The Lost Village

by Daniela Sacerdoti

Genres: General Fiction; Cultural Heritage; Family Life; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Contemporary Romance; 20th Century Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

1945:

Two sisters give birth to two little girls on the same night, huddled under blankets, deep in the black woods that surround their village. They hold their babies close as footsteps approach. If they make even the slightest sound, the German soldiers will find them…

2006:

Luce Nardini clutches a plane ticket to Italy in her trembling hands. Since her only child left home, and with her estranged husband more distant than ever, she’s been overwhelmed with loneliness. She never knew her father, or the reason why her mother cut all contact with her family in the little village of Bosconero.

Lost and unravelling fast, uncovering her roots feels like Luce’s last and only hope. As Luce searches the maze of cobbled streets, a house with a faded blue door draped in perfect white roses stops her in her tracks. Inside is the grandmother she never knew, who – with a longing look at an ornate wooden box on her nightstand – begins to tell the heart-wrenching story of a little village ravaged by war, and why Luce’s mother fled home and swore never to return.

Surrounded by new friends and faded frescoes of saints, Luce is just starting to feel like she belongs when the unthinkable happens: an earth-shattering disaster that shakes the little village of Bosconero to its core. Could it be that the secrets of Luce’s past have been buried forever? Frightened, hopeless and feeling more alone than ever before, will the surprise arrival of the husband she thought she’d lost help sew Luce’s family back together, or tear it apart for good? One thing is certain: she must find the little wooden box amongst the rubble of the village and return it to her grandmother. But nothing will have prepared Luce for the devastating betrayal she finds inside…

An unputdownable historical romance about the secrets we keep to protect the ones we love by the author of million-copy Amazon No 1. bestseller, Watch Over Me. Perfect for anyone who loves Fiona Valpy, Lily Graham or The Letter by Kathryn Hughes.

"From the moment I opened this book I was hooked. This is a beautifully written story with characters that tug at your heartstrings from the second they’re introduced. You can’t help but fall in love with them and the tiny village in Italy where it takes place… you feel as though you’re really there... I devoured this book in no time… you can’t wait to turn the page to find out what happens next...which is why I finished this book at 3 in the morning!... I was so enthralled from the very first page!" Goodreads reviewer

"I really loved it… makes you want to curl up in a chair with a warm drink and read this slowly. I found myself not wanting to devour this, but to savour every page. It's emotional and empowering and the characters fill your mind completely long after you have finished the story." Crossroad Reviews

Release date: November 16, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 210

Sample

Many times she’d been told not to wander the woods during hunting season, from September to the end of October. Sure, the hunters knew what they were doing – they were careful – but her parents always said mistakes could be made, and it was better not to risk it.

She was a girl with a good head on her shoulders. She wasn’t careless. And yet, the temptation was too much: if she cut through the woods, she’d be at her boyfriend’s house in half an hour, which meant they’d have double the time to spend together. Moreover, if she cycled on the road, she would inevitably be seen by someone, and it would be reported back to Mamma. That was how village life worked. She was supposed to be home, studying for exams, and Mamma would be furious if she knew she’d gone out. But if she was careful, she could be in and out of the house without anyone noticing – unless, by tremendous ill luck, Mamma went upstairs to check on her. But it was just after lunch, and Mamma always let her study in peace in the afternoon. She decided to chance it. Her desire to see her boyfriend was too strong for her to be circumspect. She threw caution to the wind, and escaped through the window, jumping from the balcony onto the soft grass below.

The hunters would know she wasn’t a boar, or a pheasant, or a hare! Her mamma was being overprotective as usual. Also, her own father and brother were out hunting that afternoon, and she trusted them.

And so, all things considered, the girl convinced herself she was safe, and decided to let her bike fly free down the slope, which was covered in leaves of every shade, from yellow to red. She met the uneven undergrowth, and bump and after bump, she rode on, following the tree-lined dirt path. She congratulated herself for wearing a jumper over her skirt, as the October air was now chilly enough to do so, even in the warm heart of Italy.

Her thoughts went to the boy she was going to meet; he didn’t know she was coming – it would be a surprise. They were both meant to be studying for their exams, and then, diplomas under their belts, they’d be free to begin their lives, at last. They could get jobs and be together properly, like adults, not like teenagers, having to ask their parents’ permission. The girl knew he loved her, for real; and he’d promised his feelings would never change. She believed him with all her heart and soul. Young she might be, but she knew the two of them were forever…

The fallen leaves were slippery under the wheels, and the scent of wet earth filled the air. Suddenly, the distant noise of a gunshot made the girl jump. She frowned, but she’d known it was likely to happen, that she’d hear shooting at some point. Maybe it was her own father’s hunting party. She cycled on, faster. Soon she’d be through, and she could dismount, lifting her bike and herself over a low wall and onto the road. Ten minutes longer, no more.

There was another shot, this time closer, and voices came to her, carried by the autumn wind. The hunters really were terribly close. Blood rushed to her head, and she could feel her heart beating hard in her ears. Should she pause and try to find out where the shots came from? Or should she ride on as fast as she could, out of the tree canopy and into the open?

The girl was about to stop the bike and call out, to make her presence known, when voices followed the shot, coming from the thickets on her right-hand side – distraught, terror-stricken, and, finally, the voices turned into screams. Fear made her stop too fast, and she fell in the dirt, the wheels of her upturned bike still spinning.

While she lay with her cheek on the wet leaves, too stunned to get up, she saw a figure staggering onto the path, hunched. She recognised the brown checked shirt at once, she recognised his face, that face she knew like the back of her hand, even now that blood was pouring all over his eyes. He was faltering, falling, his arms forward – could she see her? Did he recognise her? The girl didn’t know. She crawled to him, her body trembling, and kneeled beside him. This was a nightmare – it couldn’t be happening. She felt as if she were watching herself from above, as if the shock had jolted her soul out and sent it wandering. Her father whispered three words, in a ragged, rasping voice, three words that were to change her life forever. And then he went limp, staring at the sky with unseeing eyes.

You did it, Mom!

My son’s words appeared on my phone.

I told you I would! I typed and smiled to myself, glancing out of the wide windows to the rows of waiting planes. My decision to fly to Italy had come as a surprise to pretty much everyone who knew me. Deciding to buy a one-way ticket to the other side of the world, I’d surprised myself too.

I didn’t believe you! I told Dad. I hope that’s okay. Just so he knows I’m going to stay with him when I come home. And yes, I’m good x

I bristled. Eli had done the right thing in telling his father about my trip, but even after three years apart, communications between Ethan and me were still fraught, and I wanted his involvement in my life to be Eli-related only. My resentment towards the man I now saw as my ex-husband – even if we hadn’t finalised a divorce yet – had no place in my conversations with our son. Eli worshipped his dad, but Ethan and I had drifted away over the years and there was no coming back.

I was trying to word a diplomatic reply, when another message popped up:

It’s awesome you’re doing this. For yourself and for Nonna. I’m proud of you.

Well, that brought tears to my eyes. My Eli, who’d gone from being a baby in my arms to a college student in the space of a heartbeat. The little boy I’d cherished, who’d heard those words from me so often – I’m proud of you – was now grown up and telling me the same. No matter the grief and strife between his father and me, we’d made an amazing human being, together.

Do you know how long will you be away for?

Guilt grabbed at me again, as it had throughout my preparations for this transatlantic trip. For the first time in our lives, Eli and I would be so far away from each other. And yet, he’d been the catalyst in the process that had led me here, on my way to unravel the secrets of my family’s past.

Eli had left home a few months earlier, to study photography and filmmaking at New York University – his dream come true. His choice of studies was no surprise: I was a wedding and portrait photographer, and ever since he was little Eli had come to the studio or on location with me, playing with toy cameras and then being given his own. But while my work was run-of-the-mill, Eli’s was extraordinary, and I nurtured it every step of the way. I had been overjoyed when he’d decided to go study in New York, but I hadn’t realised how deeply his departure was going to affect me.

At the ripe old age of forty-three I was living on my own, and I’d left romantic relationships behind, despite my girlfriends’ best efforts. I had a full life, with a job I adored and a good circle of friends, and I thought I’d be all right. But, as is often the case in life, things hadn’t unfolded as I’d expected. To my surprise, empty nest syndrome hit me hard. Now that Eli was gone, the house was empty not only of him, but of the buzz of all his projects and activities, of his friends coming and going, of music playing and photographs strewn all over the living room floor.

Ethan was out of my life, Eli was in New York. And me?

I was adrift.

One night, I dreamt I was walking down a narrow street and stopped in front of an old house, its door framed by trailing white roses. The dream was so vivid it felt real, and in the morning, I couldn’t shake it away. It kept playing on my mind.

The night after, the dream came back – and then again, and again, never changing. I walked down the same alley towards the same house, and stopped in front of the door, contemplating the ripe flowers that hung pure and white, like an impossible summer snowfall. I began to look forward to the dream, every night as I closed my eyes. Small details became clearer – the scene was drenched in light, sunshine all around, and there was a low buzz of bees in the air. Although I never saw my feet, I knew I was barefoot, because I felt hot stones under my soles. Each night the image grew clearer and clearer, although the scene remained unchanged – the place felt familiar, but I didn’t know why.

And then I remembered: I could count on one hand the times that Mamma, my Italian mother, had spoken about her past to me, in all the years of my life; and one of those rare times, she’d mentioned how there were trailing white roses wrapped around the entrance of her childhood home, and how they filled the air with their sweet scent. Was it my imagination, or when I was little had she told me that on moonlit nights she used to step out on her bedroom’s balcony, and breathe in the magical fragrance?

Sometimes during those long, lonely nights in my now-empty house – a house too big for me alone – I imagined the same: that I was standing barefoot on a balcony on a balmy Italian night, breathing in the scent of roses, watching the white moon high in the sky. The desire to find out where I came from, to discover why Mamma had cut herself – and me – off from her Italian family and locked the story away, overcame me.

And so, here I was, on a plane to Italy, a few thousand miles over the ocean. How long was I going to be away? I had no idea. Not yet.

As long as it takes… I typed, and it was time to board. Now, there was no turning back.

The blanket of clouds just below the airplane wing was an expanse of white and orange, sun rays piercing it and creating prisms of light – it was beautiful, and daunting in its vastness. It was a perfect shot, and my thoughts went to my camera, safely tucked in my suitcase. The phone would have to do. I took a few pictures to send to Eli once we’d landed – and then the plane began to jump a little. There was crackling over the speaker, then the captain’s voice filled the air – we were to fasten our seatbelts and switch off all electronics.

I followed the instructions, covered myself with my jacket to stay warm and leaned back. I fell asleep, a jet-lagged, confused slumber that might have been an afternoon nap or a whole night’s sleep, because only seconds seemed to have passed when the pilot’s voice awoke me. It was finally time to prepare for landing, he said, and butterflies filled my stomach as I saw snow-capped mountains below us. The Alps! Soon we’d make our way south and fly over the centre of Italy, ready to touch down in Fiumicino, not far from the ancient city of Rome.

The pilot informed us that it was warm and sunny in Italy, that we’d need to have our sunglasses and sun cream handy because down below it was a scorching summer day.

Oh my God. I was really here. In Europe. In Italy. Away from everything I knew.

On my own.

Was I excited or terrified? A little bit of both, I thought as I watched the ground coming closer, the mountains giving way to patterned fields and cities.

I took a breath – cold, stale plane air – and held onto both armrests, waiting to land and finally, finally, set foot on my mother’s homeland.

Stuck in between fellow passengers and bags, I waited impatiently for my turn to step off the plane; my heart was beating fast, my cheeks were flushed with excitement, and every minute spent on the plane was a minute too long. Time to retrieve my case, to navigate customs and then, with a rush of warm air, the automatic doors opened to a whole new world.

I scoured the people waiting beyond the barriers, some with handwritten signs, and glanced beyond them, towards the crowds of people coming and going, or waiting in queues. A bedlam of noise and colours and foreign voices. For a moment, anxiety held me tight as I thought maybe nobody would be there for me… and then, there she was! Matilde, my cousin! I recognised her straight away from the pictures on her Facebook page. A smile bloomed from the depths of me; oh, how I’d waited for this moment, to meet someone of my blood at last, other than my mom. She stood on her tiptoes, her chin raised, wavy raven hair to her shoulders and sunglasses pushed back on her head.

‘Matilde!’ I called and waved, hoping my voice would be heard above the din, and made my way beyond the barriers, rolling my case behind me. Her face lit up when she saw me; she ran to me and hugged me like she’d known me forever. She was even prettier than in her photographs; and there was definitely a familiar air in her build, in her colouring. She had a striking resemblance to Mamma and me, all three of us small, dark, unmistakably Mediterranean.

‘Luce!’ Matilde pronounced my name like Mamma did – Lu-chay – and my heart somersaulted. Nobody, apart from my mom, ever used the right pronunciation. I was always Lucy. We hugged tight and, at that moment, I felt the deep, heart-warming conviction that I’d made the right decision.

‘It’s so good to finally meet you!’ I said, and silently thanked Mamma for always speaking to me in Italian. However, everyone seemed to speak so fast here; I hoped that the Italian my mom had taught me would stand the test of real-life conversations.

‘And you! Are you moving over here?’ She laughed, taking in my enormous suitcase.

‘I like being prepared for all eventualities!’ Truth was, I was so anxious to be travelling so far, and on my own, that I’d packed half the house.

‘I can see that. Oh, I just can’t believe you’re here! My American cousin,’ she said, taking my arm. ‘Like in a film!’ She had a light, contagious laughter. Matilde’s cheerfulness shone around her like a warm aura, and I basked in it.

We stepped outside in the blinding sunshine – I couldn’t believe I was actually in Rome – not exactly in the city itself, but almost!

‘I’ll just go pay for the parking, then we’ll be off. Two minutes,’ Matilde said, so fast that I had to concentrate to understand what she said – hopefully I would get used to the accent quickly – and left me and my huge suitcase alone on the edge of the pavement. With my heart in my throat, I watched Matilde cross the road, dodging cars in a way you’d never see in America. I’d read that people in Rome drove like madmen; it seemed I was getting a taste of it already, and we hadn’t even left the airport. Instinctively, I took a step back from the edge of the pavement, in case someone drove over my toes. I fished my sunglasses out of the crossbody I carried, and took off the light cardigan I’d worn on the plane, letting the Italian sunshine kiss my skin.

The sky was the purest blue, and a hot breeze played in my hair – it was the kind of dry wind that would never blow back home in Seattle. Everything looked and felt so exotic, more like a holiday far away than a homecoming. For a moment, the noises and colours of this unknown place overwhelmed me. The smell of hot asphalt and car exhaust, Italian voices, loud and expressive, the chaos of klaxons… And everywhere, pervading everything, the light of the sun, a different hue from what I was used to – almost like the Seattle sun was silver, and this was gold.

I took out my phone and captured a shot of that moment; I wanted to compose a story in pictures to show Eli. And then I bent over the screen to write him a message, and let him know I’d landed safely. I was struggling to see the screen because of the glare and the sunglasses, when something startled me – ‘Ciao, bella!’ a voice said. I jerked my head up from the phone. A man with tight jeans and sunglasses had just stepped past me, and he was still turning around to catch a glimpse of me.

Seriously? Seriously?

Had I just been catcalled? My jaw dropped open. Was I about to find out that all Italian stereotypes were true? I didn’t know whether to be outraged or secretly pleased. A little bit of both, maybe. I looked down, embarrassed, and when I looked up again, Matilde was beside me.

‘Ignore that. I apologise on behalf of Italian males, they’re not all so… forward. To be fair, you’re beautiful. Expect some attention,’ she said, mischievously. She knew about my marital situation – I hoped with all my heart she wouldn’t attempt some matchmaking, like my married girlfriends did every once in a while.

And anyway, me? Beautiful?

No, I wasn’t. Nondescript, more like. Small, dark-haired and brown-eyed; average, really. I had made an effort to prepare for this trip. Even if it had all been so quick, between deciding to go and actually getting a taxi to the airport, I’d managed to squeeze in a visit to a fancy Seattle boutique and treated myself to a few linen dresses, high-heeled sandals and new sunglasses. I’d visited the hairdresser’s too, trimming my long dark hair in a shoulder-length bob to freshen it up, and working in some mahogany lowlights. Still, no amount of grooming could make me beautiful, I didn’t think.

We crammed ourselves and all my luggage into Matilde’s Fiat 500, and the next hour was spent trying to untangle ourselves from Roman traffic.

‘I hope I’m not being offensive here, but you guys drive like maniacs,’ I said, grabbing the little handle over my right shoulder – it didn’t seem much to hold onto, as Matilde launched herself into what seemed like a Paris–Dakar type of race.

‘We do, don’t we?’ Matilde replied cheerily, overtaking a couple of cars in a way I was sure was illegal. It had to be. A bald man in a tiny car with a rosary hanging from his front mirror made a gesture that meant pretty much the same in all cultures. I held onto my seat, hoping I would make it out of there alive.

‘I’m a conscientious driver, don’t worry,’ Matilde said. ‘I’ve only been stopped a few times and almost always convinced the carabinieri – you know, our police – to let me go.’

That wasn’t very reassuring. ‘All good, then,’ I said feebly, leaning back.

‘You okay? You’re not really scared, are you?’ Her eyes were huge. ‘You need some fresh air,’ she said and let the window down. Hot air from inside the car blew out, hot air from outside the car blew in. No freshness anywhere.

‘No, of course not.’ Yes, I am terrified! ‘Just…’

‘Sorry?’ she yelled over the noise of the wind.

‘Just a bit…’ I yelled back, and words failed me.

‘A bit overwhelmed?’

I nodded. It was true.

‘I can imagine,’ Matilde said, and swerved in between two trucks to get onto the motorway. I held on with both hands. Good Lord, who gave this girl a driving licence? ‘It is overwhelming – the whole situation, I mean.’

‘It is, yes… be careful!’

‘Why, what’s wrong?’ she said, overtaking a truck and driving so close to it I saw the little chips in its paint job. The name of the truck company flew in front of my eyes, letter by letter, in slow motion, an inch from my face.

‘Watch out!’

‘Relax, Luce. It’s all good.’ She laughed. ‘I promise I’ll get you to Bosconero in one piece.’

I dried beads of sweat off my forehead and decided I could not formulate another sentence in a foreign language until we came off the motorway.

A few minutes later, to my relief, we left the truck-infested motorway and drove onto an open road, covered with a blue sky so bright not even my sunglasses could dim it. Matilde closed the windows as we relied on AC, and quiet and coolness permeated the car. In the distance, on my right, I could see the Rome skyline passing by, with its domes and tall buildings, and on the horizon, the ground rising into tree-covered hills. Even further away, the blue, dim profile of a mountain range – the Apennines, I guessed.

I took a breath and relaxed slightly, leaning my head back. I began to consider the possibility of actually making it to Bosconero in one piece, just like my cousin had promised.

Jet lag and the last dregs of adrenaline ebbing away made everything seem like a daydream. Was I really here, on the other side of the Atlantic? Was that really the Rome skyline, the same Rome I’d read about in history books? Was I really sitting beside my own flesh and blood, after years of knowing nothing about my origins?

‘It’s so weird we had no idea of each other’s existence,’ I said in the silence of the car.

‘Yes. All I knew was that I had an aunt named Angelina – your mamma. It barely registered with me when I was little. Like she was this mythical creature who lived far away. I don’t think it felt real until you got in touch with me. Nonna Clelia mentioned her so rarely, and every time it was like this dark secret that couldn’t be said aloud…’

‘Nonna’s name is Clelia, then?’ I asked, and realised how little Matilde and I had spoken online before I’d made my way to Italy. There was so much to say and so much to find out.

‘Yes. Nonna Clelia. And my papà’s name is Carlo. Your zio Carlo.’

Clelia and Carlo. My grandmother and my uncle…

‘They mention my mom sometimes, then?’

‘Only Nonna. She mentions Angelina once in a while, like it’s a secret. And my papà… he doesn’t want Angelina discussed. He forbids Nonna to even mention her, which is why she always looks guilty, every time she does.’

‘He forbids it? Does she not have a mind of her own?’

‘You have to meet my papà. He’s quite… imposing.’

‘Oh.’

‘You didn’t know about me either. Your mamma… my aunt Angelina… she never told you about us?’

‘Very little. I knew she’d left her mother and brother behind, somewhere in Italy. I didn’t know where exactly, . . .