My mother's brother died in World War II, at Falaise Pocket. Though I was born 20 years after the war, he was always a presence in my life, as my mother had always made sure we had a sense of who he was, how extraordinary. Whenever I am in Europe, I visit his grave (and the graves of so many others) in the Canadian War Cemetery at Bretteville-sur-Laize. It's a peaceful, beautiful place (and I'm always struck by how kind the cab drivers become once they know where they are taking me and why).