But recently I again found myself poring over it, searching for clues as to the identity of the deceased. Once again I took to the phones. A kind librarian in Manchester searched local war records and found reference to a young man whose surname was "Race" and who had died on Oct. 4, 1918. His name was Waldo Andrew Race.

He was identified as soldier No. 2,722,703. He was with the 1st Company of the 1st Battalion, 155th Depot Brigade. Now I had a name to go with the letter. I learned that he was born in Bradford, Pa., and that he was single and a fine violinist. Why any of this should matter to me, I could not say, but it did. I pressed for more details.

From other records I discovered that Race was 23 when he enlisted, that he stood 5-foot-5 and had blue eyes and light hair. His complexion, too, was light. He had been assigned to Camp Devens and died there the day before the letter was written by his admiring captain.

He was not felled by a bullet but by the dreaded "Spanish Lady," the influenza that ravaged America even as World War I was coming to an end. His military camp, Devens, was too close to Boston, an epicenter of the plague. Not that it mattered: The whole country was soon enough in its grip. His death in early October coincided precisely with the very darkest days of the pestilence that snatched some 600,000 Americans, far more than war itself had claimed.

I read the letter yet again. "He put up a bully fight and it seemed until the very end that he must win." His heroism had displayed itself not against the Kaiser but against a virus. Records show that his father and mother were compensated for their loss; each received $15 every month for the rest of their lives. That apparently brought little solace to them. His obituary contained these words:

"The passing of a loved one is always full of grief but the death of this son of Mr. and Mrs. Race was particularly pathetic inasmuch as it was just seven weeks since their youngest son met his sudden death by being struck by a railroad train at the crossing near the station. The parents had been buoyed up by the hope that their son might be spared owing to his fine constitution but the long strain was too much for him."

His remains were brought to the family home. There were no mourners beyond his immediate family. Because of the flood tide of new influenza cases, all public gatherings -- schools, churches, even funerals -- were prohibited by law. The Race house was filled with flowers from those who would have come in person had they been allowed.

There was nothing more I could learn about Race, except that he held the rank of corporal and that his grave is in Manchester Center Cemetery.

Over the years, the letter outlasted the family to whom it was mailed and finally came to rest at the bottom of a steamer trunk in a chilly attic just across the Vermont state line in New Hampshire. There, an enterprising fellow came upon it and saw at once its latent value. Now I, too, am belatedly coming to see its worth. In a curious way, it feels as though the letter was also addressed to me, that it held a personal invitation to which my own needs made me duty bound to respond. By my words now, his name is again, at least for the moment, in the thoughts of the living. That gives me some comfort.

Each June I spend a week in Vermont, fishing and teaching writing. This June I will also be paying a visit to the grave of someone I would like to have known a little better. His name is Waldo Andrew Race. Like all names, his is worth remembering.

Maya Angelou reads from "The Heart of a Woman"