Page 22 of The Bootlegger’s Bride

R ays from the setting sun split two poplar trees, passed through the broken window of the chateau’s kitchen, and lit dust motes floating over the table where sat a dark-haired man pen in hand, scribbling out a letter and muttering to himself.

Another soldier came through the open back door, stopped before him, and saluted.

“Captain Cira. You wanted to see me?”

Phillip Cira glanced up to the lieutenant standing rigid before him. “Relax, Jake. Pull up a chair and pour yourself some Calvados,” he said, nodding toward an amber bottle and three thick glasses on the table before him. “Wash the road dust from your throat.”

Lieutenant Jacob Wolfson did as he was told.

He sat, poured, sipped, and held the glass up to the lowering sun, turning the amber liquor golden.

Even though the day had been hot as hell and made him long for a cold Schlitz, the strong liquor hit the spot.

“Nice stuff.” If nothing else its applejack aroma masked the smell of his own stale sweat migrating up from his fatigues.

Cira shuffled through a short stack of papers to his left and pulled out a typed document.

“Who was this Nowak? I don’t remember him.”

“Older blond guy. The sarcastic bastard who slugged Sergeant Rabee.”

“Can’t very well tell his wife that. Why didn’t I ever hear about this?”

Wolfson scratched his unshaven chin. “A morale issue, sir. The guys wanted me to pin a medal on Nowak, not court martial him.”

“Well, too late now. What else?”

Wolfson took another sip and licked his lips. “Say he was a good soldier. Tell her that.”

“Was he?”

“Not really. Terrible at following orders. Didn’t respect the chain of command. Always pushing back, like this wasn’t the fucking army but a damn debating society. I think he had been on his own since he was a kid, always his own man. This was the last place he wanted to be.”

“Ditto on that.”

“His wife was a knockout judging by her photo. They had a little kid.”

“Hell.”

“Scuttlebutt was he’d made a killing during Prohibition running liquor in St. Louis. You’d never guess it. Talked more like a college professor than a bootlegger. Going on about books he’d read—Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Aristotle, ancient history…”

Cira lifted his glass of Calvados and inhaled the scent of aged apples and butterscotch. “I’m liking this guy more and more. How’d he die?”

“Got blown to bits by an incoming Flak 88. Couldn’t even find his tags. Just bad luck: wrong place, wrong time. Likely didn’t know what hit him.”

“Well, I can’t tell her that either.”

“Ironic, that,” Wolfson said, staring down into his drink and shaking his head.

“How so?”

“Whenever I asked whether the men understood their objective, he’d pipe up: ‘I understand your objective, lieutenant. My objective is the get my ass home in one piece.’”

“Nowak sounds like a piece of work.”

“He was a mensch. The men liked him. I did too. Pity.”

“It’s all a goddamn pity. A hundred lives lost to gain a meaningless village… This helps, Jake. Thanks.”

Wolfson, rose, saluted and left.

Cira went back to writing letters, sipping apple brandy, and muttering to himself about the fucking army, the fucking Germans, the fucking war…