"Danny, Danny give your papa a big kiss."  I rushed over and was startled to see him shift his stance, pawing the air like a boxer, suddenly making me cringe with fear.   I kissed him nonetheless, feeling the warmth of his breath, a tickle of his eyelashes on my cheek.  We both laughed with delight.  "Let's go for a walk before dinner but first I'll kiss your mother hello."

     We often walked through the narrow cobblestoned streets of Rouen breathing in the aromas of different coffee beans.  Rouen was also a city of many where cathedral clocks with enormous chimes lent a heavy medieval atmosphere.  The massive hands slowly and ominously turned, gargoyles leered at us from their perches as we walked, as if foreshadowing the terrible events about to engulf France, our city and my family.

      A year later I stood on the balcony of our house, my mother beside me, while we looked down on a blistering hot summer afternoon to see papa go off to war.  To me he was a giant in khaki, steel helmet, rifle and gas mask.  I thought the whole scene to be a game like when I played with my tin soldiers.  Then, at six, trying on my gas mask was funny.  The rubber smelled peculiar and looking at myself in the mirror I resembled a monster, with goggled eyes and a rubber hose like the elephant's trunk I had seen at the zoo

      So from that balcony we waved my father off, expecting him to return in a few weeks.   We saw thousands of British troops marching in formation, hearing the tramping of feet for hours.   They joined the ranks of French soldiers.  The English sang "It's A Long Way to Tipperary," kicking great clouds of dust with their boots.  Most would die a few days later on the sunny beaches of Dunkirk.   Dust to dust.