I have read numbers of history books and novels taking place during World War II and have an endless fascination for this part of history that showed the worst lack of humanity and yet the incredible courage in each human being, a period of hatred and great love all at ounce.
On a walk to my village with my dad, a couple of hours before my flight back, he pointed to a small "place" in our village, remembering how his father used to hide gasoline for the "Resistants" among the fruit crates and store it there for the night. Then I went up to our cemetery to say goodbye to my beloved aunt who recently passed away and read the names of all the departed ones, young sons of the village who died in the two World wars.
One must never forget and truly be thankful for the selflessness of others who died for us.
My french village: Clemont dessous