“The French occupation of the Rhineland was a confusing time. Chaos everywhere,” Aunt Claire said. “Remember it took days to quell the German resurgence. The Belgians, not the French, were in charge of identifying and listing the names of the dead on the casualty lists.”

“So the Belgians mistook another French body of the same rank that looked enough like Nicholas Cravois and pronounced him dead, when all along he was lying in a ditch by the side of the road. Oh, God, Claire…” Monique Barton’s voice trailed off in a stifled cry, and, frozen where he stood, Bucky heard the wood floor creak and pictured his mother walking in circles about the room clutching her throat as she always did when agitated.

“You are not to blame yourself, Monique. By the time Nicholas had regained consciousness and got in touch with his family, you’d learned you were pregnant with Samuel and had married Horace. What else were you to do, ma chérie? You thought Nicholas was dead.”

The creaking of the floor stopped. Bucky imagined his mother whirling to his aunt. “But why didn’t he get in touch with me, for God’s sake?” she said.

There was silence, and then his aunt answered gently, “Really, Monique, why would he? It was too late.”

“Does he know he has a son?”

“He knows you have a son. He does not know the boy is his.”

“Mon Dieu, Claire, why did you tell me this now? Why didn’t you allow me to remain ignorant?”

“Because Nicholas is now an influential general in the French Army, slated to become one of the youngest marshals in French history and well known for his antifascist views. His outspokenness against that little mustached worm, Adolf Hitler, makes news. His name may well be mentioned in the American newspapers, and I didn’t want you to learn of his survival that way. Has Horace ever suspected…”

“No, never.” More silence, then: “How…does he look? Nicholas?”

A pause. “Handsome, strong, commanding. I see much of him in Samuel, especially his eyes.”

Bucky backed away, returned to the kitchen, collected his satchel, cap, and coat, and pedaled against the icy wind as fast as he could to Rob Hamilton’s house, his second home. There, alarmed at Bucky’s pale face and strange look, Mrs. Hamilton made cocoa for her son and his best friend, served piping hot. At dinner that night, Bucky took only a few bites of coq au vin and pushed his peas and carrots around on his plate. His parents did not ask him about his piano lesson and seemed not to notice that he kept his eyes on his food. His mother and aunt were full of bright, nervous chatter, the kind adults engaged in to cover awkward situations.