Brothers Far from Home

by Jean Little

  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.

  May 1917

  Tuesday, May 1

  Father did not get up this morning. He is not speaking to anyone, even Mother. The house is locked in a terrible stillness. Oh, dear Reader, I wish you were real and could come for a walk with me.

  I want to go out into the country and climb a big hill and lie down in the long grass on the top and watch the clouds sail over me so peacefully. Hugo told me once to remember that those fat white clouds looked the same in Roman Britain. Shakespeare saw them looking exactly like that too. I must stop. It seems wicked to want to be peaceful when Hugo can’t look up with me and share the peace.

  Today four letters came from him, and one of them was just to me. I so wanted such a letter. I have not been able to read it yet. I cannot get past, “Dearest Monkeyshines.” My hands start shaking when I see hi
s writing. I have put it away and I will read it, but not yet.

  When I opened the drawer, there was the penny whistle. I snatched it up, took it outside and threw it as far as I could. I threw it toward Cornelia’s. I could not bear to keep it. Then, an hour later, I knew I had to get it back, but somebody must have come by, seen it on the ground and taken it. I searched and searched. Oh, Hugo, I will never be Monkeyshines again.

  Thursday, May 3

  Nothing gets any easier. And when it does, for a few minutes, I feel like a traitor to Hugo’s memory.

  Cornelia is restful. She does not expect much. I heard her telling Bertha that I was her best friend. I felt like saying it was not true. But perhaps it is.

  She is making me a cross-stitch picture to hang in my bedroom. She won’t let me see it until it is finished. I hope it is not religious. I’ve seen some she has done of children kneeling down saying prayers. They are revolting. Well, maybe I should not say so. But I would not want to have to sleep in the same room, and neither would Verity.

  Very early, Saturday, May 5

  I had a terrible dream. Everyone is still asleep except for me. Usually I would have Verity to turn to but Belle wanted Verity to come in with her in the night and I suppose she fell asleep there. The birds are singing madly but they can’t make the horror go away.

  I must write the dream down or I might slide back into it. I was on a big grey hill. I was in some dark and stony place. I was lost. Then suddenly I saw Hugo coming toward me. I tried to run to meet him. But my feet would not move. And then, just before he reached me, I saw it was not Hugo at all. It was a man like my brother but with no face. He fell to the ground and was swallowed up somehow and I saw another Hugo coming again from further back. And I tried to reach him. And it was another man with no face. Not even eyes. I think I am glad about the eyes. And I heard a moaning sound. I thought I would turn and run but I could not. And I saw the endless row of soldiers went on and on and then I woke up. I am still shaking. I have never had such a terrible nightmare. And who can I tell? I might tell Jack if he was home.

  He cabled and has written, but it was just as Father thought. He is needed there because he is a trained pilot and they do not have enough. I wish the birds would stop. I am afraid to go back to sleep.

  Oh, dear Reader, I do feel you listen. Writing it down makes it grow fainter. I am going to get up and go outside. The sun is up and the morning looks so lovely. I might get my letter from Hugo out now and read it. That would make the nightmare man — who wasn’t Hugo at all but some monster — vanish, and my own brother come back to me.

  That afternoon

  As soon as I saw “Dearest Monkeyshines” I felt as though he had been given back to me. The letter told me more about Scrounger the cat and wished me luck on my exams and told me I should read a book called A Little Princess.

  I read it long ago and loved it. I am glad it was such an ordinary letter. It was like having him come by for a visit. It made me cry buckets, of course, but that didn’t matter.

  Victoria Day,

  May 24

  This is supposed to be the day when you plant things in the garden. But we had hurricane winds and spurts of wet snow! Beastly weather. Spring only brought those few snowdrops and departed. There is a drought. Potatoes cost $4.00 a bag. Moppy says she can remember, a year or two ago, when the whole bag would not have cost more than a quarter.

  What does the price of potatoes matter when there is no Hugo in the world?

  Maybe spring will not come again. I know I wrote that before, dear Reader, but it is still how I am feeling. People with no brother to remember keep speaking of Vimy Ridge as though it were a great victory. The words sound like tolling bells to me. I can hear them over and over. I try not to think about it. But they keep telling how the soldiers swarmed up the ridge at dawn with the shells firing down on them. They don’t tell about the thousands of soldiers who died taking that ridge, though, or the thousands of families who are mourning a loved one.

  I can’t stand it. I can’t. And the grown-ups are all worried about Mother and Father as though Hugo meant nothing to the rest of us. I think some of them actually think we are too young to know what happened. Even Belle knows now, although not about the man who shot him being a Canadian.

  June 1917

  Friday, June 1

  Today is Verity’s birthday. She is eighteen!

  “At last!” she said at breakfast. Now what did she mean by that? She has changed lately. She just sits and stares into space and thinks and thinks about something. But when you offer her a penny for her thoughts, she just says her thoughts are worth much more than that.

  Sunday, June 3

  Father did not preach this morning. He has broken down under the nervous strain. That is what Mother says. Maybe it is something like what happened to Richard. Father cries and hardly ever comes out of his study. The church is giving him “leave of absence.” I can hardly remember a Sunday morning in my life when my father did not give the sermon. We all actually stayed home. Reverend Archibald preached and he came to the house after the service, but he only stayed a few minutes. He went in to talk to Father and came out shaking his head.

  “How was he?” Mother asked, her eyes filled with worry.

  “He would not talk to me,” Mr. Archibald said. “We must give him time, Mrs. Bates. And pray for him, of course.”

  Monday, June 4

  I got a letter from Jack! It is very short so I will copy it here.

  Dear Eliza,

  I keep thinking how lonely you must be. Hugo was your special brother and you were special to him too. Our family is not good at saying these things, but I miss him too and if I can help you somehow, write to me.

  Love, Jack

  His letter brought tears to my eyes but they did not hurt like other tears. It made me feel as though he had given me a big hug.

  I picked up the mail this morning so nobody saw the letter come. I will show them later maybe. Right now it is private. I have not written back to him but I will.

  Wednesday, June 6

  Dear Reader, life seems never to be ordinary now. Mother came into Verity’s and my room tonight and told me that she is sending the Twins and Belle and me away to Aunt Martha for a holiday. Father needs complete rest. Verity does not have to go because of her schooling, and because she works at the Red Cross now. She spends all her time over there, serving mugs of tea to other women rolling bandages or rolling them herself or packing boxes to be sent overseas. I wonder sometimes how the men feel when they find a toothbrush inside and soap and so on. I think they really want warm socks and Russian toffee much more. I stuck a copy of one of Hugo’s books into a box going to him once and he wrote back as pleased as though I had sent him jewels.

  I was stunned at the idea of leaving home but I managed to ask about my schooling. After all, I’m supposed to take the entrance exams that tell if you are ready to enter high school. But Mother said she had talked to my teacher and the principal and they are going to pass me without my writing the examinations. They said I was “a fine student with a good mind.” I should be happy to hear that but it does not sound real, and it does not matter one whit.

  How can I bear to be sent away? I cannot. I thought of refusing, but Mother looks so white and her eyes have grown huge and when she looks at me she reminds me of a wounded deer I saw once. Father took me on a walk in the woods with him. All at once a doe plunged out of the trees and passed us, not even noticing we were there. She had been shot in the flank but not killed outright. It was terrible. She was so piteous. Hunters came crashing through the trees looking for her and Father pulled me away. We heard them shoot her and Father said it was good because she would not have to suffer any longer. But I still see her eyes in my dreams sometimes. I did not tell the younger ones.

  “I know you want to stay, Eliza,” Mother said in the new husky voice which is all we hear now. “But Aunt Martha will need you. Four children means a lot more work.” She is right. The
re will be more food to cook, more clothes to wash and mend, more faces to scrub, more buttons to do up, lots more worry. “Also, whether you believe it or not,” Mother finished up, “the younger kiddies will depend on you to comfort them. You will be their ‘home’ in a strange place. Father and I are counting on you.”

  There was nothing I could say after that so I nodded and managed not to burst into tears until I got to my own room. I’ve always wanted her to say words like those: “Father and I are counting on you.” But hearing her say them in reality was not one bit the way I imagined. I wanted to feel important, but I just feel shut out and sent away. We go on the Monday train.

  I remember longing to go out and lie on a grassy hill and stare up at the sky. Well, I will be able to at Aunt Martha’s. I don’t want to now.

  Charlie wants to take Isaac with us but Aunt Martha has her dogs and Mother told Charlie that Father needed Isaac to help heal his hurt. Charlie cried. When Mother tried to remind him how he had always loved Fleet and Scalawag, Aunt Martha’s dogs, he roared out that he was not crying about leaving Isaac. He was crying because he wanted Hugo back. “Boys feel bad too,” he gulped out and he sobbed against Mother’s front.

  That started Susannah sniffling and then Belle began to sob. I forced myself not to join in or the kitchen would have been under water. It is not only diphtheria and typhoid that are catching, but tears and laughter too. Giggles are more contagious than measles.

  I helped mop up the flood. Yet all the time we feel so terrible, I smell the lilacs outside my window. They are so sweet you drink in their fragrance in great gulps. We had such a cold spring that I thought there would be no flowers. Snow in May! Then Belle brought in some small dandelions. They smell like dandelions even though they are only half grown. Hugo will never smell them again. Never again.

  Later