April Fool’s Day
I caught a cold. Nothing as bad as Cornelia’s grippe but I was sick enough not to feel like writing even to my dear Reader. But I am back again now and I will soon be right as rain.
Why do they say that? You would think it would be “right as sun.”
Friday, April 6
The Americans have come into the war on our side at last! Surely their coming will turn the tide. Even Father looks more hopeful tonight.
Richard Webb had a relapse but seems to be improving again. I never go over there now. I have not seen him since the day I took the knife.
Everyone is singing American songs and nobody is saying that it took them a long time to see where their duty lay.
Easter Sunday
April 8
War news seems bad in spite of the Yanks. And spring is cold but we sang Jesus Christ Is Risen Today! and the old words rang out bravely just as they have every other year. Mother used onion skins and watercolour paints and did make lovely eggs for the three little ones. They were so excited. I tried to be glad I was not a little one any longer, but it was not easy.
Then, under the edge of the tablecloth, Mother slipped me an egg which was a deep yellow with my name painted onto it in curly dark red letters. I turned it over slowly, marvelling. On the other side, it said Daughter.
“Not a changeling,” she murmured.
I could not eat it. It is so beautiful and it gives me a warm feeling right down inside. It is sitting in the drawer with my penny whistle. I told Mother and she said it will go bad and I would have to eat it eventually or throw it away, and it wasn’t a good idea to waste an egg.
“It’s the memory you keep,” she told me.
Easter Monday
Mother and Moppy have started spring cleaning. I have to dust the books. We own millions of books. Usually I am glad, but not at spring cleaning time. Dusting is easier than some jobs, though. Verity has been out beating rugs in the snow. Her hands were a purplish blue when she came in.
Tuesday, April 10
There was a great battle on Easter Monday. At Vimy Ridge. They said it could not be taken. The French were driven back and so were the British. But our Canadian boys took it! Father says they must have been planning it for weeks. It was a great victory! But many men died, I think.
It is hard to keep all the battlegrounds straight and they have such foreign names. I hope nobody we know was there. People go on and on about what a triumph it was for Canada, but we don’t know the details yet. Perhaps, when it is in the paper, Father will let me cut it out and paste it in here. A victory, at last, after so many setbacks and defeats!
Verity and True went and got their hair bobbed in celebration. They look so changed. Verity does not look nearly so proper. She was actually dancing in our bedroom. I wonder what Grandmother will say. She said girls with bobbed hair were “fast” and “asking for trouble.” I wonder what trouble she means.
I heard Verity humming tonight while she was taking her bath. “If you were the only boy in the world …” she sang.
I popped my head around the screen and asked her, “If who was the only boy?”
“Eliza Mary Bates, get out!” she shouted in a whisper. (It is perfectly possible to shout in a whisper.)
Susannah heard her too and we ran into Mother and Father’s room and laughed until we cried. My stomach still hurts. I wonder what the boys will say when they come home and see her. I would not tell her this, but she looks prettier with short hair, almost dashing, like Lillian Gish.
Later
Father was not in the same mood as the rest of us. “Paid for with blood,” was all he would say about Vimy Ridge. It is true that all the reports lately have been full of news about casualties, even as they praise the Canadians for taking the ridge. (They call one part of it the Pimple. Isn’t that strange, dear Reader?)
Hugo was at Vimy Ridge and he is missing. The telegram came today. We must still hope. Everyone is celebrating the victory at Vimy, but not in our house.
But I am sure he will be found. He must be lying in a hospital with a wound and he has just lost his memory or something. I got up in the middle of the night last night and knelt down to pray and Verity woke up.
“Eliza, what is it?” she said.
I did not answer and then she slipped out from under the covers and knelt too, and we both prayed that our brother would be found. We did not say anything out loud but when we got back into bed, we both cried and cried.
God must listen. He must. If only Hugo is all right, I will be good forever and ever.
Thursday, April 19
Mother let me stay home from school today. It was a terrible day. I kept watching for a telegram. Nobody came. No news. She says I must go back in the morning because this may go on for months. It was as though the sun was stuck and the world could not move on.
Friday, April 20
Mother sent me back to school. Her voice is steady but her lips are pale. It seems so strange. The little ones don’t know what is wrong, but they know there is something. You can tell because they tiptoe and whisper and look afraid. Belle cries more than usual and cannot say what is the matter. Isaac wags his tail less and gazes up at us with big anxious eyes.
You would think pets would be in the way now, but it isn’t true. Isaac and Ezekiel help us because they need to be cared for and they expect us to keep being our normal selves. Only it breaks all our hearts when Ezekiel speaks in Hugo’s voice. I can’t write for crying. But I am still hoping against hope that there is some mistake. In books, often in the last chapter, the soldier everyone thought was dead returns. But that is something that maybe only happens in stories.
At moments like this, dear Reader, it is hard to believe in you. And I cannot love God, even though I keep praying that He will find Hugo alive and whole. I don’t want my brother to suffer.
But what about all the others? Who prays for them? And how does God decide?
I asked Mother. She says she thinks God does not decide the way I imagine. She says that wars are made by humans and humans must abide the consequences. “Pray for courage,” she told me. “And faith and a loving heart.”
“And for Hugo,” I said.
She nodded. She could not speak and I saw her eyes were flooding.
Saturday, April 21
There is no use hoping. Our hope is gone, dear Reader. My brother is dead.
Mother and Father never say things like “passed away” or “gone to God” like other people do. They say the real word in a quiet, serious voice. I will try to do this too. But I understand why people use the other words. They are hiding from the terror of it.
Oh, how can I go on?
I stop writing and then I feel as though I am drowning.
After many tears
I went to Mother and Verity came too and we all cried. But then somebody came. Moppy can only keep them off for so long. Everybody needs someone to grieve with, Verity says.
But it will soon be time to go to bed. Will we sleep?
I will try to tell you how it happened. When the telegram came, it was late afternoon and we were all home. The Twins raced to get the door and then just stood there, so I went to let whoever it was in. It was Matthew Blake, who is one year ahead of me in school. He is at the high school and I won’t be there until September. He stood there looking sick. I took the envelope and carried it in, leaving the door open.
“Shut the door, Eliza, for heaven’s sake,” Mother said. “We can’t afford to heat all outdoors, not with this wretched stuff they call coal.”
It is queer how clearly I can still hear what she said and how impatient she sounded.
Then she saw what I was holding. She held out her hand for it and I saw that her hand did not even shake though her face went wooden. She carried it straight to Father and I turned and went back to speak to Matthew. I had left him outside on the step without a word.
“Thank you,” I said to him. Why did I thank him?
I kept hoping it was going to say Hugo was found, but it did not.
KILLED IN ACTION it said.
Father went white as marble.
These were the words, at least some of them.
We all hugged each other.
Father went to his Session meeting after Matthew left. There was some quarrel among two or three Elders and he said it had to be settled. Mother wanted to be with him but, of course, there are no women Elders and they would have known something was wrong. I don’t see how he can face their eyes. I wonder if he has told them yet.
Later on
Mother just came in and found me lying wide awake with Verity sleeping next to me. She told me that Father was home and that he did not tell them about Hugo until after the meeting ended. They said his strength was an inspiration. Nobody dared to say anything about his sympathy for the German soldiers and how did he feel now knowing some Hun had shot Hugo. But a few probably thought such cruel thoughts. I just feel rage so boiling hot I can’t bear it. I ache all over.
Sunday, April 22
Everyone feels so sorry for Mother and Father and so do I. But it is hard for everyone — even Belle, who still does not understand that Hugo is gone forever.
Cornelia came over with a loaf of fresh bread. “I’m sorry, Eliza,” she said, looking at her feet. Then she kissed my cheek and ran for home. It was a wet kiss, which I was ashamed of myself for noticing. After all, it was sincere, and I cried after she was gone, the kind of crying that helps ease the pain.
I feel closer to Cornelia now, although I want Hugo back no matter what. Even as sick as poor Richard, even with a leg missing. He is … was strong and brave and I need him. It is hard to put this clearly, but the person I ache to talk to about all of this is Hugo himself. He is the one who would help me most when I feel as though inside of me there is no Eliza. There is only
I can’t. I can’t go on.
Wednesday, April 25
I have not been able to write, dear Reader. I could not think what to say. I would get out the journal and put it back without opening the cover. It felt as though I were frozen, or as if I were a girl made of papier mâché, which looks fine on the outside but is hollow inside, completely empty. I could move around but I was not me any longer. I was only a husk, like the coconut shell someone brought to us years ago after she’d been on a sea voyage.
Thursday, April 26
Belle found one snowdrop this morning in the corner of the garden where the house protects the earth. She brought it to me.
“Give it to Mother, Eliza,” she whispered. We stared at its drooping head and remembered Hugo always gathering little bouquets for Mother early in the spring. I took her hand and we went together.
Mother gathered Belle onto her lap and they just sat and rocked for the longest time.
I found a tiny vase for the snowdrop and then Susannah marched out and, after quite a while, brought in two more. But spring has not come really, not here. Some day maybe. Not this year.
Friday, April 27
It is so strange. Being a minister’s daughter, I am used to being with people who have had someone die. I have taken food to families who were grieving. I’ve visited homes filled with flowers. But nobody knows quite what to do when the lost person has died far away. For the first time, I understood why some people send flowers or food or notes with children and do not come themselves. They are afraid of saying the wrong thing.
I respect the ones who take the chance. The queerest thing is you often end up laughing. The ones I hate are the ones who hardly knew Hugo but come rushing over and sit and sit, with their eyes prying at your face, wanting to know what you are feeling behind your calm. They start sobbing on the doorstep and they always want to know every detail no matter how gruesome.
“Ghoul,” Mother muttered when one of those went boo-hooing out the door.
People who have really suffered themselves are usually the kindest and they don’t stay all day either. They come bravely to the door and they stay to talk a while.
The dreadful ones are forever pressing their hand on your head or grabbing you and squashing your face against their fronts. I can’t say this to anyone but you, dear Reader, but I hate them all. Hugo would hate them too. They hurt Mother.
Charlie takes off the minute he hears a buggy pulling up or a car stopping. And Susannah runs after him. Deserters!
They ask if we are getting “our blacks” soon. Mother manages to speak calmly, although I don’t know how.
“Hugo hated black,” she says and leaves it at that.
“An arm band would show you are grieving,” one lady pressed.
Mother just looked at her and she went red and got up to go home.
Verity is being a tower of strength, as you would expect. I keep noticing little funny things Belle says or Isaac does, and tell Mother and Father to make them smile.
“You are a godsend, Eliza Mary,” Father said and blew his nose very hard.
I wish Jack would come home. He just might. Compassionate leave, they call it. But Father thinks Jack will stay where he is — they need the pilots too much over there to send anyone home.
Saturday, April 28
I cannot bear it. I caught myself laughing out loud at Isaac today. How could I? Isaac had found a ball of knitting wool and started chasing it and it kept rolling away. He would growl at it and jump on it and shake it. Then, sure he had killed it, he would drop it and watch. It would begin to roll again and he would chase it once more, butting it with his nose. Finally he got to the top of the stairs and the yarn went bouncing over the top with Isaac staring after it. Then he flung himself down the steps and got his paws caught in it and went head over tail to the bottom. I was laughing already and then he stood up, sneezed, shook himself and stalked away, leaving the tangle of yarn behind. I laughed right out loud and then I remembered.
Father is shut in his room. Hugo is gone forever. Mother looks so worn and weary and brave. And I laughed at the dog! But you have to laugh. And, when I stopped, my cheeks were wet with tears.
Monday, April 30
We got through the last few days thinking nothing could be worse. But this morning a letter came from one of Hugo’s friends. His name is David Martin. I don’t know if I can write about it, but I feel as though I will break in pieces if I don’t tell someone. Oh, dear Reader, I wish you were here to comfort me. I keep crying. Mother says tears only make your nose get stuffed up but I
Half an hour later
I had to stop but now I will go on. David Martin is in a hospital in France and he wrote a letter telling us the truth he was sure nobody else would tell us.
I was there on Easter Monday and I saw what happened to Hugo. He was a great friend to me. I wish I had died and he had lived. I just got a Blighty, as we used to wish we would. They are sending me back to England because my foot was more or less shot off.
He went on to say that a nurse was coming back to Canada because of illness and he asked her to bring his letter out past the censors and mail it once she got home.
Then he told us the bad part.
Hugo did die at Vimy, but not because he was shot by the enemy. I still cannot take it in. But the letter said he had gone to help get a wounded man out of the line of fire. The soldiers had been ordered not to turn back no matter what. But the wounded man was a father with a new baby. When Hugo went to help him, a Canadian officer shot Hugo and killed him.
Captain Martin said that it could have been a mistake. It was dark. But he may have done it because Hugo disobeyed his orders.
Nobody really knows. Hugo’s friend saw it happen. The next minute, the man who shot my brother was killed himself.
So Hugo, my Hugo, was shot down by one of our own troops.
Father burst out with a terrible groan. I had no idea what was wrong. I only learned the truth after I found the letter left on the table later on. I kept it and gave it to Mother so that Charlie would not come upon it. She said that was right. She said that telling people the truth would help nobody and Hugo would not want us to talk about it. I think I cannot bear it, but you can’t stop bearing terrible things. They just go on being there. It is like being lost in the dark.
When I was nine I stayed out playing in the woods near Aunt Martha’s until it got dark and I could not find my way out of the bushes and tree trunks. Hugo found me.
If only I could go into the dark and find him!
Jack might not even know yet. Perhaps he could not be reached at once.
Dear Reader, do you know what “a Blighty” is? It is something wrong with you that is bad enough to get you a leave in England. They are always making jokes about wishing for a Blighty.