A Journey Through Time

By Mary Ann Dratch

Driven by her desire to know more about her Italian heritage, twenty-two-year-old Gina MacLeary reaches out to her mother who leads her to eight boxes of journals she kept while growing up in Bologna, Italy. For the first time in her life, Gina possesses the answers to the many questions that have been plaguing her for years.

As Gina turns the journal pages and devours her mother’s words penned from 1938 to 1945, she witnesses a true glimpse of the human condition during wartime. As her family’s experiences are revealed, Gina learns how they coped with the pressures of war, the stress of hiding a family escaping the Jewish ghetto, and their struggle to make it to America. Through it all, Gina gains a new perspective of her family as they endured, sacrificed, and found the strength to overcome adversity.

Inspired by real-life stories and conversations, A Journey through Time shares the fascinating tale of an Italian family’s struggles as they lived through the horrors of World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483455945

Book preview

DRATCH

Copyright © 2016 Mary Ann Dratch.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5593-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5595-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5594-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016912785

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 09/16/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 1974

Chapter 2 Tradition

Chapter 3 Family

Chapter 4 The Journals

Chapter 5 1938–1940

Chapter 6 1974

Chapter 7 1943–1945

Chapter 8 The Reunion

Chapter 9 The Occupation

Chapter 10 1974

Chapter 11 1974

Chapter 12 1974

Chapter 13 The Casualties of War

Chapter 14 Another Day

Chapter 15 1974

Chapter 16 1974

Chapter 17 1974

To my loving husband, Steven Dratch, who has been an integral part of my own personal journey. I would like to acknowledge his continued support during the writing of A Journey through Time, as well as his commitment to me for the past thirty-seven years.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T he character, Il Maestro, was inspired by my son Daniel’s study of music. To quote him,

Music has served as a means of communication and has provided a sense of relief throughout the ages. People turn to music for relief from their daily struggles. Music is a timeless art form that holds true to the test of time. It has an ability to almost create time travel as we can recall vividly events and emotions from our past when listening to a song. I believe there is nothing else in our history or future that will ever prove to be as crucial and sincere as infectious rhythms and beautiful melodies that music creates.

These words are timeless and can be applied to all people who endured the struggles of World War II.

PREFACE

A lthough A Journey through Time and its characters are fictional, many of the places, conversations, and people in the book are based on actual events and relationships the author experienced while living in Italy. The home on the vineyard in Ca’ di Bazzone, in the suburb of Monterenzio outside of Bologna, is where the author resided for years. This stone home, which was located in the valley, was actually used as a hospital for the Allies’ wounded who were brought down from the battlefields up in the hills. Her many hikes through these hills of the Apennines retraced the steps these soldiers took during World War II. Coming across old bunkers and spent ammo left there for years inspired her to document their fascinating stories. Her padrone , or landlord, did harvest and process the grapes from the very vineyard on which her house still sits today. She collected stories, entered into her personal journal, from conversations not only with old soldiers but with those who were children living at that time through the atrocities of war. As a result of her fortunate opportunity to live and share relationships with the residents, through the friendships she made in this town, the author has recreated a very inspirational and heartfelt story.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge my son Joshua Dratch, for assisting me with the technical portion of my book. His willingness and support is greatly appreciated.

This book is

dedicated to the memory of my loving father, Rinaldo Zorzi, who served with the other brave men of the US Coast Guard aboard the USS Spencer during World War II. In January 1974, the USS Spencer was distinguished as the most decorated US Coast Guard ship. The USS Spencer dropped depth charges on German submarines, as well as rescued survivors of the merchant ships that were torpedoed by the U-boats. The USS Spencer was hit in April 1943, five hundred miles southwest of Ireland. Twenty-five of Spencer’s men were injured, and one was killed. In spite of this hit, those brave men rescued nineteen men from the German submarine. The crew from the Spencer was actually able to board the German sub and identify the ship as a U-175. They were the first Americans to board a man-of-war at sea since the war of 1812.

14.jpg15.jpg

RINALDO ZORZI

1925–1992

A special note of thanks goes to my cousin, Alex Zorzi, for supplying me with pertinent information about my father’s activities while serving in the US Coast Guard aboard the USS Spencer in World War II.

CHAPTER 1

1974

G et your hands off me! Stop kissing me!

Harry forcefully moves forward as he speaks. Come on; you know you’re attracted to me.

I fearfully responded, One date and dinner doesn’t give you the right to force yourself on me. In all of my life, I had never seen such a manic look in a person’s eyes. At that moment, I realized that this man was intent on assaulting me. I began to shiver uncontrollably, realizing I was defenseless against my attacker. Harry continued to grab at me as I tried to resist his advances. He was moving forcefully toward me, knocking over my tray table and figurines. In the background, Roberta Flack was singing Feel Like Makin’ Love on my record player. I did not know how I got to this point, and everything seemed surreal. I knew that I could not persuade him to stop; my only recourse was to fight him off. I was five feet three inches tall, weighing 105 pounds, while Harry was six feet tall and quite muscular. What had I been thinking? Why had I invited him up to my apartment for coffee? He had seemed like a nice guy all through dinner, and I trusted my friend Sally, who had made this arrangement. For the time being, my only thoughts were of how I could escape this lunatic before he could harm me. He was walking in front of me as he was pushing me up against the wall. As loudly as I could, I shouted, If you don’t stop and get out of here, I will scream for help!

He did not believe me and did not care what I was saying, as his actions spoke louder than words. He was close enough to me that I could smell the pungent odor of alcohol on his breath; with one hand, he pushed my shoulder against the wall, and with the other hand, he tore open my blouse.

He was mumbling to himself, You know you want this as much as I do. He had a cynical smile on his face and seemed to be lost in his own demented world. At that moment, rage boiled up inside me, and from deep within, I found a strength I never knew existed. I reacted viscerally as I reached from behind, grabbed a candlestick, and swung at him as forcefully as I could. Harry fell backward and caught himself on the chair. He had sustained a deep gash on his forehead. Blood was flowing freely down his face. For the moment, he appeared disoriented from the blow to the head. In a split second, I had a decision to make: run toward the door and try to escape or grab the phone and dial 911. I swiftly made the decision to telephone for help, for fear that if I ran and he caught me, I would be trapped with no recourse. As I reached for the phone and began to call for help, Harry cowardly ran from the apartment. As he was fleeing, he mumbled, No one fights back and gets away with it.

Before I had time to speak into the phone, Harry was gone. I ran to the door and bolted it closed. My hands were trembling as I picked up my tray table and figurines that had been thrown to the floor. I poured myself a glass of wine and sat by the phone, debating if I should still inform the police of this incident or simply call home to speak to my parents. I had only been living on my own for a month, and my family had warned me of dangerous situations. My family, being strong in tradition, could not understand why a twenty-two-year-old girl, newly graduated from college, could not live in her childhood bedroom and save her hard-earned money. If I phoned my parents and explained all that had just taken place, I would be validating what they had warned me about, admitting that perhaps living on my own was not the wisest decision after all. I decided not to call the police or my family. This was a learning experience for me. I felt that I had handled the situation and decided that I would be more attentive when meeting new men. I pulled myself together and remembered what events had brought me to this point in my life.

As I had watched my graduation cap soar through the air, I had finally felt the freedom that I had dreamed of my entire life. I was free from the smell of corned beef and cabbage boiling on the stove and meatballs and spaghetti with the scent of garlic permeating the house; free from the opinions of grandparents, parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles; free from Grandma and Grandpa Rossellini’s constant reminders of my obligation to my parents for paying for my education, clothing, and food for the past twenty-two years. I was free from the constant secretive behavior between my mother’s parents and my uncles and mother—always whispering, crying, and then completely silent when I entered the room. On many occasions, I’d inquire as to what they were discussing, and always, I would receive a guarded response that never fully answered any of my questions. Over the past twenty-two years, I had felt as if there was a cloud hovering over me, never quite understanding the constant, incessant distress that my mother’s family had had to endure. I am proud to say that I am the first generation to have graduated from college. I was hoping that my family would view me as an adult and share with me the burden that they had been bearing for so many years. Unfortunately, when I approached my mother about this issue, she immediately changed the subject, as she had done many times in the past, and refused to answer any of my questions.

However, there was always one constant, one very positive influence in my family, my uncle Luca. He was my most ardent supporter. His gentleness and soft-spoken demeanor set him apart from my two other uncles with their boisterous behavior. His guidance and encouragement reinforced my decision to leave home. Two months had passed since my graduation, and there was no doubt in my mind that I needed my own space, even if it meant living in a cardboard box! My objective after graduating from college was to find a job in the field I had studied for, as well as my own apartment, so I could finally be free from the restraints placed on me by my very traditional family.

Being fluent in the Italian language, I pursued a degree in international business. I could not find a full-time job in this field, so I took the next best thing: work as a receptionist in a temporary employment agency. I made eighty dollars a week, which in 1974 was more than enough to rent a studio apartment, buy food, and put gas in my ten-year-old car. My 1964 powder-blue Fairlain 500 was a gift from Auntie Ellen after the state took her license away when she one day went food shopping and literally ended up in the produce department of the food mart! I lived only eleven miles from home, but I finally felt the freedom I so desperately needed. When I finally moved from my home, my parents, seeing my determination, helped me in any way possible. My apartment was small but sufficient for a single girl. My parents bought me a very contemporary kitchen set with white-and-green swivel chairs and a white-and-green-trimmed pedestal table. I recycled some old furniture my parents no longer needed. There was a brown shag rug and a bright-red bean bag chair that had once been part of our den, until my mother redecorated. My father had an old recliner that had seen better days. He graciously offered it to me as a housewarming gift. My mother, understanding that I could not refuse it, worked her magic with a needle and thread and refurbished the back and the arms with new cushioning and replaced the button-tufted back of the chair with a pretty gold fabric. Actually, it was my favorite piece of furniture. I think my father regretted giving it away.

As I was driving to work the next morning after the bad encounter with Harry,