When driving down the D3 on the approach to Oradour-sur-Glane, a white church is the first thing visible, growing taller with every rotation of the car wheels. Pausing at the roundabout staring straight ahead, the church is brilliantly white, unnaturally clean, distastefully modern. I glance left to make sure the road is clear, and that’s when I first saw it. A row of buildings of what was once a street. It’s unnerving.