“Anyway,” Ruth said, “last night Sasha tried to stick up for Stalin and got his intellect all tied up in knots. This treaty’s put him in a real pickle.”

“What treaty?” Iris asked

“The Molotov treaty. Don’t you read the newspapers? Nazis and Soviets in bed together. It goes against everything, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sasha snapped.

“You see what I mean?”

“Aw, lay off him, Ruth,” Harry said from the floor. “Everybody was a Communist in college. You grow out of it, that’s all.”

“But has he grown out of it? That’s the question.”

“You’re deliberately misrepresenting me,” said Sasha. “All I said was that capitalism has its problems, that’s obvious, and at least the Soviet system shows a way forward.”

“Yes, a shining way forward, all us good little workers marching in lockstep, dressed alike and thinking alike. If you ask me, communism and fascism aren’t all that far apart.”

“You’re wrong. They couldn’t be further apart.”

“They’re coming at tyranny from different angles, that’s all. But you both end up in the same place.”

Iris looked at Sasha’s pink, angry face. He opened his mouth, glanced at Harry, and stuffed a cigarette between his lips instead.

“I think communism sounds very noble,” Iris said. “I don’t think it’s wrong to have ideals.”

“Of course not. You can make a beautiful argument for communism, right until you put it into practice and end up with bolshevism.” Ruth crossed her ankles—she’d toed off her shoes long ago—and admired her long, elegant feet. “How many heretics has Stalin purged this year, Sasha?”

Sasha stood up and stalked to the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t,” Iris said.

“Oh, he’s all right. He’s just the type of fellow who doesn’t like having his opinions challenged.”

“Where’d you hear that about Stalin?” asked Harry. “Purges, I mean.”

“Because you get a lot of Communists in my line of work. Artist types and all that. And a lot of them know a lot of Russians who disappeared, the last few years.” Ruth snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”

“But there must be some explanation,” Iris exclaimed. “Maybe they went to work on a farm or something.”

“Oh, honey.” Ruth looked at Iris the way you might look at a kitten.

Harry sat up. “The reason I ask is because we’ve heard a lot of rumors, too. So if any of your friends might have information—”

“I’m not a snitch, Harry Macallister, and neither are my friends.”

“I don’t mean snitching. I mean it’s something we need to know about.”