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Friday, December 25, 2015

CHAPTER FIVE The Black Suitcases: From Major Jordan's Diaries from archive.org


The Black Suitcases 

After my return to Great Falls I began to realize an important fact: while we 
were a pipeline to Russia, Russia was also a pipeline to us. 

One really disturbing fact which brought this home to me was that the entry 
of Soviet personnel into the United States was completely uncontrolled. 
Planes were arriving regularly from Moscow with unidentified Russians 
aboard. I would see them jump off planes, hop over fences, and run for 
taxicabs. They seemed to know in advance exactly where they were headed, 
and how to get there. It was an ideal set-up for planting spies in this country, 
with false identities, for use during and after the war. * 

* Major General Follette Bradley, USAF (Ret.), winner of the Distinguished 
Service Medal for his pioneering of the Alsib Pipeline, wrote in the New York 
times on Aug. 31, 1951: "Of my own personal knowledge I know that 
beginning early in 1942 Russian civilian and military agents were in our 
country in large numbers. 

It is hard to believe, but in 1943 there was no censorship set-up at Great 
Falls. An inspector more than 70 years old, named Randolph K. Hardy, did 
double work for the Treasury Department in customs and immigration. His 
office, in the city, was four miles from the airfield. He played the organ in a 
local church, and I was often told he was practicing and could not be 
interrupted. I took it on myself to provide him with telephone, typewriter, desk, 
file cabinet, stenographer, interpreter and staff car. 

Finally I was driven to put up a large sign over my own office door, with the 
legend in Russian and English: "Customs Office - Report Here." When Mr. 
Hardy was not present I got into the habit of demanding passports myself and 
jotting down names and particulars. It was not my job, but the list in my diary 

of Russians operating in this country began to swell by leaps and bounds. In 
the end I had the 418 names mentioned earlier in this book. 

Despite my private worries, my relations with Colonel Kotikov were 
excellent. I was doing all that I could do to expedite Russian shipments; my 
directives were clear, and I was following them to the best of my ability. 

Colonel Kotikov was well aware that a Major could do more expediting than 
a Captain. I was not surprised, therefore, to learn that Kotikov had 
painstakingly dictated in English the following letter to Colonel Gitzinger: 


34th Sub-Depot 

United Nations Unit 

Great Falls, Montana 

March 8, 1943. 

Lt. Col. C.H. Gitzinger, 

Third National Building, 

Dayton, Ohio. 

Dear Colonel Gitzinger: 

Captain Jordan work any day here is always with the same 
people, Sub-Depot Engineering Officer, Major Boaz; 7th Ferrying 
Group Base Engineering Officer, Major Lawrence; Alaskan Wing 

Control and Engineering Office, Major Taylor; Sub-Depot 
Executive Officer, Major O'Neill; and Base Supply Officer, Major 

He is much hindered in his good work by under rank with these 
officers who he asks for things all time. I ask you to recommend 
him for equal rank to help Russian movement here. 


Col., U.S.S.R. Representative 

When my promotion finally came through, the gold oak leaves were pinned 
on my shoulder by Colonel Kotikov. This occasion was photographed and the 
picture is reproduced elsewhere in this book. 

Now two other occurrences began troubling me. The first was the unusual 
number of black patent-leather suitcases, bound with white window sash cord 
and sealed with red wax, which were coming through on the route to Moscow. 
The second was the burglary of morphine ampuls from half of the 500 first-aid 
kits in our Gore Field warehouse. 

The first black suitcases, six in number, were in charge of a Russian officer 
and I passed them without question upon his declaration that they were 
"personal luggage." But the units mounted to ten, twenty and thirty and at last 
to standard batches of fifty which weighed almost two tons and consumed the 
cargo allotment of an entire plane. The officers were replaced by armed 
couriers, traveling in pairs, and the excuse for avoiding inspection was 
changed from "personal luggage" to "diplomatic immunity." 

Here were tons of materials proceeding to the Soviet Union, and I had no 
idea what they were. If interrogated, I should have to plead ignorance. 

I began pursuing Colonel Kotikov with queries and protests. He answered 
with one eternal refrain. The suitcases were of "highest diplomatic character." 
I retorted that they were not being sent by the Soviet Embassy but the Soviet 
Government Publishing Commission in Washington. He asserted that, 
whatever the origin, they were covered by diplomatic immunity. But I am sure 
he knew that one of these days I would try to search the containers. 

They had grown to such importance in the eyes of the Russians that they 
asked for a locked room. The only door in the warehouse with a lock was that 
to the compartment in which the first-aid packets were kept. I put it at Colonel 
Kotikov's disposal. The couriers took turn about. First one and then the other 
slept on top of the suitcases, while his companion stood guard. Perhaps 
unjustly, I suspected them of stealing our morphine. They were the only 
persons left in the storeroom without witnesses. 

At four o'clock one cold afternoon in March, 1943, Colonel Kotikov said to 
me: "I want you dinner tonight." Then he doubled the surprise by whisking 
from his ulster pockets two slender bottles with long, sloping necks. "Vodka!" 

The invitation was accepted with pleasure and also curiosity. For almost a 
year now I had associated with Colonel Kotikov and his staff, but I had never 
dined with them. As a matter of routine they lunched with us at the Officers' 
Club. But at night they disappeared, wondering off by themselves to other 
restaurants or the dining-room of the Rainbow Hotel, where they were 
quartered. So far as I knew, this was the first time they had bidden an 
American to an evening repast. It reminded me of my meal with Mr. Anisimov, 
who had wanted something from me. 

At the Officers' Club we had noticed that the Russians were extremely 
absent-minded about picking up bar checks. These oversights were costing 
us around $80 monthly, and we decided to remedy the situation. In the club 

were several slot-machines, for which the Russians had a passion. We 
decided to "set aside" one machine to cover their libations. Thanks to the one- 
armed mechanical bandit, we contrived after all to make them settle for their 

Now, of a sudden, they asked me to dinner and were offering vodka, free, 
as an allurement. I could not help wondering why. Acting on a hunch, I 
excused myself from riding to town with Colonel Kotikov in his Pontiac. I 
decided I would take my staff car, which had a soldier driver; in case of need, I 
preferred to have mobility. I was directed to join the party at seven o'clock at a 
restaurant in Great Falls know as "Carolina Pines." 

There was not much time, so I hastened to ask our maintenance chief 
whether the Russians were planning any flights. He answered yes; they had a 
C-47 staged on the line, preparing to go. It was being warmed up with Nelson 
heaters - large canvas bags, fed with hot air, which were made to slip over 
motors and propellers. (Winter temperatures at the airfield could be as severe 
as at Fairbanks, ranging from 20 to 70 degrees below zero. Oil would 
sometimes freeze as hard as stone, and two to four hours were required to 
thaw out an engine.) 

The Russians wielded a high hand at the airbase, but I had one power they 
respected. Though Lend-Lease planes were delivered to them at Great Falls, 
they were flown by American pilots as far as Fairbanks. No American pilot 
could leave without clearance, and I had authority to ground any plane at any 
time. In m absence, permission was given by the flight Officer of the Day. I 
called the control tower, gave the telephone number of the restaurant, and 
issued a positive order than no cargo plane was to be cleared for Russia 
except by myself. 

Occupied by these thoughts, I drove to "Carolina Pines." It was on the 
second floor of a big frame structure, with an outside stairway like a fire 
escape. The gathering consisted of five Russians and a single American, 
myself. Colonel Kotikov acted as host, and among the guests was Colonel 
G.E. Tsvetkov, head of the fighter-pursuit division of the Soviet Purchasing 

When Colonel Kotikov produced his vodka bottles, I decided it would be 
only civil, in this minute corner of Russia, to do as the Russians did. I am 
practically a total abstainer; my yearly ration would average no more than one 
bottle of Scotch. Lucky for me, the vodka supply was limited. Small wine 
glasses were handed about, instead of the usual goblets. 

Our host offered the first pledge "to the great Stalin." We tossed the liquid 
fire into our throats, and I imitated the others by holding my glass upside 
down, at arm's length. The refill was instantaneous, and the second toast was 
to "Novikov." I asked who he was. "The great Field Marshal A. Novikov," I was 
told. "Commander-in-Chief of the Red Army Air Forces." The third name was 
"Pokryshkin." I had never heard of him either, and fond he was Colonel 
Alexander Pokryshkin, Soviet ace, with 48 German planes to his credit. 

Since the Russians had failed to do so, I made bold at this point to suggest 
a toast to President Franklin D. Roosevelt. It was drunk with a will. So as the 
second pledge, in honor of my chief, General Henry H. Arnold, Commander of 
the U.S. Army Air Forces. With the vodka under our belts, we moved to chairs 
about the table. But at 8:30 o'clock when we were two-thirds finished, the 
waitress handed me a message in pencil. It notified me to call the control 
tower at once. 

At a public telephone, in the corridor, I learned that the C-47 had warmed 
up and that a couple of newly arrived couriers were demanding clearance. 

Without returning to the dining-room, I threw on my great-coat, scuffled down 
the stairs and ordered the driver to race full speed for the hangars, four miles 

It was mid-winter in Great Falls. Snow was deep on the ground, and stars 
glittered frostily in a crystal sky. The temperature that night was about 20 
degrees below zero. 

As we neared the Lend-Lease plane there loomed up, in its open door, the 
figure of a burly, barrel-chested Russian. His back was propped against one 
jamb of the portal. An arm and a leg were stretched across the opposite side. I 
clambered up and he tried to stop me by pushing hard with his stomach. I 
pushed back, ducked under his arm, and stood inside the cabin. 

It was dimly lighted by a solitary electric bulb in the dome. Faintly visible 
was an expanse of black suitcases, with white ropes and seals of crimson 
wax. On top of them, reclining on one elbow on a blanket, was a second 
Russian, slimmer than the first, who sprang to his feet as I entered. They were 
mature men, in the forties, and wore beneath leather jackets the inevitable 
blue suits of Russian civilians. Under each coat, from a shoulder holster, 
protruded the butt of a pistol. 

It had been no more than a guess that a fresh installment of suitcases 
might be due. My first thought was: "Another bunch of those damn things!" 
The second was that if I was ever going to open them up, now was as good a 
time as any. With signs I made the Russians understand what I intended to 

Promptly they went insane. They danced. They pushed at me with their 
hands and shrieked over and over the one English word they appeared to 
know. It was "deeplomateek!" I brushed them aside and took from my pocket 

a metal handle containing a safety razor blade which I carry in preference to a 
pocket knife. 

Sensing its purpose, the lean courier flung himself face down on the 
suitcase, with arms and legs out-spanned to shield as much as possible with 
his body. I dragged one of the containers from under him, and he leaped up 
again as I started to saw through the first cord. At this sight their antics and 
shouts redoubled. 

While opening the third suitcase, I had a mental flash that brought sweat to 
my forehead. The Russians were half made with fury and terror. They were on 
both sides of me, in front and behind. Supposing, in desperation, one of them 
shot me in the back? There would be no American witness, and my death 
could be passed off as "a deplorable accident." 

I called to a Yank soldier who was on patrol duty thirty feet away. He 
crunched over through the snow. Bending down from the plane, I asked 
whether he had had combat experience. He answered that he had, in the 
South Pacific. I stooped lower and murmured: 

"I'm going to open more of this baggage. I want you to watch these two 
Russians. Both are armed. I don't expect any trouble. But if one of them aims 
a gun at me, I want you to let him have it first. Understand?" 

After a moment's thought, he looked me in the eye and said, "Sir, is that an 
order?" I replied that it was an order. He clicked the bolt of his rifle to snap a 
cartridge into the chamber and brought the weapon to ready. He was tall 
enough for his head to clear the doorsill. The muzzle was pushed forward to 
command the interior. 

One courier jumped from the plane and sprinted for the hangars, where 
there were telephones. The other, his face contorted as if to keep from crying, 
began reknotting the cords I had severed. There was little trouble getting into 

the suitcases because the Russians had bought the cheapest on the market. 
They had no locks, but only pairs of clasps. All were consigned to the same 
address. The entry on the bill of lading read: "Director, Institute of Technical 
and Economic Information, 47 Chkalovskaya, Moscow 120, U.S.S.R." 

I decided to attempt only a spot check - one suitcase, say, in every three. I 
examined perhaps eighteen of fifty. Otherwise the search was fairly thorough, 
as I was looking for morphine. (Incidentally, none was found.) The light was so 
weak that it was impossible to decipher text without using a flash lamp. I had 
to take off my gloves, and my fingers grew numb with cold. 

Using one knee as a desk, I jotted notes with a pencil on two long 
envelopes that happened to be in my pocket. There was usually one entry, or 
phrase of description, for each suitcase inspected. These scrawls were 
gathered within the next few days into a memorandum, after which I discarded 
the envelopes. A page of the memorandum is reproduced in this book on 
pages 80, 81. 

The first thing I unearthed made me snort with disgust. It was a ponderous 
tome on the art of shipping four-legged animals. Was this the kind of twaddle 
American pilots were risking their lives to carry? But in the back I found a 
series of tables listing railroad mileages from almost any point in the United 
States to any other. 

Neatly packed with the volume were scores of roadmaps, of the sort 
available at filling stations to all comers. But I made a note that they were 
"marked strangely." Taken together, they furnished a country-wide chart, with 
names and places, of American industrial plants. For example, Pittsburgh 
entries included "Westinghouse" and "Blaw-Knox." 

The next suitcase to be opened was crammed with material assembled in 
America by the official Soviet news organ, the Tass Telegraph Agency. A third 

was devoted to Russia's government-owned Amtorg Trading Corporation of 
New York. One yielded a collection of maps of the Panama Canal 
Commission, with markings to show strategic spots in the Canal Zone and 
distances to islands and ports within a 1 , 000-mile radius. 

Another was filled with documents relating to the Aberdeen Proving 
Ground, one of the most "sensitive" areas in the war effort. Judging by their 
contents, various suitcases could have been labeled under the heads of 
machine tools, oil refineries, blastfurnaces, steel foundries, mining, coal, 
concrete, and the like. Other folders were stuffed with naval and shipping 
intelligence. There seemed to be hundreds of commercial catalogues and 
scientific magazines. 

I noted that there were letters from Yakov M. Lomakin. Afterwards, as 
Soviet Consul General in New York, he played a part in the Mme. Kasenkina 
"leap for freedom" incident which forced him to quit the country. There were 
also sheafs of information about Mexico, Argentina and Cuba. 

There were groups of documents which, on the evidence of stationery, had 
been contributed by Departments of Agriculture, Commerce and State. All 
such papers had been trimmed close to the text, with white margins removed. 
I decided this was done either to save weight, or to remove "Secret," 
"Confidential" or "Restricted" stamps that might have halted a shipment, or for 
both reasons. 

I distinctly remember five or six State Department folders, bound with stout 
rubber bands. Clipped to each was a tab. The first read: "From Sayre." I took 
down the words because it ran through my head that someone of that name 
had recently been High Commissioner to the Philippines. 

Then I copied the legend: "From Hiss." * I had never heard of Alger Hiss, 
and made the entry because the folder bearing his name happened to be 

second in the pile. It contained hundreds of Photostats of what seemed to be 
military reports. There was a third name which I did not copy but which stuck 
in my mind because it was the same as that of my dentist. The tab read: 
"From Geiger." I did not list and cannot remember the names on other State 
Department folders. 

* In my Fulton Lewis broadcasts it was decided to use the designations "Mr. 
X" and "Mr. Y" for Sayre and Hiss, since the trial of Alger Hiss was then in 
progress and mention of his name might have prejudiced it. 
From the radio transcript of Dec. 2, 1949: 

"LEWIS: Now careful, don't mention any name... One folder said 
'From X' and the other said 'From Y'. And Mr. X and Mr. Y were well- 
known State Department officials, one of them particularly prominent in 
the news? JORDAN: That's right." 

In one was an account by an American Army officer of a tour in the Near 
East. I read it hurriedly. Turkey and Iran were among the countries he had 
reviewed, unconsciously, for the Kremlin's enlightenment. Glancing through 
the document, I found passages dealing with Soviet military strength in and 
about this area. 

Bewildering, to say the least, was the discovery of voluminous copies of 
reports which American attaches in Moscow had forwarded trustfully, in 
diplomatic pouches, to their superiors in Washington. I asked myself what 
these officers would think if they knew their most secret dispatches were 
being returned to the Soviet capital, for perusal by the very individuals whom 
they had discussed and possibly denounced. 

A suitcase opened midway in the search appeared to contain nothing but 
engineering and scientific treatises. They bristled with formulae, calculations 

and professional jargon. I was about to close the case and pass on when my 
eye was caught by a specimen of stationery such as I had never before seen. 

Its letterhead was a magic incantation: "The White House, Washington." As 
a prospective owner of an 80-acre tract alone the shore of Washington State, I 
was impressed by the lordly omission of the capitals, "D.C." Under the 
flashlight I studied this paper with attention. It was a brief note, of two sheets, 
in a script which was not level but sloped upward to the right. The name to 
which it was addressed, "Mikoyan," was wholly new to me. (By questioning 
Colonel Kotikov later, I learned that A.I. Mikoyan at the moment was Russia's 
No. 3 man, after Premier Stalin and Foreign Commissar Molotov. He was 
Commissar of Foreign Trade and Soviet bass of Lend-Lease.) 

A salutation, "My dear Mr. Minister," led to a few sentences of stock 
courtesies. One passage, of eleven words, in the top line of the second page, 
impressed me enough to merit a scribble on my envelope. That excerpt ran 
thus: " - had a hell of a time getting these away from Groves." 

The last two words should not be taken as referring to Major General 
Leslie R. Groves himself. What the meant, probably, was "from the Groves 
organization." The commander of the Manhattan Engineer District, later the 
Manhattan Project, was almost unique in the Washington hierarchy for his 
dislike and suspicion of Russia. 

I shall tell here, for the first time, that the verb before "hell" was preceded 
by a name, which stood at the end of the last line of the opening sheet. Its 
initial was either a capital "O" or "C" (since it was slightly open at the top), after 
which came four or five characters that rushed away in half-legible flourish. 
After pouring over it minutely, I came to the conclusion that the word had to be 
either "Oscar" if the initial letter was an "O", or "Carrie" if the initial letter was a 

"C." The full quotation would therefore read: "Oscar (or Carrie) had a hell of a 
time getting these away from Groves." 

The first thing I had done, on finding the White House note, was to flip over 
the page to look for a signature. I penciled it on my envelope as "H.H." This 
may not have been an exact transcription. In any case, my intention is clear. It 
was to chronicle, on the spot, my identification of the author as Harry Hopkins. 
It was general usage at Great Falls or elsewhere to refer to him as "Harry 
Hopkins," without the middle initial. * 

*President Roosevelt, incidentally, adopted the same abbreviation as mine 
in December, 1941. The President's notation, in his own handwriting, was as 
follows: "H H - Speed up! FDR." A reproduction of this note can be seen on 
page 400 of the Robert Sherwood book. 

At the time of this episode I was as unaware as anyone could be of Oak 
Ridge, the Manhattan District and its chief, General Groves. The enterprise 
has been celebrated as "the best guarded secret in history." It as superlatively 
hush-hush, to the extreme that Army officers in the "know" were forbidden to 
mention it over their private telephones inside the Pentagon. 

General Groves has testified that his office would have refused to send any 
document to the White House, without authority from himself, even if it was 
requested personally by the President. I am certain that this is true, and I have 
never asserted anything to the contrary with respect to General Groves. 

I admire General Groves very much and I think that his testimony at the 
Congressional hearing was one of the impressive things that occurred there. 
The fact that he testified that he had never met Hopkins or even spoken to 
him seemed to convince some people that I was lying, but of course for 
Hopkins to write that "Oscar had a hell of a time getting these away from 
Groves" in no way implies that Hopkins knew about Groves. 

General Groves did confirm in the following testimony that pressure was 
definitely felt in his organization even though he would not specify its source. 

Mr. Harrison: You said there was a great deal of pressure on Lend-Lease 
to ship uranium to Russia. Can you tell us who exerted the pressure? 

General Groves: No; I can't tell you who exerted the pressure on 
Lend-Lease. Of course it could have been internal pressure. At 
any rate, we saw every evidence of that pressure, and I believe 
your files of the Lend-Lease diaries will show how they repeatedly 
came back. It was evident from reading the diaries that we didn't 
want this material shipped, yet they kept coming back and coming 

I believe it is fair to say that. . . (General Wesson's) subordinates were 
fully aware that we did not want this material to be shipped abroad, and 
this continual pressure to ship it was certainly coming from somewhere. 
Either it was coming internally, from ambitious souls, or it was coming 

I am sure if you would check on the pressure on officers handling 
all supplies of a military nature during the war, you will find the 
pressure to give to Russia everything that could be given was not 
limited to atomic matters. 

There was one incident that occurred later. I was reminded this morning 
by one of my former people of how delighted we were when we 
managed to get some materials away from the Russians. It was a major 
accomplishment. And the only thing we got away from them was time. 
We were very anxious, in connection with the gaseous diffusion plant, to 
get certain equipment. If it had not been obtained, that plant would have 
been delayed in its completion. The Russians had a plant on the way. Of 
course when I say they had it, you know who paid for it. That plant, 
some of it was boxed on the dock when we got it, and I still remember 
the difficulties we had in getting it. 

One of the agreements we had to make was that we would replace the 
equipment, and use all our priorities necessary to get it replaced 
quickly. . . That particular plant was oil-refinery equipment, and in my 
opinion was purely postwar Russian supply, as you know much of it 
was. I give you that as an example of what people interested in supplying 
American troops had to contend with during the war. 

Where that influence came from, you can guess as well as I can. 
It was certainly prevalent in Washington, and it was prevalent 
throughout the country, and the only spot I know of that was 
distinctly anti-Russian at an early period was the Manhattan 
Project. And we were - there was never any doubt about it from 
sometime along about October 1942. [1] [Italics added.] 

In short, it seems as clear as daylight that if anyone did try to get anything 
away from General Groves or his organization, he would really have had "a 
hell of a time"! 

"From the outset, extraordinary secrecy and security measures have 
surrounded the project," declared Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War, in 
commenting on the first military use of the atom bomb. "This was personally 
ordered by President Roosevelt." Mr. Roosevelt's orders, he innocently 
added, "have been strictly complied with." [2] 

Yet Russians with whom I worked side by side at Great Falls knew about 
the A-bomb at least as early as March, 1943 and General Groves had reason 
to distrust the Russians in October 1942! In common with almost all 
Americans, I got the first hint of the existence of the atom bomb from the news 
of Hiroshima, which was revealed on August 6, 1945 by President Truman. 

In a later chapter I recount my futile visit to Washington in January, 1944 to 
bring to the attention of the highest authorities what seemed to be to be a 
treacherous violations of security in the Pipeline. I got exactly nowhere in the 

State Department or elsewhere. It was not until I head the announcement of 
the atomic blast in Russia on September 23, 1949, that I finally had the good 
fortune of meeting Senator Bridges and Fulton Lewis - but more of that later. 

It was after eleven o'clock and my checking job was virtually done, when 
Colonel Kotikov burst into the cabin of the plane. He wanted to know by 
whose authority I was committing this outrage and bellowed that he would 
have me removed. I answered that I was performing my duty, and just to show 
how things stood, opened two or three extra suitcases in his presence. I left 
the C-47 and with a nod of thanks dismissed my sentinel. As I crossed the 
field toward the barracks, Colonel Kotikov fell in beside me. 

No doubt he reflected that he was in no position to force an issue. He may 
also have realized that I understood the gravity of almost nothing I had seen. 
All that mattered to him was getting the suitcases off to Moscow. Anxiously he 
inquired what I intended to do. 

If I had known what I do today, I should have grounded the transport, but in 
the end it went on its way to Russia. 

Colonel Kotikov asked me to open no more suitcases until instructions 
came from the War Department. He said he hoped he would not have to get 
me transferred. I expected to be fired, and went so far as to pack my gear. But 
I received no communications from the War Department, and gathered at last 
that Colonel Kotikov had made no complaint. Perhaps, I began to think, he did 
not dare. 

I reported to Colonel George F. O'Neill, security officer of the 34th Sub- 
Depot at Gore Field, about the fifty suitcases I had examined. He was 
interested enough to pass the story on to his superior officer in Spokane. 
There was no reply, even after Colonel O'Neill made a second attempt. 

Apparently it was not considered good form to cast reflections on the integrity 

of our ally. 



The Black Suitcases 

The Black Suitcases 

1. Hearings Regarding Shipments of Atomic Materials to the Soviet Union 
during World War II, House of Representatives Committee on Un-American 
Activities, (U.S. Government Printing Office, testimony of General Groves, 
Dec. 7, 1949), pp. 947-50. 

2. On Active Service in Peace and War, Henry L. Stimson and McGeorge 
Bundy, (Harper, 1947). 

From Major Jordan's Diaries 

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