In case it hasn’t been mentioned before —

Hardly anyone ever went to Swedes’ Hill.

And so there was nobody to be surprised or baffled when the monument appeared overnight…

surrounded by an elegant wrought iron fence, benches, and blooming flowers.

There was nobody to be curious when the family was simply there, just as the sun brightened the grass.

Anyone watching would have noticed they were not a large group, and most of them were elderly, though there was one young couple, a handsome, fierce-eyed man in his twenties…

…who, when his pale young wife lingered too long at the monument summoned her to sit with him on the bench.

A bearded man moved to the bench next to them rather slowly, limping slightly. Once he had settled, he kept his eyes fixed on the very aged couple on the bench closest to the gate.

A man and a woman, huddled together as if for warmth, their heads lowered.

The man in a minister’s habit stood before the monument, as his long-faced wife took her seat beside the bearded man.

Everyone was assembled.

The minister turned away from the monument. He began to speak. He spoke of hope, of the mysteries of God’s ways, of the severity —

— and the boundless forgiveness — of Le Bon Dieu.

He lowered his head and began a prayer. Everyone shut their eyes and crossed themselves, except for the bearded man who pursed his lips briefly in anger.

At the end of the prayer, the minister turned to face the monument.

“We have come to the end of a terrible, terrible time,” he said. “So many people, so many human beings have vanished. In Europe. In China. In Japan. They have been blown to atoms and their dust cast to the wind. They have been herded into gas chambers and then burned into powder in cremotoriums. So many are gone, along with so many who knew and loved them.

All that is left for some are abandoned suitcases, old photographs and letters, empty shoes, shorn hair, rings, watches, shadows burnt onto ruined walls, the debris of life, often without even a surviving memory to give them meaning. We are in danger of seeing the lost as numbers in a statistic, as motes of dust in a storm. It was your fate, Lamont, to be one of those motes, and the void you have left behind has reminded us of the enormity of each of those specks blown past us in the wind of history.

My son, I don’t have the privilege of remembering you and mourning you as you deserve to be remembered and mourned. I can only, like most of us here, bow my head before the will of Le Bon Dieu. All that is within our power is to erect this stone, tend this memorial as a reminder that you lived, and you were loved.”

He stepped away. His wife stepped forward.

“I must have loved you very much,” she said, her voice shaking. “Because the emptiness I feel inside is so….”

She began to weep, but she struggled to speak, furiously wiping away the tears.

“Your dear, dear father read me your letters. I can tell you had a good heart. You…” Her head dropped, and her shoulders began to shake. Her husband stepped forward and led her away.

It was the bearded man’s turn. He stood with his eyes still, not on the monument, but on the elderly couple huddled together on the bench.

He sighed, turned towards the monument, and thought for a moment. Then he spoke.

“I have read your work, too, Lamont. It is very, very good. You could have been a writer, a fine one.”

“No. Not could have been. You WERE a fine writer. You ARE a fine, talented writer because your voice remains. At least we have that. We are saving every scrap we can find and protecting it.”

“I have written Liana. She and Derek are collecting all your letters they can find. I am also in correspondence with the Bellingham Hotel in London. They tell me they have your manuscript. I’ve instructed them to put it someplace safe. I will travel to London to pick it up, and perhaps look at some of the records your employer there has saved.”

Suddenly he drew in a long, shaky breath. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as if in pain.

“That is not much,” he said, his voice so low the others could barely hear it. “But it is all I can do for you.”

He limped back to his seat, as the young woman rose.

She stepped forward, her head down. The young man had also risen and stood behind her, waiting. “I…”

Her eyes filled.

“I just want to say, it’s a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing.” She covered her face with her hands.

The young man helped her back to the bench before taking her place.

“I keep telling myself, ‘I always wanted a brother,’ It feels like an old thought.”

“But it can’t be because I had a brother. But I still catch myself thinking sometimes, ‘I always wanted a brother.'”

“Le Bon Dieu is a sonofabitch.”

“Sorry, Artiste, Laurette, but that’s what I think. I bet Lamont would agree.

We have photographs, you know.”

Mama dug out an old album and showed me some shots of you and me posing for family pictures.”

I look at those and look at them, but I really can’t tell much from them.

Papa says you wrote me a few letters, but I guess I’ve lost them. Which stinks, I know. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry if we ever fought, or if I ever acted like the jerk I know I can be. I wish…. I’m sorry… That’s all I can say now.”

The elderly woman gently pulled back from her husband’s arms to take her turn. Her eyes were dry, her face more stunned than grief-stricken.

“I painted so many pictures of you. In my studio I keep finding them, and I can see the love poured into them. My heart’s blood is in every brushstroke.”

For a second or two, she stood quietly, as if waiting for a reply.

“It is so horribly, horribly unfair. With you has gone so much happiness.” she said, and turned towards the bench.

The old man she had been embracing touched her face gently, as he rose. He took his place before the monument.

“It is my fault, Lamont. I did this. Nobody else. You were my treasure, and Le Bon Dieu took you in payment for my crimes.”

“In His mercy, He left me my other children. Brigitte, Leon.”

But my love for them has become so ravenous it hurts me. I can’t bear that they are ever out of my sight. I could not spare one of my children. Not even a piece of one.”

“They are still here. Le Bon Dieu is good. Yes, He is good. I deserve this.”

“But I loved you. My boy. My baby.”

He turned to walk back to his seat.

“I am so lonely, ‘Sha,” he said. “I am so lonely.”

***

The time to take their leave. Everyone but Tel and Felicia rose from their seats and gathered, searching for words. “Well, Greg said, “we can at least dream that he is here.”

“That is so,” Artiste replied. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Tel and Felicia on their bench. “We should give them a few moments alone. And there are things we must discuss.” He nodded towards a more distant part of the cemetery, and the five of them moved away.

***

“Marion and I are staying in the house,” said Leon. “We can do that much. Especially with the baby coming.”

“Yes,” said Marion.

“That may help,” said Artiste. “Having a new grandchild.”

“One named Duday,” added Leon. “Maybe even a son.”

“Any new grandchild will make them both very happy,” said Laurette.

“Leon,” Greg said, “You do need to think in the long term about this. You must not forget that you have your own life to live.”

“I’m not like you,” Leon began… “I’m not going to run off and…”

“Stop,” said Laurette. “This is not the time.”

Marion had been looking back at Tel and Felicia, sitting beside the memorial, slumped against each other.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I want be with them for a bit.”

“Yes. Thank you, Marion.” Leon said. “I think they would like that.”

The family watched as she walked towards her inlaws.

“She is a good daughter,” said Laurette.

“The best,” said Leon. He turned towards his uncle. “Listen, I’m not the self-sacrificing type. But I don’t believe there’s really much time left for Papa and surely I can…”

Marion stepped into the gate. She looked for a moment at Tel and Felicia. Tel’s eyes were on the monument, his face streaked with tears. Felicia’s face was still dry, and her arms were around her husband in a way that as fierce as it was tender. She looked like she was prepared to take on Le Bon Dieu Himself if He dared to put His hand on her husband again.

Marion turned towards the monument.

“Lamont, do you remember our last talk before you left for England?”

“I do.”