“We can probably skip the DNA test,” Wendy observed.

The family resemblance was obvious to them all. Both Hank and Henry were tall and slender, with dark brown eyes and strong jaws and faces and hands so similar they looked more like brothers than father and son.

“This is so, so cool,” Julie said softly.

“I have something just for you,” Hank said. He took something from his pocket and handed it to her.

She held it in her palm. “Is this a Purple Heart?”

He nodded. “Awarded to me after the war. I want you to have it.”

“You’re kidding.” Julie gaped at him.

“Your grandfather told me you did a very brave thing,” Hank said. “You rescued a friend from drowning. Perhaps saving lives runs in the family.”

“But—”

“I don’t need it, young lady, but you have many adventures ahead of you. Keep it for me.”

She clasped her hand around it, stepped forward, and gave him a hug. “I don’t know what to say. I’ll take good care of it.”

“That’s all I ask. Now we’ll always know where it is.”

“Can I get a picture?” Camille asked, blinking away tears of happiness and pride. Julie and Wendy had captured everything on their phones, but Camille wanted a special photo. Very carefully, she took out Lisette’s Exakta. Bonjour, grand-mère, she thought, feeling a peculiar kinship with a woman she’d never met, a woman whose hands had cradled this very camera just as Camille was doing now. A woman who had photographed the man standing before her, seventy-three years ago. When she lifted it to her eye and took a picture, capturing his expression, Hank gasped.

Camille lowered the camera. “I take it you remember this.”

“Indeed I do. And thank you for e-mailing the photographs you found. It was overwhelming to see them, though less so than this moment.” He didn’t once let go of Papa, and kept staring into his face. “You are as handsome as she was beautiful,” Hank said. “She was very beautiful.”

Papa nodded. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

Hank gave him another hug. “I’ve found you. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Let’s have a toast,” said Wendy. “We can all sit down together and Dad can tell his stories.”

Hank took hold of the champagne bottle and picked up a short, slightly curved saber. “This is something I learned when I was in hiding in France, recovering from my injuries,” he said.

“It’s always been his favorite party trick,” Wendy said.

“Le saberage.” Papa beamed.

Hank nodded, then expertly used the saber to open the champagne with a distinctive pop. “To an incredible reunion,” he said after everyone lifted a glass. Then he picked up the saber again. “This is the only souvenir that survived from that time,” he said. “When the bombs hit, I was lucky to escape with my life. I encountered some Germans on the run, and one of them challenged me. He was a boy like me, and I just had to threaten him with the saber, and he ran away.”

As Wendy and Nils poured and served, Hank grew misty again. “To Lisette,” he said simply, and everyone lifted their glasses.

Papa handed him the fading Mass card with the Sallman Head of Christ. “This was with Lisette’s belongings. There’s something written on the back, but we couldn’t make out what it says.”

“I wrote, ‘You’re my angel.’ And she was. I would have died without her.” In a voice that gradually grew stronger with memories, Hank began to talk, filling in the missing pieces of the story. He had been just seventeen when he was dropped behind enemy lines in advance of the raid in order to do reconnaissance. Healing from his wounds in a remote stone hut, he fell in love with the girl who had saved his life. “Lisette had a hard time during the war. She married Palomar in order to save a partisan from being detained, and to protect her parents. When she discovered he was a collaborator, she was deeply ashamed to be his wife. It was always my aim to bring her home to the States after the war, but in the chaos of the August raids, we lost each other.”

Camille quietly told everyone what they’d learned about that day—that Lisette’s parents had been killed in the bombing, that the Allies liberated the town and had the Germans on the run.

“There was a lot of ground fog that morning,” Hank said. “My hideout was hit in the raid, but I was able to pull myself out of the rubble. I followed the river to the sea and found a Red Cross unit that took me to Marseille. I was delirious with infection by then, and eventually awakened aboard a hospital ship. The infection was nearly fatal, and it took me two years to recover.”

“He almost died, more than once,” Wendy told them.

“I later learned that the region was liberated in a matter of days,” Hank continued. “I’ve always believed Lisette’s photographs—the ones she took from the church tower at the top of the village—helped coordinate the invasion. Henri, your mother was truly remarkable. I’ve never forgotten her.”

He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “I returned to the family business after two years at the veterans’ hospital, but I never stopped thinking about Lisette. Finally, in 1950, I had saved up enough money to return to Bellerive. I was still a young man at the time, still unmarried, determined to find her again. I spent my life savings to get to France, and I actually paid a visit to the farm called Sauveterre.”

“What? You went to Sauveterre?” Papa stared at him. “In 1950? I would have been four or five years old that year.”

Hank nodded. “I had no idea. None, until Camille’s call. When I found my way to Sauveterre, I was greeted—very brusquely—by a woman in charge. Madame Taro.”

“Aunt Rotrude, Palomar’s sister. She was my guardian when I was growing up,” said Papa. “You needn’t be polite. She was never a pleasant woman.”

“She told me that Lisette had died in April of 1945. I verified this through public records at the town hall in Bellerive. There, she was listed as ‘morte en couches.’” He paused again. “My French is very limited. I knew this meant she died in childbirth, but I also assumed it meant the child died with her. I grieved for her, but in time, the pain faded. I came home and met Wendy’s mother, and started a new chapter with her. Lisette was my first true love. But for most of us, life is long, and loving again didn’t take away from the memories.”

Camille had a swift, unbidden thought of Finn. She wished he could be here for this moment.

With stark yearning, Hank studied Papa’s face. “Henri, it breaks my heart to realize I missed out on your life.”

Papa didn’t speak for a long time. “You walked with a cane,” he said.

“I have, ever since the war,” Hank replied.

“A cane with wings carved into the handle.”

Hank and his daughter exchanged a look. “I still have that cane,” said Hank, “but I don’t use it anymore. I carved it myself—the wings were from the pathfinder insignia. How could you know, Henri?”

“I remember you.” Papa’s voice wavered. “I told Camille it’s one of my earliest memories. A man came to the kitchen door one day, a tall stranger with wavy dark hair. The man had a crooked leg and a cane with wings carved into the handle, and he sounded funny when he spoke in a foreign language. Then Aunt Rotrude said something in the funny language, too—just a few words. I was very curious, but she shooed me away.”

Hank took Papa’s hands in his. The two of them locked eyes for a drawn-out moment. “Yes. Yes. I saw a small boy peeking from the hallway when I was inquiring after Lisette. Dear God, why didn’t she tell me?”

Papa bowed his head, and no one spoke for a few moments. “I imagine my aunt was afraid to lose Sauveterre,” he said. “I was presumed to be the son of Didier Palomar, rightful owner of the place, and Rotrude’s role as my guardian gave her a roof over her head.” Papa squeezed Hank’s hands in his. “I wish I’d known, too. I wish I’d known that the visitor was my father, seeing me for the first time. But I never knew. Neither of us ever knew.”