforting.

“Look, here’s the deal,” he said. “The Air Force will transfer Scott off the project. The series is more important than he is. You’ll have another session. Make a change or two and wait.”

I compromised. I wrote a summary page explaining that the loss of oil helped us defeat Germany. Pitchford’s counsel was right. “The last page is Pentagonese and unintelligible.”

Cronkite read what was written and showed up late for the small banquet in the Pentagon.

Sometime later I went to see my brother, Leon Wolff, 2d Lieutenant United States Air Force, retired.

After my broadcast, Leon wrote a book on Ploesti, Low Level Mission. It was not a success but it was a far more detailed account than mine. But the record couldn’t be straight for either of us. For the next thirty years the Army hid the documents we should have seen. We both got it wrong. There is still the suspicion that the Germans had been tipped off by their intelligence agents in Libya.

The military reckoned that the value of the target was worth the number of the deaths. That’s a reckoning they never make in public.

The Air Force had put at my disposal an old twin-engine bomber with a crew on a standby basis. Colonel Pitchford was more given to wine and women than spying or propaganda. He was in the midst of divorcing a wife and on his way to a retirement and the real estate business. He came with an enlisted woman who was his aide.

The A-20 had a bomb bay that extended into the fuselage and was covered at the top. A mattress could be placed on the top of the bomb bay. I never used it, but the Colonel did and his Air Force lady did.

This twin engine plane had a second mattress in the plastic nose. While the pilot flew at low altitudes I could lie on it and watch America go by, a few hundred feet beneath me. I buzzed the nation, coast to coast.

It took two and a half days in those propeller-driven times. That low-level mission changed my professional life. It made me skeptical about unity and the co-axial cable, and satellite America.

America is a continent, not just a country. Television and mass marketing have forced us into a sense that we are small. It is so easy to switch pictures from coast-to-coast and border-to-border that in our collective mind the size of our continent is forgotten. We think of ourselves in terms that make us Lilliputian. We are not quintuple England or eight times France: all one has to do is fly low and slow from one coast to another. The United States is vast and varied and unpredictable.

I was astounded, and I still am.

In these jet days, when the flight attendant asks us to draw the shades so we can see a movie, I rebel. I keep the shade open and look down at our history; the land is our story. In the east, the patterns of agriculture curl and twist in the same manner as old Europe. In Indiana and Ohio come the squares of farming, subdivided land grants; the work of Thomas Jefferson. Each land grant tied to an educational institution. The squares are less subdivided in the Midwest. They stretch on and dissolve into the rivers and mountains that recall Lewis and Clarke. The deadly deserts of the Hopis and Navajos. The Rockies and then the Pacific. And as vast and diverse as the geography are the people. We are not one. We are a diverse multitude. In unity there may be strength, but in diversity there is survival.



Air Power DVD,


Mar 272017

Our offices were in a turret on the south side of the building. Our film editing room was on the fifth floor of another section of the building, so it was a long walk between the two. Late at night the return took me through halls where work lights illuminated shards of far-off tribes; long dead beasts, artifacts of cultures I never knew or could ever know.

On one wall an accident of light fell on a large coiled tile. It was a ceramic spiral, a time clock showing the history of life on earth. At one minute to twelve Man entered life on this planet. A tiny tile in green represented some fifty thousand years in a three-billion-year whirl. Enter Homo sapiens, sapiens. Man who knows he knows.

I was nothing, a speck of dust in the last groove of the spiral.

Aeschylus wrote, “Wonders there are many, but none more wonderful than man.”

Newton wrote, “I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”

A museum is a walled collection of death.

During World War II, I had known the fear of death, but death came wrapped in panic. The beet field, the chicken coop, and Lipsky were mortality wrapped in terror. But the end did not arrive. It would later, but I stopped thinking about it once I was out of danger. Death went far from my mind.

In the Hall of the Incas, traversing the Hall of the Mammals, walking through the Birds of the Pacific, mortality surrounded me. Among the Jurassic Dinosaurs the bones were startling, but the blanket of death was larger than Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Dr. Simpson’s argument, Darwin’s thesis; life cannot progress unless there is death. Even the smallest unicellular paramecium dies when it reproduces. The cell that was one has become two; though the individual has reproduced itself, the original cell is gone. The overriding natural law in the study of natural history is that all living things must lose their lives.

That is why we are all mad.

We know this first premise of natural law, but for us to survive, the law of universal death must be forgotten—or daily life is impossible. Sanity is retained only if our inevitable and logical end is put aside, forgotten. For thinking man, madness restores common sense.

The second law of natural history is that the old must breed the young. Once the old have spawned they are sometimes permitted to live longer, but nature has little use for them. It is youth that is urged on with the sensual glories of sexual reproduction.

Nature demands death, but death must be preceded by reproduction. To bring new life is the duty of the old organism.

The evolutionists say that natural law demands death so that certain of the young will adapt better to a changing environment. Homo sapiens could not have evolved had the lesser hominoids not mutated in reproduction and produced modern man.

The duty, necessity and fierceness of the law of reproduction are inflexible. Reproduce, and then die is the totality of natural law. This is too cruel for the religious who demand that the Universe give Man an immortal soul.

The anthropologist Earnest Hooten noted that God could have placed the soul in man anytime He chose. He chose to give a soul to Homo sapiens, and not to the earlier hominoids.

For the evolutionist, and for the American Museum of Natural History, the immortal part may be the calcium deposit in the bones and teeth.

I did not like that last walk from the editing tower to my room in the turret overlooking West 73rdd Street. I did not want to be reminded that I would die someday.

I came back that midnight to find a note: “Call Sig Mickelson (my boss) whenever you get this.” I called.


Mar 212017

For a short time I had two offices, one at the Museum, the other at the CBS building. I was in an office next door to a man who never said hello and was constantly on the phone. His voice was low.

The Cold War was overheated with threats of nuclear exchanges. Undercover, as a United Nations force, America was at war with North Korea—a country itself under the cover of Communist China.

CBS was under attack by anti-communist forces. The networks were accused of harboring communists, and of including Marxist tenets in both drama and news.

There were two sets of accusers, the government and the private sector. The government’s investigators included the House Un-American Activities Committee and the staff of Joseph McCarthy, a Senator from Wisconsin, in his second term of office.

McCarthy was investigating us and we were investigating him. His first term had been undistinguished. He had taken a bribe from Pepsi Cola to lead the fight for continued government regulation of sugar prices. McCarthy successfully kept the government ceiling on the price of sugar. His dalliance was so embarrassingly blatant that his fellow senator from Wisconsin, Gaylord Nelson, and Senator Everett Dirksen of Illinois sarcastically dubbed him the “Pepsi-Cola Kid.” At the time I knew nothing of this. Decades later, when I interviewed Frank Stanton for the oral history section of Columbia University I learned the details of Stanton’s back channel connections in the Senate. The president of the corporation had talked to Nelson and Dirksen.

Because of the scandal and the approaching campaign for re-election, Senator McCarthy consulted with his closest advisers, including a priest who suggested that he begin a campaign to rid the government of communists. The more he thought about it, the more he saw the hunt for subversives was a sure-fire issue.

In his second term he went from obscurity to notoriety.

The rise and fall of McCarthy is a story often told, but in a small way it touched me personally. As part of the Senator’s inquiry he sent his researchers into the Overseas Library Program, a program run by the government that sent some thirty thousand books to foreign libraries. The Senators minions found communist propaganda and books written by subversive “anti-anti-communists” A few hundred books were eliminated, and some were burned.

The same Overseas Library Program circulated free books to the soldiers fighting in Korea. One was a reprint of my novel The Friend. It was in soft cover, but the dimensions were reversed; the normal horizontal and vertical dimensions were twisted so that the book could slip more easily into a soldier’s back pocket. Crown Publishers told me they had printed ten thousand copies and were back-ordered. They had changed the title to ATTACK and added on the cover “HE FIRED LOW TO BREAK BONES AND SPILL GUTS!!!” It did no good to argue that the quotation appeared nowhere in the book. Also, there would be no royalty since the novel was given free to the armed forces. Crown also told me the book was under government review.

My personal nuisance was minor compared to CBS’s problem. One threat to its revenue came early from two supermarket operators in Syracuse New York who stocked groceries from General Foods and General Mills. The operators went to these companies and told them they would not buy their goods if the food giants continued to sponsor programs containing reds or fellow travelers on the networks. (The programs they underwrote were mostly soap operas.) A number of radio and television stations affiliated with the company applauded the men from Syracuse.

Because broadcasters had to defend their business and their profits, CBS did two things: It required everyone to sign a loyalty oath—and the quiet man in the office next to mine was hired to make a list of writers and people who must not be hired.

It was called the Blacklist. It ruined many lives and careers.

The Truman Administration invented something called a loyalty oath. The government required that its employees sign a paper stating more or less they had never been communists and they were not members of the Communist Party of the United States. If they lied they could not be sent to prison, only fired.

What was good enough for the employees of the Federal Government was good enough for CBS News. Ed Murrow signed it, and so did the rest of the news division. The American Bar association, the American Medical Association and the National Education Association had instituted their own loyalty tests as well.

For some reason the paper had not been given to me.

The oath was something detestable, but it was in the open. The next step was done secretly.

There were so many attackers that compiling of the blacklist was a problem. Stanton and Paley found a solution. If there were a basic list of Communists (and one accessible to McCarthy) it had to be the one kept by the FBI in Quantico. J. Edgar Hoover had compiled the list (and also one on McCarthy’s drunkenness and homosexuality.)

CBS got access to the FBI’s blacklisting document by shrewd capitalistic enterprise. It hired away the man in charge of the names compiled by the FBI. He was the man in the office next door to me, recently a high official at Quantico. The producers of the shows would submit cast and writing credits to him, and he would get on the phone to his former employees. If the name passed the government, CBS was allowed to employ the actor or writer. If it didn’t the person was not hired. Nobody could have a more damning list than the FBI, and CBS bought it.

Other networks paid more attention to the credits than to the program. If CBS gave on-screen name credit, the other broadcasters could use the cleared talent.

I was in the men’s room with him when the man next door finally talked to me. “Wolff, somehow we never got a signed loyalty oath from you.”

“Since Murrow signed it, I’ll sign it too.”

A pause.

“My younger brother was killed. I found his name listed in that book you wrote. That regimental history.”

“Really? What was his name?”

He told me, but I didn’t remember.

“You don’t have to sign the loyalty oath. Not after what you and he went through. You’re loyal.”



“Following this page is a list of the men who died in the actions of the 334th Infantry Regiment,” p. 225, Fortune Favored the Brave, A History of the 334th Infantry 84th Division, by Cpl. Perry S. Wolff,  Mannheim Press, 1945

Mar 202017

George Gaylord Simpson

One of the most ambitious series-within-a- series was a four-part summary entitled, The History of Life on Earth. The guide was George Gaylord Simpson, one of the world’s leading paleontologists and the author of The Meaning of Evolution.

Dr. Simpson began with fossil invertebrates seen under an electron microscope. With the aid of other curators we traced the tree of life to the arrival of man. We spent two hours explaining a half billion years.

Dr. Simpson was a man of sharp wit—when there were almost no letters of protest to his presentation of the theory of evolution he noted, “They don’t teach evolution the way they used to.”

The department of paleontology mounted the dinosaurs in the American Museum’s most visited hall. The joints of Tyrannosaurus Rex showed great deposits of calcium. We got a nice close-up of an arthritic bone that was 175 million years old. Undoubtedly the species suffered from the aching disease. The Kings of the Jurassic may have hobbled, rather than leapt.

Adventure never attracted a major audience, but some members of the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton watched the program.  Dr. Albert Einstein told one of our contacts that he found Dr. Simpson stimulating. The suggestion was made that the German scientist would be willing to exchange views with Dr. Simpson on our program. The leading historian of time and space would meet a leading historian of the history of life.

Albert Einstein

America had a problem with the most famous physicist of the 20th Century. The FBI had a file of some 1500 pages alleging that he was not only a Communist, but had raised money for Communist organizations. Einstein was a certified and dangerous Red. Some of the FBI sources were prostitutes the scientist had allegedly used.

CBS itself was under attack from government committees, sponsors and affiliated stations, and had drawn up a blacklist, but it was inconceivable that Albert Einstein would be prohibited from appearing. I went to my boss and the decision was that if Einstein wanted to talk politics, the moderator would be Edward Murrow; but if he wanted to speak about science the program’s host, Charles Collingwood, would be the anchor.

I thought it only fair to inform the American Museum that the great scientist was a possible guest.  The Chairman of the Board was Alexander White, of White, Weld & Co, a leading Wall Street financial house.

Mr. White told me that he would not have that card carrying communist on a program coming from his Museum of Natural History.

I asked for his refusal in writing on the Einstein matter. He never sent it.

I heard later that Dr. Simpson attended two lunches with Albert Einstein.



George Gaylord Simpson, undated photo,

Albert Einstein, undated photo,



Mar 162017

Hollyhock House

One of the glories of the American Museum of Natural History was the Hall of Mexico and Central America. As part of the Adventure Series (1953-1955), we planned a lengthy segment on the films a staff archeologist had taken of Mayan architecture. He would then have a conversation with Frank Lloyd Wright, the American architect.

An enormous blowup of Hollyhock House, one of Wright’s major achievements, was placed next to a model of Mayan architecture. Wright had suggested the photographic similarities to the research staff. He had just begun what would become the Guggenheim Museum in New York.

Wright had written extensively on the relationships between his architecture and Mayan step design. After a discussion with him our researchers brought him a summary of the areas he and Charles Collingwood might discuss.

Wright appeared—distinguished, elegant, reserved—and requested no one talk to him while he prepared. He sat next to my wife, and as I passed by, I heard this unsteady exchange:

“How do you like television, Mr. Wright?” Tuulikki asked.

“How to you like being a wife?”

Gordon Eckholm, the anthropologist, spoke about the studies he had made on Cortez, and Charles introduced Wright.

I was the camera director. The opening shot of the segment was to be a gradual pullback from the Mayan piece and Wright’s famous Hollyhock House, ending in a picture of the narrator and his guest.

During the reveal Charles asked, “Sir, would you tell us the relationship between the Mayan tradition and your splendid work?’

“No relationship at all, Mr. Collingwood! No relationship! Nothing Mayan about my work!”

That was not at all what he had told our research staff. He was drunk. Embarrassingly drunk.

There was an unlit great hall to the right of the Hall of Mexico where a gigantic blue whale hung from the ceiling. That’s what caught Wright’s eye.

Whale at Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, AMNH

He staggered out of camera and microphone range and disappeared to look at a stuffed monster on the ceiling of the next hall. “A whale in the sky! What a wonderful idea.”

He slapped a column on the way out. “What a wonderful architectural erection!”

My floor director, Joseph Papp, tried to head him off but I told Joe to let him go. I asked the technical director to close all microphones and pictures.

Collingwood was wearing a headset, and I asked him to vamp. Charles, ever supple, turned to Dr. Eckholm and asked why Mayan culture had disappeared. Eckholm was modest, interesting, and went on to discuss the decline of Inca culture.

No one paid attention to the revered and drunken architect.

While the Wright kinescope still exists, the Museum archivists have held it from biographers of the architect. Recording tape did not exist so that the only records are motion picture films in black and white taken from the TV output—kinescopes.

The Museum subsequently published a catalog of the kinescopes of the series. CBS junked its copies.

From the Museum’s catalog: “Cue cards fell over the camera lens, a gorilla went out of control, rattlesnakes did not stay in their marks, and interviewees extemporaneously contradicted the host.” Nevertheless the series and I won Peabody Awards.



Hollyhock House,, originally published in architecture., article by Jackie Craven, November 13, 2008

Whale at Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, AMNH,




Mar 012017

Black History: Lost, Stolen or Strayed (1968); narrated by Bill Cosby, co-written by Andy Rooney and Perry Wolff, produced by Perry Wolff

At WBBM I was also assigned public interest “sustainers” or unsponsored programs. In the 40’s the commercial broadcasters were required to do public interest programming or face the threat of their license being given to someone else. A license to broadcast was a license to print money. Nevertheless almost nothing was spent on “sustainers.” I directed a series entitled, Democracy USA, which fictionally detailed the accomplishments of American Negroes, as they were called at the time: Harriet Tubman, and heart surgeons Ulysses Grant Dailey and Daniel Hale Williams. I directed and co-wrote with Dick Durham, the editor of The Chicago Defender, the leading black newspaper in Chicago.

Part of the arrangement between the radio station and The Chicago Defender was that I would write a few words in their newsroom about race relations. As the only white in the newsroom I was uncomfortable in their premises and they were too.

I submitted a few hundred words of copy to the editors. At the end of the first day Durham asked me to leave for good.  When I asked why, he and two others pointed out that in my copy I had not capitalized the “n” in Negro.

The Chicago Defender was a one day gig in 1947.

Democracy USA was a thirteen-week series. Durham wanted no whites to interfere with the writing and production, including me.  He quit and took the series to a competitive local station.

I was blacked out. Or whited out.

In 1968 after the murder of Martin Luther King, I did a series, Of Black America. With the help of researchers I wrote the first episode, Black History, Lost, Stolen and Strayed.  It later won many awards. When I first presented it to one of Bill Cosby’s staff, he read it and stared at me.

“You didn’t write this script.”

“I did.”

“You couldn’t have.” It was an accusation, not a compliment. I could not be that accurate and perceptive.

I had been whited out again.

At first Cosby was distant. Later, the reviews were so complimentary about Black History, Lost Stolen and Strayed he called me and asked if he could do another episode in the series. I flew to England where he was filming. He narrated my script for The Black Soldier without submitting it to his informal black advisors. He trusted me.

Other blacks didn’t.

At an award dinner honoring the broadcasts I was seated among a number of blacks and whites when I overheard the following:

“As for the Hebes, the problem is that they look like every other white. So they pass for white. But they are different.”

“Right on, man.”

This time I hadn’t been whited out. I had been Jewed out.



Black History: Lost, Stolen or Strayed (1968),