Review Printed by Union Printers Ltd., 550 Powell Street. Vancouver 4, B.C. TOM McEWEN, Editor — HAL GRIFFIN, Associate Editor — RITA WHYTE, Business Manager. Published weekly by the Tribune Publishing Company Ltd. at Room 6, 426 Main Street, Vancouver 4, B.C. — MArine 5288 Canada and British Commonwealih countries (except Australia), 1 year $3.00, 6 months $1.60. Australia, U.S., and all other countries, 1 year $4.00, 6 months $2.50. Authorized as second class mail, Post Office Department, Ottawa ES Tom McEwen T° me it was a very solemn occasion. My interpreter had stressed the need to be punctual. At the entrance to the Red Square, cordoned off by a line of strapping militia men (police) I under- stood the need for punctuality. A line of humanity standing three abreast stretch- .-ed for miles, waiting to pass through the massive red and grey marble Lenin- Stalin Mausoleum. ; Presenting our pass to a militia cap- tain, we were admitted through the cor- don and a-militiaman was detailed to escort us up near the head of the vast waiting line — a gracious concession to me as a foreigner. : : Only the day before, this great historic Red Square had resounded with the thunder of a million marching feet, cele- brating their socialist achievements and pledging themselves to scale new heights of socialist grandeur. ‘Now it was filled with the combre auiet of other tens of thousands, waiting to pay their homage and shed fresh tears for their most be- loved sons. ; xt pon. less , At the head of the line Moscow work- ers stand with huge wreaths of flowers and evergreens which they will place beside other wreaths at the entrance to the Mausoleum. ich . Slowly, as if moved by an invisible hand, the great portals of the Mausoleum swing open. Red Army Guards stands ~ Ss. at rigid attention with bayonets gleam- ing. On the Red Square the vast line moves forward, ever so slowly. High above, flocks of pigeons circle in wide sweeps, and below a sound like a deep sob arises from the silence to blend with the lowering clouds of a grey November day. Slowly, we descend those granite stair- ways, already repolished by countless millions of feet and a sorrow which seems eternal. . There they rest, side by side, in all — the grandeur and majestic dignity of death; vet never were two of the world’s immortals more alive. Lenin and Stalin! social architects, builders, liberators. Men whose hand and brain re-created a new world; men who bequeathed to mankind a new hope and a new freedom. Around me in this Temple of the Im- mortals I hear the sobbing of men and women, and the loud blowing of noses by some in an effort to hide their grief. In that moment I think of all humanity - as a mighty river sweeping on towards | its destiny, while I stand there beside the indestructible rocks of its headwaters. With a few men from other lands I go behind the Mausoleum to the beautiful tree-lined Avenue of Heroes. There I fause for a moment before the graves, each marked. by a sculvtured bust, of other men who made history while they lived: Kalinin, Zdanov, Frunze, Derjin- . sky.