Lizzie's Song

Chapter 24- Laid to Rest

In 1918, conscription is extended to all men under the age of 51. Thomas panics, no longer safe from recruitment. He is still 50, his birthday a few months away. Nathaniel has been home for over a year and he tires to calm his brother by telling him the front can't be so bad now, they must have learned from the mistakes they made when he was shot, but it does little to comfort, especially given the scars on his face that remind Thomas what he has been through. Every time Mr York picks up the post, Thomas dreads what might be in it.

On his 51st birthday, he celebrates more than just another year of survival and one more year that he is free and happy, living with his dear Lizzie in the cottage he has built for her at the edge of the village. They often visit the great steam house not far away behind Nathaniel's home. Whenever he does, whenever he takes Lizzie there to teach her the wonders of what can be created by tools driven by the lineshaft that runs the length of the building, they stay for supper, helping Nathaniel feel a part of the family even though his house is too empty.

Victoria occasionally visits, too. She is quieter since Ezra's death, and she does not play the piano as often as she used to. With news of the influenza outbreak claiming lives on the front and at home, she takes her nursing credentials to the Army and finds herself on a battlefield in France treating soldiers stricken with disease. Every one of them reminds her of Ezra and when she writes home, her letters are despondent and only get worse as the war, and the outbreak, continue. She works tirelessly, on long shifts with little time for sleep, until she is ill, languishing in her own hospital. Within a few weeks, she has stopped writing. Helga is worried about her daughter and writes a letter to the hospital. The news she gets in return breaks her heart- in the time between when her letter arrived and when the response was sent, Victoria has died. She will be buried with the others that have died of the outbreak. They cannot risk sending her home and spreading the disease if the infection has not died. Because of how isolated they are, the village has not yet seen the epidemic. They make a conscious effort to keep it that way.

The war ends. There is no big parade in the village. There are few young men still abroad who will be coming home. But they do build a victory arch to welcome them home and they hold a memorial for those who will never return.

Mr York stands at the front of the village church with Brother Morton, his head bowed as the monk offers a prayer. When the prayer is finished, he looks out over the assembled crowd. Nearly the entire village has turned up, and the church is packed from wall to wall, people standing in the back, on the narrow balcony that wraps around three walls, and even some in the aisles.

"I don't think I see a single face in this room that has not been saddened by this war. We've all held our breath when the mail has come for the past four years. And I know Mr Kittering's hated seeing the postal stamp from the War Department when those letters and telegrams have come into his depot. Delivering heartbreak is a soul-sucking job. And now it's over. But the holes in our community aren't ever going to fill. We're never going to get them back. We won't ever forget these boys...or the young women who went to help and were lost alongside them." He pauses, thinking of what to say next, "We're going to do right by our lost. I've talked to a few people who have skills and time, but we're going to need to pay them- we're going to have a granite memorial in our graveyard. Every name etched on it. A commitment to never forget. If you can help, please do. Even if that's planting a few flowers around the graveyard to make it a little easier for everyone to visit. Those who are coming home will be here in a few days. We'll celebrate that they are home, and we'll let them mourn their losses, too."

Brother Morton offers up a prayer for safe travel for the returning soldiers, a prayer of thanksgiving that the war is over. And then they step down and others come up to talk about the people they have lost. And others, such as Helga, stay quietly mourning in their seats. When all who have spoken wish to, they drag the old wooden chairs from the church rows to the side of the room. Long boards and sawhorses arrive from various sheds and cellars around the village. Baked goods, stews, soups, and vegetables stored from the not-to-distant harvest appear from the village kitchens and grace the communal tables.