I am asked about my surname, which is actually French. How in the world did it end up in Poland?
I can only fill in blanks. Picture Napoleon’s Army marching too, or worse yet from Moscow. It’s cold, they’re hungry, they are leaving bloody footprints in the snow, like George Washington’s army at Valley Forge. My ancestor turns to his friend. “Mon dieu, this is not a proper French army. Bad food, bad clothes, and I’ve never been this cold in my life. “Look over there, a house with candles in the window. I am going in.”
But Monsieur Charton, we are many kilometers from home!
For now on, home is where I hang my hat!