—Nearly all sleep out in the fields under straw sheds, and the others in the few houses that remain standing now.
—They are building cabins, and little by little you will see every body, coming back to their own country.
—Was this place, fine? I ask him quite touched.
—The finest of all, and our country is fine!
And he utters these words enthusiastically, but again he looks down sighing, and is silent.
Among the ruins.
Of course the farther we get from the station, from Municipio square, the fewer people we see, and the more we advance towards Scudieri's house, Ateneo Chierchia, and the feudal palace of Ottaiano, where the ruins take a more imposing and solemn aspect, the greater the solitude.
But while we stop at every step, to look from the top of the mountains of stones and ashes, on which we climb and descend, while we look at the piled up ceilings, shutters, stones, furniture, pictures, and utensils all in demolition, now and then, we see somebody coming out of a small lane closed by a small gate. Here is an old woman, she looks to be seventy years old, she is thin, wrinkled, but quite straight. I speak to her, I ask her all about that dreadful night.
—I was sleeping, madam, I was sleeping. I woke up and heard screams: "The mountain, the mountain!" Who could believe that a disaster was on us? What was there to be done? I turn entreating God, but I see death coming. My lady! What noise, what darkness, what flashes! The door could not be opened. I just jumped out of the window.