-Caveat Lector-
an excerpt from:
Shrine of the Silver Dollar
John L. Spivak(C)1940
Modern Age Books
New York, NY
-----
The book that brought down demagog Charles Coughlin, who was the second-most
listened to person in the '30's, right behind FDR. John Spivak exposed Father
Coughlin to be a fraud and in league with Nazi propagandists. Out of print for
many years. There are copies of many of the relevant documents included in
book.
Om
K
-----
III
THE STRANGE CASE OF AIRCASTERS, INC.
BEFORE I go further into Coughlin's strange financial operations, I think the
reader should know a little about the company which arranges the broadcasts by
means of which the radio priest's voice reaches his millions of listeners. I
should like to introduce you to Aircasters, Inc., whose president tells the
world that this is just an advertising agency which happens to handle Father
Coughlin's radio time and for which it gets its regular 15 per cent commission
like any other agency.
In a period of two years this advertising agency which specializes in radio
moved three times, each time into more swanky quarters. Today its headquarters
are Suite 423 in the New Center Building in Detroit.
Stanley G. Boynton, president of the corporation, and J. H. Gibson, secretary,
came out of their offices almost simultaneously when I walked in. Boynton, a
medium-sized, middle-aged man with thin hair and a ruddy complexion, looked
inquiringly at me. I was immediately struck by his dress. The suit and worn
shoes were not the attire of the president of an advertising agency doing a
national business.
"I'd like an interview," I said.
"Oh, an interview." Boynton clasped my hand almost affectionately, and
introduced me to Gibson, a cheery, rotund person with a perpetual twinkle in
his eyes, whom he addressed constantly as "Jack." "Sure. Oh, sure. What do you
want to know?"
"Just some stuff about the Father Coughlin broadcasts, your organization, and
so on."
"Certainly. Certainly. Glad to give you boys what you want. Come right in."
He and Gibson ushered me into his private office. Gibson slouched into an easy
chair and eyed me with an amused air. Boynton put his feet on his big desk and
leaned back in his chair. I felt that any minute he'd pull out a cigar.
Somehow his position, his feet on the desk, and his expansive air required, a
cigar; but he produced only a weak little cigarette.
"Yes, sir," he began as soon as I took out a pencil and some paper to make
notes, "there is one thing I ought to set you straight on before we start.
This is just an advertising agency, just like any other advertising agency,
only we specialize in radio broadcasting. I want this made clear. Because we
handle Father Coughlin's time on the air people think we're different from
other advertising agencies . . ."
He went on like this for a minute or two without interruption. The twinkle in
Gibson's eyes became more pronounced. Boynton seemed very anxious to put
across the idea that his was an advertising agency which just happened to get
the Coughlin business.
"What I want to know is, who sponsors these broadcasts," I said.
"That's another thing," said Boynton amiably. "Get this straight. Father
Coughlin doesn't sponsor the broadcasts. Social Justice magazine sponsors
them. It's a circulation scheme for the magazine, just like the sponsor of any
product puts people on the air to call attention to the product."
"Does Social Justice pay him for the talks?"
Boynton looked at Gibson. Gibson looked at Boynton, and then Gibson said, "I
don't see what that's got to do with us--"
"I don't know if the magazine pays him," said Boynton. "That has nothing to do
with us---?'
"Don't you handle the account?"
"We don't pay him," said Boynton definitely.
"I see. How old is Aircasters, Inc.?"
"About two years--it's the outgrowth of an old advertising agency. You see,
you want to get this straight. We have nothing to do with Father Coughlin. We
simply clear him through here, just as any other advertising agency would--"
"You just get a percentage?"
"That's right. Fifteen per cent. The regular commission."
"You're not working for Father Coughlin or Social Justice magazine?"
"Oh, no! No! No!" he exclaimed, taking his feet off the desk and turning to
Gibson, who didn't stir from his lolling position. "We just clear time for
him', that's all, just like any other advertising agency-"
"Yes, you told me."
"We function like an advertising agency," he persisted. "We have no relation
with the 'Catholic church, Father Coughlin, or the magazine except as the
agency to clear Father Coughlin's speeches. The client pays for the time."
"Who does the paying?"
"Social Justice magazine."
"And who owns Social Justice magazine?"
He looked at Gibson, whose eyes still twinkled merrily "I don't know who owns
it. I suppose a corporation. But we get our money from Social Justice."
"You yourself don't work for Social Justice magazine?"
"No, sir!" he said emphatically. "Never worked for them. My background can be
checked easily. I've been in the advertising business for twenty-five years.
Before this organization was established I was a solicitor for WJR, the Good
Will Station. Previous to that I had an agency in Detroit, my own agency--"
"That's too bad," I said half to myself.
"What is?"' Boynton asked quickly.
"Social Justice magazine violating federal laws. Federal penalties are pretty
stiff-"
Gibson sat upright in his chair, the amused twinkle gone. Boynton's face took
on a startled expression.
"I don't get it," said the president of Aircasters, Inc. "I don't get it at
all."
"There's a federal law which requires publishers to list the owners, editors,
and stockholders of periodicals going through the mails. In the issue of March
8, 1939, your name appears as general manager of the magazine. But you say
that you never worked for them. Consequently, the statement they issued is
fraudulent, and the penalty for false statements--"
"Oh, that!" said Boynton quickly. "Oh, I remember that. There was some talk
about my taking over the management of Social Justice but I wouldn't accept.
My name was used for two or three issues but it was taken off right away--"
"Then you never were general manager or had anything to do with the magazine?"
"No, sir. We discussed it but it didn't go through."
"I see; then what you are saying is that the owners of Social Justice turned
in a false report to the federal authorities--"
"Say!" he interrupted. Gibson stirred uneasily in his chair. "I didn't say
that."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe I didn't understand you. Just what did you say?"'
"Well--the thing is--now, you got to get this straight--"
"That's what I'm trying to do. Now let's see-you say you never worked for
Social Justice magazine. Is that right?"
"Ye-e-s," he said.
"You were never general manager?"
"Well--"
"Were you?"
"No. We only discussed it--"
"That's what I thought you said. Now, the magazine filed a statement sworn to
before a notary which declared that you were the general manager. This' then,
was a deliberate falsehood and in violation of the federal laws--"
"Say, I'm not going to get involved in this!" he exclaimed, appealing
helplessly to Gibson, who had risen and was pacing the floor. "Jack, what do
you think?"
"I don't see what all this has to do with the interview," said Gibson finally.
"All right, let's try it from another angle. You say you never got any money
from Social justice magazine?"
"That's absolutely right. Never! Except agent's commissions--"
"I understand that. I mean you never got any money as an individual employed
by Social Justice magazine."
"Never!" He held his right hand up as if taking an oath.
"Would you mind getting your Social Security Card from your files?"
"My what? What for?"
"Mind if I see it?"
"Certainly I mind. Why should I show it to you."
"Because you will find that your Social Security Card shows that you have been
and are right now an employee of Social Justice magazine--"
Boynton stared at me.
"Your Social Security Card number is 378-01-8887-am I right? In 1938 you were
on the payroll. In 1939 you are on the payroll. In both of these years you
were president of Aircasters, Inc. In the first quarter of 1939 you were paid
$600 salary--"
"Jack," said Boynton, somewhat excited, "this is not an interview. It's an
investigation and we're on the spot!.
"The investigation is over," I smiled, "and I do think you're on the spot. Now
what about these Social Justice payments?"
"I don't know anything about them!"
"You never got them?"
"No, sir!"
"Now, as you say, let's get it straight. What you are saying is that Social
Justice magazine is handing in false statements, claiming to pay money to
people who never got it--"
"Say, look here," Boynton interrupted. "You can't do this to me. I'm not going
to get caught in the middle of this rack-- this situation. You can't make me
say that Father Coughlin is handling the finances of the magazine in a
criminal manner--"
"I'm not trying to make you say anything. What I want to know is, are you or
are you not on the payroll of the magazine?"
"I'm not going to talk about that any more," he announced vehemently. "What
has this got to do with Aircasters?"
"I'm just trying to find out who really owns this corporation. Either you are
on the payroll of the magazine or you are not. If you insist that you are not,
you are accusing Social Justice magazine of turning in false reports--"
"Jack," said Boynton, getting more and more nervous, "I tell you we're on the
spot."
"Na-a-h," Gibson drawled. "What are you getting flustered about? Don't you
remember how you got that $600?" He turned to me and said smoothly, "I know
how that got on the Social Justice lists. They asked him for advice and paid
him personally instead of paying the corporation. It was personal service he
was giving them--"
"Why, of course!" exclaimed Boynton delightedly. "Now I remember. Of course.
I'm frequently called in for consultation by clients who pay me individually
instead of the corporation. Maybe they marked the payment as salary instead of
advice. I don't know. I'm not responsible for the way they keep their books.
Maybe they found it easier to list the payment as salary. I don't know. That's
their business."
Both Gibson and Boynton grinned at me, greatly relieved now that their memory
had been refreshed.
"Then these payments were made to you personally?"
"Personally," said Boynton. "Just to me--for advice."
"And you are frequently consulted by clients who pay you personally and not
the corporation?"
"Yes, sir! A number of clients. I'm not responsible for how they mark the
payments on their books, am I?"
"Of course not. But, if you got those payments personally, why didn't you
include them in your personal income tax report?"
Boynton stared at me for a moment and then leapt up. "God Almighty!" he
exclaimed, waving his hands in Gibson's general direction.
"I wouldn't answer any more questions," Gibson snapped.
Boynton paused in his agitated waving and turned upon me.
"Say, who are you?" he demanded.
"Only a reporter. I just want to find out who really owns this outfit."
"I do," he exclaimed desperately. "All of it!"
"How many shares of stock did you issue?"
"That isn't necessary," Gibson interrupted before he could answer.
"All right. Who owns this stock?"
"I do. All of it."
"Any associates?"
"Yes, Gibson here. He's secretary."
"What happened to Arthur and E. G. Lenfesty, of New Baltimore, Michigan, who
were officers and directors when you first organized?"
"Oh," said Boynton.
"Oh," said Gibson.
"He bought them out," said Gibson, for by this time Boynton was just waving
his hands and glaring in all directions while Gibson periodically advised him
to take it easy.
"For how much?"
"I can't tell that. It's corporation business."
"Well, now, let's see. According to your books you authorized the issuance of
a thousand shares of common stock at $10 par value--"
"I don't know anything about that," said Boynton. "Gibson here handles the
funds."
"But I thought you said you own everything. Don't you know what you own?"
"Yes, of course," he shouted. "We authorized a thousand shares of stock."
"Now, out of these you own a hundred shares valued at $1,000. Your books do
not show that you sold or transferred any of these shares to anyone else. So
how did you buy out the Lenfestys?"
"That was done between the two of them," said Gibson quickly before Boynton
could answer. "He sold Lenfesty some stock and then bought it back at the same
price."
"Why didn't you note the sale on your books? And why didn't you report it to
the Michigan Corporation and Securities Commission?"
"Jack, I'm not going to take the rap for this--" Boynton began frantically.
"Take it easy," Gibson cautioned.
"Well, why didn't you record the exchange of those shares you say Lenfesty
had?"
"I didn't think it was necessary."
"Now let's see. You started this corporation without a single dollar in cash.
Since you had to have a minimum of $1,000 to start a profit-making corporation
in this state you put up "property' in the form of what you pleasantly called
a 'library' which was valued at $1,000. That 'library' consisted of a
prospectus you say you drew up for a client. Who placed the value of $1,000 on
that?"
"I did," Boynton murmured.
"Now your books show that you've lost money. Since no other stock was sold to
anyone else, you did not get in cash from that source. Where did you get that
money?"
"I told you not to answer any more questions," said Gibson sharply.
"That's right. I won't," Boynton shouted.
"Okay by me," I said, picking up my hat. "I think you've said enough anyway."
IV
HELPING THE POOR, INC.
THE EDITORIAL, business and circulation offices of Social Justice magazine are
in Royal Oak. I went there to call upon E. Perrin Schwartz, editor of-the
magazine and president of the publishing company. I never thought that I'd
meet with any difficulty in locating the offices of a publication with a big
national circulation, or that there was anything mysterious about the location
of the offices. When I got to Royal Oak I casually looked for the address and
number in the telephone book. I couldn't find it. Perhaps, I thought, the
editor and publishers have overdramatized their fear of "Jews and Communists"
and have an unlisted number. I then tried to find the address in the city
directory. The publishing firm wasn't listed there, either.
When I can't find a well-known or even a little-known place in a town, I
usually phone the city desk of the local newspaper, and the desk can almost
invariably tell me. So I called the Royal Oak Tribune. The city editor didn't
know where the Social Justice Publishing Company offices could be found, but
he would ask his reporters. After five minutes, the city editor told me that
neither he nor his staff knew where the big national magazine's offices were.
"Why don't you call the Shrine?" he suggested. "They'd know."
By this time I was beginning to suspect where the offices were located, but I
wanted to check' once more. I telephoned police headquarters and asked for the
address. After ten minutes of querying policemen, the officer at headquarters
said no one knew, but "Why don't you call the Shrine of the Little Flower?
They'll be able to tell you."
I called the Shrine and asked the girl at the switchboard for the address of
the Social Justice Publishing Company.
"Who's calling?" she asked.
"I just want the address of the publishing company," I said.
"You can write to the Shrine if you wish to get in touch with any of the
departments."
"Oh," I said, "you get the mail at the Shrine?"
"Yes. This is where things are sent," she said cheerfully.
"Well, I want to talk with E. Perrin Schwartz, the editor."
"He isn't here at the moment but you can reach him here during regular working
hours."
"Is that his office?"
"Yes. He's home at present, though."
"Is Mr. Leo Reardon, the business manager of Social Justice, in?"
"He just stepped out but you can get him here during working hours when he's
not out of town."
"Is there any other office where I can get Mr. Schwartz or Mr. Reardon?"
"Not that I know of," she laughed. "This is the only place where you can reach
them."
"What's Mr. Schwartz's address? Perhaps I can get in touch with him at his
home."
"I don't know his address but you can write to him in care of the Shrine."
After a few more inquiries I learned that Mr. Schwartz's telephone number is
Royal Oak 0997. His daughter answered when I rang up.
"Mr. Schwartz is not in," she said.
"Is he at his office?"
"I believe he is."
"Could -you give me his office address?"
"I don't know the address," said the daughter.
"Could you let me have the last address and perhaps the building
superintendent could tell me where they moved to?"
"I couldn't give you the address," she said with an embarrassed giggle.
"You'll have to get that from him."
Additional inquiries and talks with Social Justice employees disclosed that
phone calls to the privately owned magazine are received via the Shrine, mail
for the magazine's various departments is received at the Shrine, the records
of the publishing firm are kept in the church, and employees of the publishing
company work in the church. Even the souvenir book about the Shrine, published
with the priest's approval, states (page 5): "This group of offices [in the
church basement] is caring for the Radio League, and the Social Justice
newspaper." No rent is paid by this private publishing business. The church
itself is tax-exempt because it is supposed to minister to the spiritual needs
of its parishion. ers. It is not supposed to use the premises for a private
business operating for profit, especially since the owners of the publishing
business solemnly asserted in the letter to the Archdiocese of Detroit that
Social Justice "was not and is not now an organ of the Catholic church."
Mystery also surrounds the home address of E. Perrin Schwartz, editor of the
magazine and the president of the publishing company. I learned that Mr.
Schwartz had been hopping around as if a sheriff were after him with a
shotgun. Last year he lived at 1719 Sycamore Avenue. At the Shrine, after
persistent attempts to get his address, they finally told me he lived at 1058
Oakridge. Actually he lives at 2215 Maplewood Avenue, a few blocks from the
Shrine, in a two-story frame building.
Mrs. Schwartz, a strapping woman with a belligerent look, opened the door for
me, and her husband came forward from another room when I asked for him.
Schwartz is an old newspaperman, now in his late fifties, bald, with a little
sandy mustache that quivers on his lip and a crouch to his shoulders as if he
is always ready to duck some missile. He ushered me into his library, a narrow
room with a commercial typewriter desk, a typewriter and a couple of books.
"I'd like an interview," I said when we were seated.
He jumped from his chair and grabbed my hand, pumping it vigorously. "Well!"
he exclaimed. "What do you know! What do you know! Certainly! But, Christ! I'm
not the personality guy. I'm hardly the personalitv--"
His wife had apparently overheard my introduction, and came in glaring at me.
"I'm hardly the personality sketch," he repeated. "Father's the one--he's the
personality sketch----"
"What does he want?" his wife demanded.
"He's a reporter." Schwartz beamed. "He wants an interview."
"You're not going to give it to him?"
"Certainly! Certainly! Jesus! Why not? He's a newspaperman--just like me. Why
not?--even though I'm hardly--"
"I don't think you should," she said.
"Please!" He turned to her and motioned irritably with his hands. "I can
hardly think with you standing there beside me. Please!"
"I don't think you should talk," she repeated with a little more firmness.
"You'll get into trouble and probably get fired."
"Please!" he begged. "'Let me handle my own affairs. What the hell is this,
anyway!"
"You're not going to give him an interview," she announced.
For the editor and president of a national weekly to be bullied by his wife
and, of all places, in the presence of a reporter was apparently too much for
him and he exploded. "'The hell I won't! God damn it! Please!" he ended
fiercely.
He turned to me: "What do you want to know? What do you want to know?" The
words tumbled out as if he feared she would stop him at any moment.
"I should like to know--" I began.,
His wife turned furiously upon me.
"If I had known who you were I'd never have let you in."
The editor made frantic little gestures. "Please!" he shouted to his wife.
"God damn it! Please!"
She subsided and I said, "I wanted to ask you something about the policy of
the paper."
"I have nothing to do with the policy! I don't make the policy. Father
Coughlin's the man to ask that. I'm just a newspaperman--I just carry out
instructions. I'm just the technical help. He's the personality sketch!"
He jumped from his chair again and paced the narrow room. Suddenly he swore a
beautifully rounded oath which was technically perfect. Then he turned to me.
"Who the hell wants a Schwartz paper?" he demanded. "Nobody gives a -- for
what I have to say. It's what Father says. He's the personality--"
"Sketch?" I asked.
"That's right! He's the personality sketch! Now, so far as I'm concerned--"
His wife moved on him with a menacing tread and he suggested hastily, "Why
don't you step down to the rectory? See any of Father's secretaries. They'll
tell you everything. There's nothing to hide
"I came to you because you are the editor and, I believe, also the president
of Social Justice magazine--"
"Yes. Of course. I'm the president and editor but I'm just a technical man, I
don't have a thing to say. I just carry out instructions. Christ! Can't you
see that?"
"I think I can." I grinned.
His wife turned balefully on me. "You can't stay here!"
"Oh, Jesus!" Schwartz groaned and sank into a chair. Suddenly he grabbed the
telephone and called the Shrine number.
"Get me Leo Reardon," he shouted. Apparently Reardon wasn't in and Schwartz
spluttered: "There's a reporter here Yes! In my house! Right now! He wants an
interview--"
"You're not going to give it," his wife interrupted again.
He looked up at her pleadingly.
"I don't know what the person at the other end said to Schwartz but the editor
roared back: "It's the God damned Heebs and Communists! Why don't you ask
Father?"
There was another pause while somebody apparently consulted with the radio
priest. Then Schwartz said, "All right, I'll tell him."
"Father's too busy to see you," he said. "You can go over if you wish but I
don't think you'll get anyone to say a damned word."
"Is the Shrine your headquarters now?" I asked.
"Yes. Sure."
"You've talked enough," his wife said grimly.
Schwartz turned to me.
"I'd like to give you an interview," he said almost plaintively, "but I can't
say anything."
He and his wife escorted me to the door. She opened it with a dramatic
gesture.
He looked at me and shook his head in regret. "Jesus!" he said.
"I understand," I said sympathetically.
Two very important points came out in this brief conversation. First, the
editor of Social Justice and the president of the corporation which issues the
publication is "just a technical man" and has nothing to say about its policy
or what goes into its pages. He just "carries out instructions." "Father" is
the man who directs the policy and the magazine as well as the corporation
which issues it. Second, offices of Social Justice are admitted by its editor
to be at the Shrine of the Little Flower, a tax-exempt church.
Even more flecked with mystery than the location of the magazine's offices was
the ownership of Social Justice. There is one important thing the reader
should bear in mind here. The direction of the entire publishing business has
been, and is, controlled by ownership of ten shares of stock which the lone
incorporator, Charles E. Coughlin, originally sold to the lone stockholder,
Charles E. Coughlin.
Ownership of the magazine has allegedly changed hands several times since the
periodical was founded in 1936. For a while three persons "owned" it. They
were: (1) A timid twenty-four dollar a week bookkeeper employed by Social
Justice. (2) A small-town but hopeful politician who worked closely with a man
in secret communication with Nazi agents operating in this country. (3) A
mysterious individual who heads another Coughlin-inspired corporation which
collects hundreds of thousands of dollars from the public and who refuses to
open his mouth without legal advice. At the present time the magazine is
"owned" by three employees working in the Shrine of the Little Flower offices,
who act as trustees of the Social Justice Poor Society, details of which are
given later.
Where the wandering ten shares of Social Justice Publishing Company stock have
been since they were issued requires some explanation. We have already seen
that, within a year after Coughlin issued the stock to himself, Amy Collins
claimed tax exemption for the publishing company on the grounds that it was
owned by the Radio League of the Little Flower.
But no matter who held the shares at any given moment, from the very beginning
of Social Justice, Father Coughlin made it his own. He plugged it on the air,
through the mails, in the pages of the magazine itself. He was anxious to get
enormous circulation for it because of his already planned 1936 political
campaign in which he tried to put his own man in the White House. In this
period, when he used his office as priest to attack the President of the
United States with personal insults, his ecclesiastical superiors expressed
their profound displeasure. The radio priest was curbed a bit on the air, and
for a while it looked as if Social Justice magazine, which was supposed to be
owned by the Radio League of the Little Flower, might also be curbed.
By October, 1937, trouble with Coughlin's Archbishop seemed pretty likely.
This was the time when his attorney wrote the Chancellor of the Archdiocese of
Detroit that Social Justice was a private business venture and that it didn't
intend to submit to "editing" by anyone except its owners. But there was a
possibility that if Coughlin could be kept off the air by his church
superiors, the Social Justice Publishing Company might also be in danger.
At this point, then, the Reverend Charles E. Coughlin did two very interesting
things. He resigned as president of the Social Justice Publishing Company, and
he set up a strange new corporation called the "Social Justice Poor Society,"
with which I shall deal later in this chapter.
When the priest stepped aside as president of the publishing company, one
Walter Baertschi, of Maumee, Ohio, took his place, according to a report made
to the Michigan Corporation and Securities Commission. At the same time Edward
Kinsky, of Brooklyn, New York, came in as vice president; and a lady named
Catherine Wilson took the job of secretary-treasurer. As usual, the directors
of the corporation were the same trio.
Let us first consider the lady who handles the books and the money. Catherine
Wilson is an employee of the Social Justice Publishing Company (Social
Security Card No. 371-05-9242). After holding down the important jobs of
secretary and treasurer of a publishing firm doing a national business, she
has finally achieved the munificent wage of $24 a week.
Walter Baertschi, the president, is an old Coughlinite with political
ambitions of his own. He once tried to build a political group with the sales-
line "Help your neighbor." He organized and incorporated Friends & Neighbors,
Inc., elected himself president in Coughlin fashion, held meetings at his home
and generally got nowhere. Disappointed but not discouraged, he hooked up with
Coughlin when the priest was pushing the National Union for Social Justice.
Directing the Coughlin-Lemke party, behind which was the National Union for
Social justice, was Newton Jenkins, of Chicago. During this period, Jenkins
met secretly with Nazi agents operating in the United States. Baertschi worked
closely with Jenkins.
On one occasion Baertschi addressed a huge protest meeting directed against
Archbishop Mooney, who, as Coughlin's church superior, sought to curb the
priest's harangues over the air. At this meeting, held on November 14, 1937,
in Carmen's Hall, Ash. land and Van Buren Streets, Chicago, Baertschi made a
very significant statement.
He said that he had purchased Social Justice from Father Coughlin through an
arrangement the terms of which he did not disclose, that he, alone,
individually owned the paper and that he paid for it. There were some five
thousand persons in the audience--five thousand witnesses.
On March 5,1937, many months before Baertschi said he bought the magazine, Amy
Collins, treasurer of the publishing company, wrote to the Michigan
Unemployment Compensation Commission asking for tax-exemption on the grounds
that Social Justice was really owned by a non-profit-making corporation, the
Radio League of the Little Flower. If, then, the Radio League owned the
magazine, the ten shares of publishing company stock (no others were ever
issued) were turned over to the League, and Coughlin was no longer the owner.
If, on the other hand, Baertschi purchased the magazine from Father Coughlin,
as the records show he did, then Amy's letter was a deliberate, fraudulent
attempt to avoid paying unemployment insurance for the workers about whom the
priest worries so much in his speeches.
The third officer and director of the Social Justice Publishing Company is
Edward Kinsky of 300 Sherman Street, Brooklyn, New York, and 76 Beaver Street,
Manhattan, in the heart of the financial district. Kinsky is a rather
mysterious figure who likes to fly around in planes, even though it worries
his mother half to death. He serves not only as vice president of the Social
Justice Publishing Company but also as president of the Radio League of the
Little Flower which Amy said owned the publishing company in 1937.
I found Kinsky, a tall, heavy-set man with cleancut features, in the offices
of Keelon & Co., Rooms 1205-6, at the Beaver Street address. Francis P.
Keelon, head of this firm, is a foreign exchange speculator on whose estate in
Great Barrington, Massachusetts, the Coughlin-Lemke Union Party was born in
June, 1936.
"I'm sorry," Kinsky said somberly when I introduced myself, "I can't tell you
anything about the Radio League or Social Justice magazine. You'll have to see
my attorney."
"I'm just trying to check on whether you are president of the Radio League and
vice president of Social Justice. Why is it necessary to see your attorney for
a simple matter like that?"
"He'll tell you," he growled.
"These are public and semipublic organizations. One of them, the Radio League,
is collecting hundreds of thousands of dollars from the people. I assume
there's nothing mysterious about the way the Radio League or Social Justice
finances are handled?"
"You'll have to see my lawyer," he said again.
"Could you tell me what your business is?"
"My lawyer will tell you."
"But you have offices here
"He'll tell you that, too. I can't say anything."
"Who is your attorney?"
"Prewitt Semmes, Penobscot Bldg., Detroit."
"Isn't he Father Coughlin's personal attorney, too ?"
"You'll have to ask him. I can't say anything."
So much for the officers and directors of the Social Justice Publishing
Company who came in when Coughlin was getting nervous about possible action by
the Church. Although the priest was no longer an official of the company,
appeals for contributions and support kept going out from the Shrine of the
Little Flower. To me the most charming thing about these appeals is the high
moral, religious, and patriotic plane on which they are issued. Father
Coughlin's letters pleading for more subscribers to Social Justice are marked
by a regular routine of "God bless you" and "Remember me in your prayers."
Besides these matters of faith, Coughlin worries a good deal about the poor
and destitute, but I'm always a little leery when he does so in public. The
last time he took up his vocal and typesetting cudgels for the downtrodden it
turned out that his orations tended to raise the price of silver. Oddly
enough, it also turned out that he held half a million ounces of the metal in
the name of his secretary, Amy Collins. That was several years ago. So when I
discovered the Social Justice Poor Society, which turned up in connection with
Social Justice magazine, I began to wonder.
All publishers of periodicals are required by federal law to list their
owners, stockholders, editors and there are penalties for infringements of the
law. On February 6, 1939, Social Justice published the required statement,
sworn to, signed and sealed, that its owner was the Social Justice Publishing
Company and the Social Justice Poor Society. Three weeks later, on February
27, 1939, it published an. other statement which gave the owner as the Social
Justice Poor Society. This latter organization had no stockholders, so it
simply listed the trustees. These, oddly enough, turned out to be an old
triumvirate: the Reverend Charles E. Coughlin, Eugenia Burke and Marie Rhodes.
Apparently, then, the Radio League of the Little Flower, which was supposed to
own Social Justice, transferred the ten shares of stock to the Poor Society.
As is usual with Coughlin corporations, the Poor Society started from scratch.
It didn't have one red cent, not even a stick of furniture for the officers to
sit on while they went into business. Let's examine this new corporation, its
officers, trustees and finances.
It made its bow to the world on December 22, 1937, while Coughlin was still
uncertain what his Archbishop might do. It announced, on that high Christian
plane which the priest uses so much, that it was organized "to relieve sick
and destitute per.sons and to perform such other charitable acts as may come
before the society." Headquarters were established in the church of the Shrine
of the Little Flower. The officers of this charitable outfit were: president,
E. Burke; vice president, D. Rhodes; secretary, Marie Rhodes; treasurer, Amy
Pigeon.
As I have already pointed out, Eugenia Burke, Dorothy Rhodes and Marie Rhodes
are underpaid employees of the Social Justice Publishing Company, and Amy
Pigeon is none other than Amy Collins, of the half-million ounces of silver.
Amy was married and used her husband's name in this instance; on other
occasions she has used her maiden name. I suppose it just depended upon how
she felt when she signed an official document.
The directors of this new corporation interested in the poor are the famous
trio: Charles E. Coughlin, Eugenia Burke, Marie Rhodes.
By the end of 1937, a few days after it was incorporated, the new organization
naturally made no effort to aid the sick and destitute or perform charitable
acts. It was the Christmas season and the priest and the two girls were
probably busy. By the end of 1938, however, the corporation had had a full
year to get into stride and start its activities on behalf of the poor-and God
knows, there are enough of them in the Detroit area.
After this year's efforts, the record of the organization's activities came to
the grand total of:
Real estate None
Cash None
Good Will None
Credits due corporation None
All other property $1,000
Total assets $1,000
The "total assets" of $1,000 consisted of ten shares of Social Justice
Publishing Company stock--the same old ten shares which have been whipped from
Coughlin to the Radio League to Baertschi to the Poor Society: no dues, no
cash, no members.
Between the time it was incorporated with the officers and trustees as I
listed them, and the time the first year's "work" for the poor was finished,
the priest decided he'd better step out of the picture, so Amy Pigeon became
Amy Collins again and took over the presidency and (as always) the
treasurership. Marie Rhodes remained as secretary. Since all non-profit-making
corporations in Michigan must have at least three directors or trustees, a
third girl, Bernice Marcinkiewicz, was added to Amy and Marie. They became
trustees of the corporation "to aid the poor."
By October 9, 1939, Amy stepped out as trustee and Alberta Ward took over.
Alberta is the girl who audits the books of the Social Justice Publishing
Company for $20 a week.
With this information before us, we find a signed statement by Coughlin
himself which may interest the United States postal officials. On September
11, 1939, the priest published an announcement in Social Justice that E.
Perrin Schwartz "has consented to accept the presidency of Social Justice
Publishing Company which owns and publishes Social Justice magazine and always
has . . ."
It seems to me that this dizzy whirl of alleged changes in ownership of the
magazine and the sworn statements made to the federal authorities warrant a
bit of investigation by the Post Office inspectors.
pp. 36-79
-----
Aloha, He'Ping,
Om, Shalom, Salaam.
Em Hotep, Peace Be,
Omnia Bona Bonis,
All My Relations.
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Amen.
Roads End
Kris
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