blue rayon sleeve.

Madeline said, “Bozey, will you stop cutting that dress!”

She turned to Janice. “Imagine, he actually thinks he can do it.”

“It’s more than I can,” Janice Lacouture said, staring incredulously at Bozeman. Bozey dropped the shears and took off his apron with a giggle.

Warren said just to say something and cover his stupefaction, “Your dinner smells great, Madeline.”

After completing introductions, Madeline went off into what she called her boudoir, a grimy toilet about four feet square. “If you’d like to freshen up first—” she said to Janice as she opened the door, gesturing at the few cubic feet of yellow space crammed with rusty plumbing. “It’s a bit cozy in there for two.”

“Oh, no, no I’m just fine,” Janice exclaimed. “Go ahead.”

A halting conversation ensued while Bozey donned his jacket and tie. Soon Madeline put out her head and one naked shoulder and arm. “Bozey, I don’t want that beef stew to boil over. Turn down the gas.”

“Sure thing.”

As he went behind the screen, Janice Lacouture and Warren exchanged appalled looks. “Do you play with the New York Philharmonic, Mr. Bozeman?” Janice raised her voice.

“No, I’m with Ziggy Frechtel’s orchestra. We play the Feenamint Hour,” he called back. “I’m working on getting up my own band.” He returned and sat in an armchair, or rather lay in it, with his head propped against the back and the rest of him projecting forward and down, sloping to the floor. Warren, something of a sloucher himself regarded this spectacular slouch by the limp long brown bulging-eyed trombonist with incredulity. In a way the strangest feature was his costume. Warren had never in his life seen a brown tie on a brown shirt. Madeline issued from the bathroom smoothing her dress. “Oh, come on, Bozey, mix some drinks,” she carolled.

Bozey hauled himself erect and made drinks, talking on about the problems of assembling a band. A shy, awkward fellow, he honestly believed that the best way to put other people at their ease was to keep talking, and the one subject that usually occurred was him was himself. He disclosed that he was the son of a minister in Montana; that the local doctor had cured him of religion at sixteen, by feeding him the works of Ingersoll and Haeckel while treating him less successfully for thyroid trouble; and that in rebellion against his father he had taken up the trombone.

Soon he was on the topic of the war, which, he explained, was nothing but an imperialist struggle for markets. This was apropos of a remark by Warren that he was a naval fighter pilot in training. Bozey proceeded to set forth the Marxist analysis of war, beginning with the labor theory of value. Madeline meanwhile, finishing and serving up the dinner, was glad to let him entertain her company. She knew Bozey was talkative, but she found him interesting and she thought Warren and Janice might, too. They seemed oddly silent. Perhaps, she thought, they had just had a little spat.

Under capitalism, Bozey pointed out, workers never were paid what they really earned. The capitalist merely gave then the lowest wages possible. Since he owned the means of production, he had them at his mercy. Profit was the difference between what the worker produced and what he got. This had to lead to war sooner or later. In each country the capitalists piled up big surpluses because the workers weren’t paid enough to buy back what they produced. The capitalists, to realize their profits, had to sell off those surpluses in other countries. This struggle for foreign markets, when it got hot enough, inevitably turned into war. That was what was happening now.

“But Hitler has no surpluses,” Janice Lacouture mildly observed. An economics student she knew these Marxist bromides, but was willing to let the boyfriend, or lover — she wasn’t yet sure which — of Warren’s sister run on for a while. “Germany’s a land of shortages.”

“The war is a struggle for foreign markets, all the same,” Bozey insisted serenely, back in his deep slouch. “How about cameras, just at random? Germany still exports cameras.”

Warren said, “As I understand you, then, the Germans invaded Poland to sell Leicas.”

“Making jokes about economic laws is easy, but irrelevant.” Bozey smiled.

“I’m fairly serious,” Warren said. “Obviously Hitler’s reason for attacking Poland was conquest and loot, as in most wars.”

“Hitler is a figurehead,” said Bozey comfortably. “Have you ever heard of Fritz Thyssen? He and the Krupps and a few other German capitalists put him in power. They could put someone else in tomorrow if they chose, by making a few telephone calls. Of course there’s no reason why they should, he’s a useful and obedient lackey in their struggle for foreign markets.”

“What you’re saying is the straight Communist line, you know,” Janice said.

“Oh, Bozey’s a Communist,” Madeline said, emerging from behind the screen with a wooden bowl of salad. “Dinner’s ready. Will you dress the salad, Bozey?”

“Sure thing.” Bozey took the bowl to a rickety little side table, and made expert motions with oil, vinegar, and condiments.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever met a Communist before,” Warren said, peering at the long brown man.

“My gosh, you haven’t?” said Madeline. “Why, the radio business swarms with them.”

“That’s a slight exaggeration,” Bozey said, rubbing garlic on the salad bowl, and filling the close, warm flat with the pungent aroma.

“Oh, come on, Bozey. Who isn’t a Communist in our crowd?”

“Well, Peter isn’t. I don’t think Myra is. Anyway, that’s just our gang.” He added to Warren, “It dates from the Spanish Civil War days. We put on all kinds of shows for the benefit of the Loyalists.” Bozey brought the salad bowl to the table, where the others were already seated. “Of course there’s just a few of us left now. A lot of the crowd dropped away after Stalin made the pact with Hitler. They had no fundamental convictions.”

“Didn’t that pact bother you?” Warren said.

“Bother me? Why? It was a wise move. The capitalist powers want to snuff out socialism in the Soviet Union. If they bleed themselves white beforehand, fighting each other, the final attack on socialism will be that much weaker. Stalin’s peace policy is very wise.”

Warren said, “Suppose Hitler polishes off England and France in a one-front war, and then turns and smashes Russia? That may well happen. Stalin could have made a deal with the Allies, and all of them together would have had a far better chance of stopping the Nazis.”

“But don’t you see, there’s no reason for a socialist country to take part in an imperialist struggle for foreign markets,” Bozey patiently explained to the benighted naval aviator. “Socialism doesn’t need foreign markets, since the worker gets all he creates.”

“Bozey, will you bring the stew?” Madeline said.

“Sure thing.”

Janice Lacouture said, speaking louder as he went behind the screen, “But surely you know that a Russian worker gets less than a worker in any capitalist country.”

“Of course. There are two reasons for that. Socialism triumphed first in a feudal country,” Bozey said, reappearing with the stew, “and had a big industrial gap to close. Also, because of the imperialist threat, socialism had to divert a lot of production to arms. When socialism triumphs everywhere, arms will become useless, and they’ll all be thrown in the sea.”

“But even if that happens, which I doubt, it seems to me,” said Janice, “that when the state owns the means of production, the workers will get less than if capitalists own them. You know how inefficient and tyrannical government bureaucracies are.”

“Yes,” interjected Madeline, “but as soon as socialism triumphs everywhere the state will wither away, because nobody will need a central government any more. Then the workers will get it all. Pass the wine around, Bozey.”

“Sure thing.”

Warren said to his sister, narrowing his eyes at her, “Do you believe that?”

“Well, that’s how the argument goes,” Madeline said, giggling. “Wouldn’t Dad die if he knew I’d made friends with Communists? For heaven’s sake don’t write and tell him.”

“Have no fear.” Warren turned to Bozey. “What about Finland?”

The Russian invasion of the tiny northern country was then about a week old, and already looking like a disaster.

“Okay. What about it?”

“Well, you know Russia claims that Finland attacked her, the way Hitler claimed Poland attacked Germany.

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