A Beauty Unbroken

By Deborah Russo

A Beauty Unbroken is a story of sorrow and despair, tragedy and loss, of intrigue and passion full of remarkable courage, love, and resilience. It happens in the majestic mountains and cliffs of Southern Italy in the Campania Region with views of the Bay of Naples, Sorrento, Positano, and the Mediterranean Sea.

Born in 1948, thirteen-year-old Violetta Yanonne, a smart, noncompliant, and sassy Italian Catholic girl, lives on a farm with her grandparents and single mother in Benevento, Italy. While longing to be loved, she's a dreamer in search to know who her father is.

Violetta has a belligerent mistrust of adults who insist she marry young, be a dutiful wife, and ignore her passion for a college degree and a career. Having been exposed to the effects of lies and deception, scandals, pedophilia, rape, and murder, Violetta is skeptical of the Catholic Church and its patriarchal teachings. In her discontent, she takes to the mountains and sea. She follows her intuition, feeling its presence deep within her heart.

Determined to leave her home country for a better life, Violetta avoids a committed relationship with Julius, who is in love with her, even though they have a deep love for one another since childhood. Her biggest dream is to go to the United States as a singer-actress in New York City with aspirations of being a teacher of drama or a journalist, where she can use her voice as an advocate for female equality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662485831

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A Beauty Unbroken

Deborah Russo

Copyright © 2022 Deborah Russo

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-8573-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8583-1 (digital)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915751

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4a

Chapter 4b

Chapter 5a

Chapter 5b

Chapter 5c

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10a

Chapter 10b

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19a

Chapter 19b

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

To my daughter, Amber Lea, for dreaming with me.

For sharing my passion for inspiring others to listen to their inner voice,

to love and appreciate themselves, and never give up on their dreams.

Acknowledgments

With overwhelming gratitude.

To my daughter, Amber Lea, who spent hours and weeks editing my first original draft. I treasure your literary skills and marvelous insight. I'm grateful for our mother-daughter time and a heartfelt experience built on love and trust I will never forget.

To my husband, Daniel, for believing in me. For your constant encouragement and proofreading and for patiently listening to me read drafts of my developing story. I'm grateful for your respect and understanding of my need to express. Thanks to my stepdaughters, Lydia and Rachel, for your interest in my creativity and self-expression.

To my dear friends, a constant source of fortitude, you have journeyed with me through life—supporting me. I cherish your friendship. I'm forever grateful for your inspiration and for cheering me on during my creative endeavor to complete A Beauty Unbroken.

To my beautiful mother, Violet, my loving aunts, and my grandmothers, Anna and Carmella, for your courage and perseverance through life's obstacles. To my brother, and cousins, and my entire family whose Italian spirit will live on in my story of A Beauty Unbroken. Thank you, Dad, at ninety-five years old, for taking the time to read my first chapter and for your genuine excitement about my book being published.

To the Page Publishing Inc. editing team, for your keen editing skills and valuable comments and suggestions. Much praise and thanks for the care taken with the manuscript of this novel. To my coordinator, Lisa Renwick, for your continuing encouragement and advice with amazing patience as a guiding companion during the writing and publishing process.

To Alice Aerot, my literary agent at Page Publishing. Who had faith in my story from the very beginning, taking a personal interest in my caregiving of my father, Charles. Because of your compassion for my dad and understanding his need for my attention while we conversed on the phone, I immediately trusted you with my story. I sensed Page Publishing was a good fit for me. Thank you for taking a chance on my book.

To Dr. Jeremey E.R. Reidy, MS, AP, DOM, for helping my body physically and mentally meet the demands of writing a novel. I'm grateful for your profound and timely insight, endearing support, and enthusiasm about my work who inspired me to bring this novel to fruition.

To Laveta Piemme, for your meditation practices that taught me how to stop and be still in the silence as a way to connect to my heart's river of peace, joy, and love. For urging me to go deeper in my search for the peaceful calm underneath the turbulence of life which adds strength to my voice.

A special thank you to Andrea Cipolla, for sharing your knowledge of horses.

To the Powers family—Dr. Andi Luke, Dr. Lee Powers, and Dr. Micah Powers—for your personal interest in my story and for the effective treatments to relieve my wrist and thumb pain from long hours of typing on the computer.

Prologue

Waves crashing, Violetta sits on a rock near the jetty. Alone with her beloved sea, she finds serenity as she writes in her journal on pages all sandy and curled:

The ocean comes to me

thrashing and crashing.

Like a monstrous wave of torment

cold and chilling at my feet

I hear your words, I own your soul

echoing in the deep dark sea.

Did you think you could toss me around?

Defile, devalue me

with a sense I would be destroyed by my darkest hour?

I lay in the wet sand on the edge of the shore

Letting the evening tide wash over me

I breathe in…I breathe out

Chapter 1

I Lost My Voice

Age thirteen

Benevento, Italy, 1961

In the beautiful countryside of Italy's mountains and rolling hills, olive trees and grape vines, in the village of Benevento near Naples, the blazing sun beats on Grandpa Salvatore's wrinkled forehead. Worn from a day of hoeing, planting, and picking, Grandpa opens and slams the front door entering the kitchen. Violetta's washing peppers and tomatoes from the garden. Violetta, how many times have I told you not to park your bike in the middle of the driveway? There's no room to back up the food truck. In a huff, she throws the mappina (dish towel) on the kitchen counter, opens the screen door to go outside and move her bike, while Grandpa rummages through the refrigerator. She watches him reach for several slices of cheese and salami, slapping it between one of Grandma's homemade buns. Grandpa's appetite amazes Violetta. She's surprised by the abundance of food he consumes, gulping it down so fast, in and out of the kitchen day and night. Taking a huge bite, he grabs a cold beer from the refrigerator and speaks with his mouth full, Don't bother now, Violetta, I already moved it. Pick up those books and magazines you have strewn all over the living room floor. Your stuff is everywhere in this house. And put your shoes on. Don't go around here in your bare feet.

Violetta glares at Grandpa as he hurries out the door to finish his day's labor. She mumbles under her breath, "This is my house too. I live here and work here. I should be able to do whatever I want to do with books." Seconds later, her mother, Rose Marie, twenty-nine, is in the living room commanding her attention.

Violetta come in here!

Violetta enters the room, rolling her eyes with dread, wondering what drama there was now. Her mother's pointing to something on the piano bench. "Isn't it just like you to be flighty and irresponsible, Violetta? Look at this wood. It's ruined! You should have known better than to park your culo on the piano bench with your wet bathing suit."

Violetta rubs her hand over the water marks, twists her mouth, shaking her head. I don't understand why I'm catching hell, Mother, for not knowing what it was I should have known. I didn't think about it leaving a splotchy stain on the wooden surface. What's the big deal?

All you think about, Violetta, is your future and dreaming about going to college.

Violetta snaps back, You have no idea how a young girl feels!

With both hands on her hips, stomping her foot on the floor, Rose Marie says sharply, I don't care how you feel. What's wrong with you? Why can't you be satisfied and just keep your mind on what you're doing?

Violetta storms out of the farmhouse door. She takes off running through dry grass, across a field of lavender, and bright red-blood poppies in the village of Benevento, trampling down to the wet cow pasture, where she stumbles upon Elsmerelda, her favorite milk cow dillydallying, chewing her cud, wedged in mud up to her knees.

Violetta cries to Elsmerelda, I hate adults bossing me and being critical. Nothing adults taught me about being obedient and kind makes any sense to me right now. Holding back my feelings make some adults in my family happy, but to do that makes me miserable. Why can't I be unruly or mad? Speak what's on my mind? I'm tired of hearing I am too sensitive or ‘Eat, Violetta, you'll feel better.' Isn't it better I spit it out, yelp, and yammer, than to bottle it all up inside and get a bellyache? My gut feeling tells me when something is wrong. Sometimes I know things are going to happen before they happen. So why would I want to ignore what I'm feeling?

Elsmerelda blinks her cow eyes, staring at Violetta. Violetta watches Elsmerelda put her head down to the ground and wrap her tongue around a clump of grass, pulling it into her mouth as she begins the slow process of grinding her food. Violetta shakes her head, rolling her indigo eyes. Impatience is creeping into her voice. She grumbles, Ohoooo, why would you care how I feel? You're a cow. Violetta starts to walk away, but she sees Elsmerelda's long eyelashes, her soft deep brown eyes of love and humbleness. Violetta feels sorry for Elsmerelda's circumstances, having to be a cow with little freedom or sole purpose, only born to give birth and produce milk. She rubs her behind the ears. You are intelligent but much too kind. Don't you care that you're stuck here with people pulling on your udders, milking you morning and night? You have such little room to roam. Elsmerelda lifts her head up, bellowing a succession of moo chants as if she's trying to understand what her friend is saying. Mesmerized by Elsmerelda's intense staring at her, Violetta wonders, Are those God's eyes glaring at me? Trying to rub the thick gobs of mud off her sneakers, Violetta says earnestly, Elsmerelda, are you happy being a cow? Are you ever sad and disappointed like me? Violetta can't comprehend how a cow can be so easygoing about her life, complacent, gentle, and never mean.

Plodding through fertile pasture, wrestling with her mind, Violetta takes off running into the lush green countryside of Italy's mountains and rolling hills. Flames of aggravation like a sheet of fire redden the sky. Violetta clenches both fists to the Mediterranean sunset and declares to herself, It's not me! It's them! We just don't connect on what I feel is important. She remembers adults' comments in her younger years—from mother, Grandpa, aunts and uncles, or nuns at school—live on like haunting voices in her head. Her heartache for adults' mistrust is why Violetta runs through the countryside, hikes to higher ground, her dog merrily leading the trail ahead, or why she rides her bike for miles to the ocean to immerse herself in beauteous sunrises and sunsets. She forever dreams of how she wants her life to be while criticized by adults, reprimanding her, You'll never be satisfied, will you, Violetta? She's tired of Grandpa telling her, If you don't stop whining, I'll give you something to cry about. And the one that irritates her the most from her mother is, What's wrong with you? These questions like shooting arrows pierce her soul, as tears of anger and confusion surface in having to live in an outer world she doesn't understand. Just because I want more for my life doesn't mean there's something wrong with me.

Breathing hard, sweating in the hot evening sun, Violetta has a memory of something that happened to her in first grade at St. Michael's Catholic School.

On the day I lost my voice, there, in the school cafeteria, Mother Superior stands fierce and stern dressed in black-and-white, her tight habit digging wrinkles on her forehead. I thought she might explode into a million little pieces right in front of me and all the students eating lunch. Suddenly, she leans over me, and as I tense, I get a whiff of her talcum powder, a putrid lungful. Her old lady's scent fills my nostrils, enough to make me start sneezing and coughing.

She grabs my arm as I sit down with my tray, a plate full of pasta con pomodoro e basilica, and she commands me to stand up. Stunned and shamefaced, my knees begin to buckle under me. Will she beat me? Curse me? Expel me from school? Fearing severe punishment, I force my shaking, wobbly legs to stand up, horrified for what she might do if I dare disobey.

Mother Superior emitted a blaring trumpet like cry as she made her clamorous announcement, We have someone in this room who stole money this morning. Someone who stole Pamina's lunch money on the bus.

And then, with a scowl, she points her long index finger into my chest cavity as I'm pulling back in my chair bewildered and blindsided.

It's you! I'm looking at you, Violetta! You're the one who took Pamina's lunch money out of her library book, aren't you? Where is the money? What did you do with it? The devil's got a hold on your soul, dragging you into hell.

My palms, wet and sweaty. My legs tremble with fear. I'm listless, and nobody's coming to my defense. I want to be a ghost to disappear.

All eyes are on me as dead silence falls into the room, so hot and stuffy I can't breathe. Hearing those intimidating words, my heart pumps a boiling rage throughout my body. My hands and feet burn like fire. I put my head down like I dare not utter a word. This is wrong I thought! But I could not answer her back or scream in her face. Instead, my tongue went numb. I was speechless. Voiceless. Paralyzed with fear. In my mind, I knew the truth as I replay the scene carefully, like a moving picture show behind my eyes.

That morning, I sat next to Pamina on the bus. All I did was ask if I could see her library book because I'm a lover of books and knowledge, curious about what she was reading. She smiled, handed it to me, and when I was finished glancing through the pages, I gave the book back to her. I didn't take any money, never saw her money, and I'm not a thief.

But still pressing on Violetta's mind are those memories of dread that keep repeating, those abrasive words demeaning and false accusations sprouting feelings of worthlessness, which embedded themselves in Violetta's brain. Mother Superior started an indignant fury of anxiety for Violetta, causing her to doubt and mistrust herself, so devastating for Violetta she began to discount her own story. That night in bed, she cried out, Dear God, do you believe Mother Superior over me? Feeling guilty and shamed, she asks, Is this whole thing all my fault? What if Mother Superior did condemn me to hell? If I die tonight, what happens? Will you throw me into a dark cave of eternal fire?

The next day Mother Superior received a phone call from Pamina's mother revealing the truth: the bus driver found the money on the floor, under Pamina's seat. Violetta was vindicated. But Mother Superior never apologized to Violetta or said she was sorry for falsely accusing her. It's been seven years, but for Violetta, at thirteen, bitterness remains unsettled in her soul. Her distress from being falsely accused turns to defiance, and rage lives on into her adolescence, where deep inside a desire stirs wicked: she wants revenge by having her voice heard.

Stopping to rest under a tree to lessen her tension, Violetta's digging deep inside her. She thinks back to age four, intrigued by a painting of St. Michael the Archangel hanging on a wall in her grandparents' bedroom. She stared for days at that painting, in awe over the heroic archetype of a soldier in battle wearing gigantic wings, swinging his sword. His muscular physique towers over an ugly beast with horns; he has a long rubbery tail, and his claws hold a pitchfork. Enthralled by St. Michael, the archangel, and his colossal strength and courage, she liked that he is the patron saint and defender against dark forces of the devil. But she couldn't forget the priest's words: If you die with a mortal sin on your soul, you will burn in hell for eternity and never see God. Violetta was left wondering who and where the devil lives.

Violetta sensed at age four that she has a lot to learn about life and her curiousness. Tradition and believing what others tell her to be true makes her crazy. At thirteen, the thought of the devil irks her to the bone, leaving her with this question, Does the devil roam the earth prowling on my life and other young people's lives? This just doesn't feel right to her. Going to hell by indoctrination of the Catholic Church's teachings doesn't resonate with her any longer. And recently, she's noticed that underneath the painting of St. Michael, it reads, Who is like unto God. Violetta figures maybe she can be like St. Michael and discover a way to fight off evil.

Hours later, it's twilight, and Violetta arrives home. She can hear the Great Dane barking nonstop. Lexina, known as little Blue-Gray, is four years old. She was the runt of the Great Dane litter. Her name is of Greek origin and means man's defender. Her mother didn't want her at birth. Violetta found her lying in her own vomit, weak and malnourished. It was a hungry braw to find the mother's breast among the stronger and healthier, and Blue-Gray didn't matter. Soaking wet from the rain, she smelled like urine and feces, but Violetta pulled her out of the mud, cleaned her off in a nearby stream, and wrapped her in a towel. Violetta's face brightened when Grandma took her in her arms and comforted her. Violetta teared up. Her puppy blue eyes caught mine, Grandma, and I knew she was the one. I needed her as much as she needed me.

Grandpa asked, How much?

Violetta told him, I made a fair trade with her owner, Senortta Serafina. Fresh produce and ten lire, money I saved working for you at the Italian market on weekends. Please, may I keep her?

Grandpa and Grandma both responded in unison, Si. Grinning with approval, Grandpa responded, We could use a little protection around here. Grandma helped Violetta clean and disinfect her wounds, and they bandaged them. Her homemade remedies—feeding her oregano, basil, peppermint, and parsley—stopped her diarrhea. Lexina's eyes brightened, and nourished with love and affection, her spirit livened. She gained weight and regained her natural vitality for running and hiking. For Violetta, having Lexina in her life is a taste of honey.

Opening the gate to the farmhouse yard, Violetta sees Lexina tearing and ripping clothes off the clothesline, and Grandma's chasing her with a broom. Violetta bursts into laughter, thinking this is wonderful entertainment, watching Lexina's defiance as Grandma's chasing her around the clothesline, raising the broom to the Great Dane's disobedience. Violetta loves seeing Grandma squaring up with Lexina's devious behavior. Violetta wonders how she too would escape rules of authority that make no sense to her. Stupid rules like having to wear a uniform to school every day that stifles her passion for fashion, confining, boring, and unclassy. Who said we have to wear these? Are nuns and priests forced to wear black garments to please God or what? For Violetta, wearing black symbolizes death and dying, a color mournful and depressing to her spirit.

She thinks about the time she dressed up like a nun. Her cousin Vincent dressed up like a priest, playacting for the Halloween party at school. The nuns were so impressed with the nun and priest act and the accurate sewing of the costumes by her mother and Grandma that the nuns gave purpose to it and awarded Vincent and her a prize. Now, she's contemplating, Are nuns and priests like me, playacting, or like my family thinks of them as, holy and perfect, having all the answers? Where's the freedom? When will I ever be able to find out what I could be without talons digging into my passion for exploring?

That evening, Violetta props herself up in bed with her soft pillows reading. Lexina lays calm on her bed. Grandma Anna Carmella pokes her head inside the doorway decidedly. "Violetta, Non preoccuparti! I can restore the piano bench back to its natural beauty."

"Molto grati, Grandma. I'll help you." Violetta ran over to give her a tender hug.

Chapter 2

What's All the Lying About?

Sunday

Violetta's inner world is her beating heart, where her thoughts and visions are her own without being scorned. In being alone, Violetta has the freedom to sort out her problems when she gets frustrated or disappointed in life. She runs to open her bedroom window on a moonlit night in awe of the nightingale singing its sweet melodies. For Violetta, watching the full moon over the bay of Naples is her hope in the dark. She sees the sun coming up, the sun going down. These have more meaning to her than having to live in the mundanity of life.

At thirteen, people catch Violetta daydreaming, telling her to stop drifting and pay attention. Her mother pleads, Violetta, can you stop dreaming long enough to clean your room?

Why do I have to, Mother? In a day or two, it looks the same. I make the bed, hang up my clothes, do the laundry. To dust and vacuum is boring, boring. Violetta would rather read books and playact. She loves to pretend, dress in costumes, or be somebody else, someone important that everyone admires, like maybe a singer, a concert pianist, or actress on stage. She imagines she's Juliet calling to her Romeo from her bedroom window and then reaches for her journal to change the tragic ending to a happy one.

It's Sunday evening, Violetta has finished milking Elsmerelda, fed the chickens, folded the laundry, washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen floor. Her mother is off on a retreat somewhere, while Violetta's longing to know where her father is. Grandpa's out hoeing the garden, and Grandma's watering her flowers. She can hear them yelling to each other from inside about how to trim the rose bushes, and she just shakes her head.

Violetta sits down at the piano in a melancholy mood, reflecting. She pretends she's three years old, has a father who comes home from work every day, imagines he's dark-haired, tall with gentle brown eyes. "Buonasera, Papa, how was your day?"

He scoops her up in his arms, hugging her tight. Hey, my sweet Violetta, sing me a song while I sit here and listen. Smiling, he's full of admiration and praises. She's elated! But when she looks to the corner of the room, she sees an empty chair.

Why did you leave me, Papa? I saw you sitting in that soft cozy chair. At night, I have this dream so real. I'm a tiny baby, and you are holding me. You call me Luce Dei Mieli Occhi, which means light of my eyes. I'm crying. There is this gentle trickling sound of water or a small fountain, a sound comforting to me. I hear you whisper in my ear, ‘To be together, Violetta, is our sacred contract,' but when I wake up, you're gone. Please, Papa, tell me, are you gone from me forever, or will I see you again? Mother tells me you drowned at sea, before I was born, and they never found your body. Is she lying to me, Papa? Tears of loneliness trickle down her cheeks. She's lost, lost in an unfulfilled desire with an emptiness she can't explain. She only knows it hurts deep in the pit of her stomach.

Her eyes glance to the photograph of herself on top of the piano at four years old with ringlets on her shoulders. Her curly hairs, as Grandma Anna Carmella calls them, are inherited from her. At this age, her mother proudly insists she wrap each wet bundle of hair around her fingers, shaping each one with a fine-tooth comb into long spirals. She remembers her mother's hands cold on her neck. The touch on her skin sent an unexpected chill down Violetta's spine. But something didn't feel right when her mother grabbed a hold of her shoulder, to scold her, Stop fidgeting, Violetta, you'll be late to catch the bus for school. When she would ask her mother questions about her father, Rose Marie lashed out in bitterness, pulling on Violetta's hair. You are such a brat! I told you he drowned at sea. Now forget about it. Feeling enraged with defiance, Violetta would pull the curls out before she got to school. Ever since her mother told Violetta her father drowned, she's wanted to know more about him and has reoccurring dreams. Violetta can't bury the hope that her father is still alive and what she lost with him might be found.

Monday, next morning

Getting dressed for school, Violetta stands lingering, staring at her adolescent reflection in the mirror. Her indigo eyes follow the carved gold Italian frame her grandfather bought in Positano resembling her family's strong cultural influence of Napoli and the Campania region. As she grabs hold of the antique frame, she realizes her entire physical image is encased in a family heirloom of old family ideas and beliefs insisting upon denying her exposure to life. She was born with curiosity and an insatiable appetite for exploration and experimentation. She asks questions adults can't answer.

Sbrigati, dear, Grandma calls to her upstairs. Hurry on, Violetta, you'll be late for school.

I'm coming, Grandma! Give me one minute.

Violetta pulls on her white cotton blouse buttoned up to her neck. Her maroon jumper gives her an itch from the rough, uncomfortable feel of the fabric. As she sees it, having to wear her school uniform to St. Michael's every day goes against her natural grain of wanting to be independent and free. Why do I have to wear this thing? The nuns expect me to be stone-cold in here without any passion or excitement. I'm not a statue carved in stone with a face sober and unchanging, with hair stiff and nonflowing. Violetta imagines herself a sculptured body worn and cracked from years of living passionless, a stranger to her real self. She wants to feel free to express herself and be who she is, which is why she wonders if she can escape all the strict tutoring or dance alone and not be molded by others. Violetta thinks about Sister Agnes repeatedly telling the class not to have impure thoughts. What does she mean? If I have thoughts about being kissed and touched by a boy, does that make me bad? For Violetta, having a boy adore and love her would be something beautiful.

Looking at her uniform in the mirror one last time, she rips off the belt around her waist. Why would God want me to wear maroon? I hate maroon. So today, it seems reasonable that she should break a school rule. In a hurry, she quickly removes her uniform and tosses it in the closet, changes into her favorite sea-green dress, feeling lighthearted and more like herself. Its free-flowing fabric hugs and flatters all her