“I was a saboteur,” he told me, eyes crinkling with mischief at the memory of it. He stretched out a shaking hand and pointed to a bridge over his shoulder. We were standing on the Quai des Célestins and I was lost, which is how I usually attract storytellers. “We blew up that bridge…it was a risk, vous comprenez?” Yes, I understood. Paris under German occupation made daily life a series of risks; attaching dynamite to the bridges was another level. “Mais on avait courage…les allies venaient.” We had courage. The Allies were on their way.