He leaned toward Lindsey pointing a long, roughened finger. He was a little drunk, or maybe a little more than a little. He poked that finger into Lindsey’s shoulder. “You think I wrote that book, don’t you? I Was a Lincoln Brigadier. I only wrote part of it. The part in America. I wrote that. The part in Brooklyn. That too. The part in Spain, Werner wrote as much of that as I did.”
He leaned away from Lindsey and struggled to his feet. “f*****g sore knees. Arthritis. Got it in those damned ice-cold foxholes in the Battle of the Bulge.”
“Then you fought Hitler in Europe.”
Bruninski grinned. His teeth were big and some of them were discolored. “They didn’t know what to do with us at the start of the war. They had a name for us. Premature antifascists. That’s what they called us, prematur
