Cazzarola!

Norman Nawrocki

Description

Cazzarola! is a gripping, epic, political, historical, and romantic novel spanning 130 years in the life of the Discordias, a fictional family of Italian anarchists. It details the family’s heroic, multigenerational resistance to fascism in Italy and their ongoing involvement in the anarchist movement. From early 20th-century factory strikes and occupations, armed anarchist militias, and attempts on Mussolini’s life, to postwar student and labor protest, and confronting the newest wave of contemporary neofascist violence sweeping Europe, the Discordias navigate the decades of political, economic, and social turmoil. Against this historical backdrop, Antonio falls in love with Cinka, a proud but poverty-stricken Romani refugee from the “unwanted people,” without a country or home, forced to flee again and again searching for peace. Theirs becomes a life-changing and forbidden relationship. Both are forced to reevaluate their lives and contend with cultural taboos, xenophobia, and the violent persecution of Romani refugees in Italy today.

Sujets

• Neo-Nazi
• Love and Rage
• Anti-fascism
• Neo-fascism
• Roma

Informations

• Publié par: PM Press
• Date de parution: 01 novembre 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781604868975
• Langue: English

Extrait

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR CAZZAROLA!
"In Romani culture, when enjoying music we don’t say, ‘Did you hear that?’ We say, ‘Did you feel that?’ I didn’t just read Cazzarola! , I felt it. As a Romani woman who has lived in Italy, this very relatable novel often echoed the pages of my own life. Bravo, Ta Aves Baxtalo!" Julia Lovell, Romani activist and filmmaker
"Cazzarola! is a powerful, blunt, epic scream against social injustice." David Lester, author of The Listener and guitarist of Mecca Normal
"A brilliant title for a brilliant story of love and rage, which the author shares with his characters in every page. Cazzarola! reads like a film, a sort of Bertolucci’s Novecento recast in contemporary Italy. Nawrocki skillfully manages to interweave scenes of everyday Italian life and fine psychological analysis in a grandiose historical fresco." Davide Turcato, historian of Italian anarchism and editor of The Complete Works of Errico Malatesta
"A stunning achievement! I am usually leery of politically engaged novels that attempt to conveniently intertwine radical history with the ‘ins and outs’ of a tempestuous love affair, because history usually ends up as a mere backdrop to the lovers or else the lovers are used as cardboard cutouts to illustrate a political point. Yet, as Cazzarola! clearly demonstrates, history has a romance of its own and can be more than mere exotic context for character development or fodder for heavy-handed agitprop in search of an engaging protagonist. Antonio and Cinka are not simply better understandable as characters because of this context, they are unimaginable without it." Ron Sakolsky, author of Swift Winds

CAZZAROLA! Anarchy, Romani, Love, Italy © 2013 Norman Nawrocki This edition © 2013 PM Press All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted by any means without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978–1–60486–315–4 Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911519
Cover: John Yates / www.stealworks.com Interior design by briandesign
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PM Press PO Box 23912 Oakland, CA 94623 www.pmpress.org
Printed in the USA, by the Employee Owners of Thomson-Shore in Dexter, Michigan. www.thomsonshore.com
CONTENTS
CAZZAROLA! FAMILY TREE
PRELUDE
I SHE’S NOT THERE
II SHE IS
III AGAINST DARKNESS
IV FAMILY WEB
V THE LEGACY
VI RISING
VII LIES , HOPE
VIII FOREVER
IX DIFFERENCE BETWEEN
X CIAO BELLA
CAZZAROLA! THANK-YOUS
CAZZAROLA! FAMILY TREE
The Discordia Family:
Great-grandfather Discordia (1880–1980 … but his spirit lives on)
Great-uncles, the triplets:
Ricardo Discordia (1900–2000) Antonio’s grandfather
Rafaele Discordia (1900–1990)
Massimo Discordia (1900–1946)
Alphonso Discordia, triplets’ cousin, Livorno (1901–1922) AdP & Partisan
Antoniolo Discordia, triplets’ half-brother (1916–1994) AdP & Partisan
Enrico Discordia, triplets’ cousin (1910–1988) a Partisan
Elisabetta "Rose Bud" Discordia (1924–1946) married Enrico, a stafetta Partisan
Grandmother Discordia, Gracia (1915–2012) married Ricardo
Grandfather Discordia, Ricardo (1900–2000) an anarchist
Grandmother Apaluto, Consuessa (1907–1995) descended from Great-grandfather Discordia’s second marriage, sister to Antoniolo, mother of Isabella
Grandfather Apaluto, Fabio (1914–1996) a monarchist, married Consuessa
Loretta Discordia (b.1944), daughter of Enrico, married Augusto Apaluto
Isabella Discordia (b.1947) Rafaele’s aunt, sister of Augusto, married a Discordia (unknown)
Augusto Apaluto (b.1945) Rafaele’s father
Gino Lucetti, very, very distant Discordia (1900–1943)
Antonio Discordia (b.1979)
Rafaele Apaluto (b.1977) cousin to Antonio
Simona Apaluto (b.1985) sister to Rafaele
Massimaxo Matcha (b.1978) best friend of Antonio & Rafaele
The Dinicu Family:
Cinka Dinicu (b.1986) twenty-two years old
Luminitsa Dinicu (b.1963) mother, forty-five years old
Corvu Dinicu (b.1996) brother, twelve years old
Celina Dinicu (b.1998) sister, eleven years old
PRELUDE
GREAT-GRANDFATHER: THE NIGHT OF THE GREAT ROCKSLIDE, 1880
I was born the night of the great rockslide. There was a deafening roar that echoed across the valley and not a moment’s notice when part of the mountain slid into a ravine carrying with it several houses. Then the earthquake struck.
Everyone in our village ran outside with lighted candles and crossed themselves, falling to their knees praying it was not the end of the world. Dogs howled. Goats and sheep brayed. Terrified children and parents screeched and looked to the starlit sky for answers. My father, a poor sheepherder, grabbed a pitchfork and was prepared to engage whatever monster appeared demanding flesh and blood. My mother couldn’t leave the bed since she was in the middle of childbirth, screaming like a demon.
But I didn’t cry when I arrived. Or so my mother said. The midwife said it was a mixed omen. A sign from above.
"He will be a contented baby and grow into a man who never complains."
She was wrong.
Generations later, over many bottles of wine at the dinner table, my entire family the Discordias still debate the midwife’s controversial prediction. It disappoints me that they find nothing better to talk about.
But without the wrinkled old women to tell their tales, who will pass along the peasant wisdoms we love to repeat? Wrinkled old men who own newspapers and TV stations and cavort with nubile teenage girls? Unlikely.
Our ancestral house in Abruzzo, like the twenty others in our village, was built into the side of a mountain. It was cold in the winter, cool in the summer, and always dark. My bed was carved out of the back rock wall. There was one door and a tiny window. When we were very young and times were good, we ate bread seasoned with salt, olive oil, marjoram, and cheese. When times were not good, we went to bed with growling stomachs after only a bowl of thin onion soup. As a child I learned with my brothers and sisters never to complain. I heard my father grumble to my mother about the landowners who lived in the next village, who could feed their families meat.
"Their children grow plump and strong. Ours grow lean. Off with their heads!"
My mother would nod silently as she mended our clothes or swept out the house. We said nothing, biting our tongues, crossing and uncrossing our bare feet on the dirt floor as we sat on a bench hoping for the day more food would magically appear on the table. Later, our grandfather taught us how to trap birds, small rodents, and hares so that we could help feed our parents and ourselves. These times were better.
When we were old enough, our mother sent us up and down the slopes in search of wild mushrooms and berries. Like the boars, we roamed widely through the beech forests. It was not easy. Too often we were tempted to steal a chicken, eggs, or fruit from the landowner’s magnificent, lush, terraced garden, but we held back knowing "another day will come," as our father said, that distant look in his eye.
At fifteen, while I was tending the landlord’s sheep in an alpine meadow, I met my wife-to-be. I was sitting on a rock playing my wooden flute, watching white clouds race one another across distant mountaintops. Then I heard a sweet unexpected female voice echo the melody I was playing. I looked around, saw no one, and assumed it was just the wind. I kept playing, and again the voice echoed it note for note. I yelled out, "Who are you?"
No one replied. I played and again the voice followed. Then the most beautiful girl I had ever seen stepped out of the forest, laughing. Her brown bare legs showed under a red skirt. She wore a kerchief and carried a basket overflowing with flowers and wild herbs. I was smitten. Two years later we married.
Of our ten children and my six others with my second wife I had the highest hopes for the triplets: Rafaele, Massimo, and Ricardo. They were the brightest (at least two out of the three) and seemed destined to leave our village and make their mark on the world.
I, who had never travelled further than two villages beyond ours, never dreamed that these boys would accomplish what others only spoke about. But for the sake of our family, our village, and our ancestors poor sheepherders all I am proud of them. From rock and hunger, blood and sorrow, my triplets gave the world their precious lives. They lived their dreams so that others could dream, too.
And me? I am still a great-grandfather. Soon, I shall become a great-great-grandfather. But will anyone remember me? Unlikely. Like all mortals, I died. But unlike most of them (don’t ask me how this happened!) I now inhabit the spirit world of the old, the very old, and the older-than-that-by-countless-generations.
A thin puff of smoke? That’s me. The ticking of a clock? Could be me, too. The floating bubble from dish soap? The raindrops that hit you? A cherry blossom borne by the wind, or even an annoying fruit fly? Guess who! I am, for reasons unknown, ever-present. Perhaps to tell stories like this one …
THE TRIPLETS, 1900
The three boys were tall and strong and hard to tell apart. Except for their hair. Rafaele combed his straight back and treated it with olive oil. Massimo kept his short. Ricardo let his choose its own wild fate. Too poor to attend school, they worked in the landowner’s garden from the age of five, tilling and watering the soil, trimming the vines, pulling weeds on their hands and knees. With the assistance of a local priest, they taught themselves to read.
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