In the spring of 1940, Georges Piquart, fifteen years old, glanced anxiously over his shoulder, back toward Île de la Cité. It was a crystal-clear day and the midafternoon sunshine sparkled on the surface of the river Seine. He was strolling along the pedestrian way of the Quai des Tuileries with his friend Bernard de Lattre, who was twelve. A minute earlier, the two boys had been holding hands when they entered the shadow beneath the Pont Royal. They had not seen the gentleman approaching them, an officer in the French Fourteenth Infantry Division, of which Bernard’s father was the commander. Georges had released Bernard’s hand immediately, but too late, for the officer had glared at them as they went by. Without having to ask, Georges knew Bernard was unperturbed. For him, holding George
