Flowers In The Rubble

By Monica Maratta

1922, in a small village in the area of central Italy known as the Ciociaria, bathed by the green waters of the river Liri and framed by the Aurunci mountains, Filomena suddenly loses everything she holds dear, her parents. After the death of her mother during the Spanish 'flu outbreak, her father decides to leave the country and seek his fortune abroad, never to return. Raised by her elderly grandparents, Filomena endures hardship and hunger in an era when illiteracy is still widespread. As she grows into a beautiful young woman, she is forced to make painful personal sacrifices when she finds work in the capital city and leaves her village in the hope of improving her miserable circumstances.
Beguiled by life in the big city, despite her initial feelings of distrust, Filomena is still willing to believe in love until she comes face to face with betrayal and the prejudices of the time and eventually decides to return home.
There she finds herself caught up in the Second World War, as her village lies directly along the German Gustav line.
Will she find the strength to rise from the ashes and survive death and destruction?
"Flowers in the Rubble" is Monica Maratta's first novel and was inspired by events in the life of her beloved paternal grandmother and the inhabitants of the village where she was born and raised.
A bitter-sweet novel set in a time when love smelled of sugar and cinnamon, bitterness and dust, in a time when Italy was governed by a reckless and ill-equipped regime, Filomena shows strength and courage, in her struggle to survive and keep her distant, long-time love close to her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Babelcube Inc.
• Release date: Feb 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547569298

Book preview

Biography

Monica Maratta

Chapter One

Italy, 1922

The industrialists and the most powerful men in the country realise it is time to fight the rampant rise of communism. Benito Mussolini, exploiting the situation for his own political gains, abandons socialism and lends his support to the king. He forms the Fascist party and becomes the country’s new leader.

***

Sant’Apollinare, Frosinone. January 1922.

As he welcomed the new century, a politician declared, If, in the nineteenth century, the efforts of the working class were suffocated, this new century will see them triumph. Whether it is the child without bread or education or the old man without a place to lay his head, the new century will provide for them, giving work, liberty and food to all men!

His enthusiastic words were purely Utopian, at least for the first half of the twentieth century. Industrial development had brought prosperity to northern Italy, but the same could not be said for its central-southern region.

Poverty was like a noose slowly tightening around their necks, forcing people to live precariously, teetering on the brink of destitution. America – though hardly the promised land - was on everyone’s lips and emigration towards that distant continent became the only solution for those desperately fleeing their many problems.

The First World War, with its waste of life and resources, had left the country devastated. The population was tired, scared and hungry. Although the war was over, fear remained in the minds of young and old alike. The war had left only poverty and suffering, and many had to start all over again, from zero.

The lira had lost all its value and food prices rose by up to 560%. It was certainly not easy for those families who, already accustomed to living hand to mouth, found themselves having to survive on even less, their bodies already weaker. The situation became so bad that even when they took ill, they couldn't afford to miss even one day of work in the fields, their only form of sustenance.

That evening, as if adding to the already tragic national situation, a family drama, and therefore of major importance to those concerned, was unfolding in a small village in the area known as the Ciociaria, bathed by the peaceful waters, at least in appearance, of the river Liri, which wound its way through the regions of Abruzzo, Lazio and Campania before flowing into the Tyrrhenian Sea. Originally called Liris by the Romans, the name was then changed to Verde (green) in the Middle Ages, due to the particular alga that grew in its calm, clear waters.

In a tiny house in the centre of that ancient village, Filomena hugged her rag doll tightly to her chest. She was too young to understand what was happening, yet her tiny heart beat wildly, picking up on the sadness and agitation in the room, as if she could sense imminent upheaval.

Sitting in front of the fireplace, Mario, her grandfather, tapped his wooden walking stick rhythmically on the floor. After a lifetime of hard work in the fields, the ailments of advanced age meant he now relied on his stick for getting around. The hours spent under the scorching sun, at the mercy of the elements, were all there, etched into the wrinkles on his face. Every now and then he removed his hat, pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped beads of sweat from his forehead before wiping tears from his eyes.

The grandmother, Caterina, was restless. She continued to shuffle from the table to the door, from the cupboard to the small window where her son-in-law stood gazing out. After slowly stroking his shoulder, she returned to the table and sat down on her worn-out chair. She took a sip of water and half-heartedly placed the glass on the table, her mind on other things.

She sat there, staring at the floor, her lips moving in silent prayer, all the time clasping the small crucifix, which she never removed from around her neck, praying for mercy for the pain and suffering which had already gone on for too long.

They had long since finished their meagre evening meal and the kitchen had already been tidied up, but she continued to wipe a cloth over the wooden table, standing up and sitting down again, pacing irrationally around the room, lost in her gloomy thoughts. On that cold night in January, Filomena couldn’t help but notice her vacant stare.

Her father, Vincenzo, stood in distraught silence by the window, his hands in his pockets. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, his thoughts carried away by the wind, perhaps remembering a marriage that had begun happily enough but had slowly deteriorated.

Filomena sat on her straw chair and looked down at her doll.

Amelia, her mother, had made it for her with so much love. It was rare to own a toy in those days and often only the wealthy could afford to give their children gifts, so the doll was precious to Filomena, worth more than gold.

She could still remember the day when her mother had made it, carefully stitching it with her rough hands while Filomena looked on, spellbound. She'd taken an old piece of sacking, cleverly cut out the shape and sewn it on all sides to form a small bag, leaving hole on the bottom, which she then stuffed with scraps of cloth. Then, she'd stitched up the hole and tied the two upper corners of the bag to form the hands. She'd formed the head the same way, then made hair from scraps of wool, sewing on two buttons for the eyes.

The doll had been a gift for her fifth birthday, celebrated only two months earlier, and since then she had never been separated from it, keeping it with her at all times, like a good luck charm.

***

The bedroom door slowly opened, creaking slightly.

Doctor Di Giacomo appeared in the doorway, his shoulders slumped, a frown on his face, his eyes cast downwards. He was the only doctor in the village and had known its poverty-stricken inhabitants all his life, as if they were part of the family.

Filomena would never forget that scene. It would be etched in her memory for the rest of her life, cruelly resurfacing in her nightmares, leaving her sweating and trembling in her bed.

His face pale, his eyes filled with tears, the doctor looked over at the little girl. His own daughter was around the same age and he knelt beside her, took her cold little hand in his and, his voice faltering, told her the worst thing he could tell anyone. I'm sorry, she's gone...

Filomena glanced over at her grandmother, who immediately hurried over and took her in her arms.

The little girl’s piping voice broke the tragic melody of sobs that filled the room like a ghostly music. Where? Where’s she gone without me?

Her father, his eyes full of anger, tried to mask his feelings of rage, explaining as well as he could, She's gone to heaven, love, to be with the angels.

That cold winter month, the Spanish flu, also known as the Great Influenza, had claimed Amelia.

It was 1922 and no one expected further turmoil. The First World War had been over for some time and the population, exhausted by hunger, mourning and famine had finally begun to look forward to the joys of peace. Instead, oblivious to their dreams, the deadly virus had already surfaced several years earlier. It was known as the Spanish Flu because the Spanish press were the first to mention it after it almost claimed the life of the king, Alfonso XIII. There was no cure, no vaccine, for what proved to be the most catastrophic pandemic in human history.

Filomena knew none of this, of course. All she knew was that, in only a few days, it had taken her mother.

Amelia had fallen sick with a fever one evening and had begun to vomit. When she began to bleed from her mouth and nose, the little girl was immediately taken to the shelter of her grandparents' house.

Chapter Two

1922

During Mussolini's first government, the Education Minister, Giovanni Gentile, is charged with reforming the education system, making it the same for everyone. Compulsory education is extended to fourteen years of age, but this means little to the vast majority of children whose parents are too poor to give them an education or need