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The castle, once a mighty fortress, now stands like a shattered, gap-toothed mouth; guarding the village like a tired, old grandfather – once proud and mighty; today worn and fragile – hunched and of delicate bone; brittle, but still there despite the passage of time and of cataclysmic events; just like the Della Robbia Madonna with Child, which livens up the street with its vivid colours. Like the castle, it was there before the great evil was committed – a survivor of calamities; a bringer of hope to those alive. |
The sun-drenched piazza – what should be the hub of life – is barren. The well is sealed, as if to hide dark events that should never come to light again; or be repeated. The mural of remembrance by the church dominates – lest people should forget the fallen children of Civitella. Remembrance is an invisible but powerful flood; the repeated bursting of an emotional dam. |
Civitella is clean; very clean and tidy. All the dwellings ancient, but neat and well-maintained. There is no trace of neglect; no sign of decay. Like a phoenix, Civitella has risen from the ashes to fly again from the heights of its hilltop. The small gardens that flank each house are lovingly tended – the hedges are trim; the topiaries flawless, devoid of any stray leaves. |
My gaze is drawn far away, along the dark green hills – undulating as far as the eye can see, like a sea storm. The distant peaks look grey and murky in the afternoon heat. A long, straight path cuts through the green peaks for a long way out, until it disappears behind a distant, hazy summit.
The church tower is ever-present in Civitella. It soars over the bijou houses – a reference point to the whole community. A reminder of the place where cruel acts were perpetrated. Civitella lives on with a quiet dignity. A stoic little town. The memorial museum is always open; unattended – an invitation for anyone who wants to share in the sorrow of remembrance; to see the faces of the 244 innocents who were massacred; to read their stories; to glimpse at their personal items, that after all, are not very different from yours or mine. They have physically gone, but their presence is still felt in their little town. They live in hearts and minds; in places; in streets. |
A man and a woman, as cold as marble, kiss each other warmly and silently; their knees touching – intertwined as if one being with two states of consciousness. Their eternal kiss flows along the straight road to the Piazza and the church, as if to bring a touch of love and tenderness to the place where humanity had once lost its very essence; where daemons took hold of the conquerors and turned them into heartless butchers. |
| The ancient stone houses look down towards the valley – erect and sturdy like the still-standing towers of the castle. They have gone through a lot since they were built. Their stones are a collage of a hundred shades of ochre. The green shutters stand out on this canvas just as the brown ones blend in. The restaurant’s terrace on the town wall is empty, even on a Sunday. The tables, shaded by large, virgin-white canopies stand forlorn; vacant. All is quiet. Yet, the place is brimming with memories. Sometimes it feels suffocating. All other thoughts and feelings have been banished – there is no space left for them. A scattering of cypresses rise parallel to the Church tower – itself, a stone cypress, vigilant over the souls of the departed. A lonely child runs along the street; his voice echoing in the vast emptiness. |
The oleanders are bursting with pink blooms; the olive trees are thick with silvery-green leaves and tiny bunches of yellowish flowers – their gnarled trunks as old as the pitted stones of the houses. The pots on the walls and balconies, or those standing by the doors are overflowing with the reds, whites and pinks of geraniums and petunias. The whole town is a funerary monument – a garden of rest. The colours of life seem to pay homage to the living and the dead, who, in Civitella intermingle and live together in harmony. Life leads to death; death leads to life.