The street where I was born. The brutal winter that year. The sound of the invading soldiers’ boots. The fear in the heart of mother. The smell of of cobblestones after a rain shower. The church. The fragrance of incense. The rituals. The organ music. The literature of Georges Bernanos. Joy, The diary of a country priest, Mouchette. The films made by Robert Bresson based on these novels. The forest. The park. The seasons. Paris nearby. The narrow streets. The odor of history, everywhere. The freshly baked bread. The narrow streets. The fruits orchards. The Sunday afternoon movies. Crepes and rice pudding. The small pleasures never forgotten. The wooden desks in the elementary school and the purple ink. Shorts, even in the winter.