Charles Boyer invited me to visit his family’s farm in France, and of course I said yes. I wandered among the picturesque hills and quaint stone outbuildings, noticing that all the animals seemed deeply contented. Even the pigsty was fragrant and cheerful; the hogs wore expressions of joy as they rooted in the dirt. I complimented the swinekeeper in my perfect French. Charles arrived to take me on a haycart tour of the fields while the farm workers enjoyed their midday rest, drinking wine and boasting about their asparagus: “You’ll never find anything like this in California!” At the village inn that night Charles bashfully asked me if I would share the farm, life, everything with him. Of course I said yes. If it weren’t for the war. . . .