Ruth vomited, the precious scrap of paper clutched in her fist. She did not keep quiet. She did not hold her hair back. Her customary terror of germs was gone. She was an animal trying to purge a poison.
When she had returned with Catherine from Uxbridge’s little room, she had been struck down by a terrible suspicion. She was no stranger to avoiding her own thoughts, but this one smashed through her defenses like a thundering locomotive through an opening-day ribbon.
When did my brothers die?
They died in 1915. In the summer. Quentin signed for the grenades in the summer of 1915. They were not terribly far from each other. The middle of France. None of her three brothers were in the same outfit; the Army didn’t want to risk wiping out entire bloodlines.
And, strangely enough, the thought had struck Ruth with a grim certainty. She did not imagine that it would be anything other than what it turned out to be. It would be one of them, or… Or… The thought was striking, insistent. Or there was never any reason for you to have stayed in bed…
But that made no sense. How could she have known? My guilt was entirely about my father, she thought blindly, vomiting once more. My betrayal of my husband, my love for and hatred of Gunther, my complicity in the coming of war… I knew nothing about Quentin’s guilt. I knew nothing about what he had done during the war. I could not stand to ask – and now, I know, he could not stand to tell me…
But all lost lives are lived in the shadows of silence. Active silence. Silence that is a turning away. When you cover your eyes, you cover your mouth. And your heart. Your soul.
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