Alicia DeFonzo - The Time Left between Us

The Time Left between Us thrusts the reader into war-torn beaches, bocage, and backroads through the eyes of the young combat engineer, Private First-Class Anthony DelRossi, whose story sparked his granddaughter to take the same journey abroad. Only then do we understand the power of war and its mark on generations.

Sgt. Andrew Biggio, U.S. Marine Corps (Ret.), best-selling author of The Rifle

A compelling World War II reada first-rate page-turner. The Time Left between Us captures a comradeship that binds all soldiers. DeFonzo masterfully blends the war experience with Italian American culture, whose values and courage can be found at its heart. There is more than one hero in these pages.

William Bill Whitehurst, former Virginia congressman (196987) and U.S. Navy aviator in the World War II Pacific Theater (194346)

DeFonzos narrative nonfiction captures the powerful connection that can exist between grandparent and grandchildsharing what has never been shared with others, forever intertwining two souls. Well crafted and courageous, this book should take its rightful place as the next one you read.

Miles Ryan Fisher, editor in chief of Italian America Magazine, Order Sons and Daughters of Italy in America

The Time Left between Us is a unique and deeply moving story of family, war, remembrance, and devotion.

Alex Kershaw, best-selling author of The Liberator

Alicia DeFonzo

Potomac Books

An imprint of the University of Nebraska Press

2022 by Alicia DeFonzo

Cover designed by University of Nebraska Press; cover photo by Mingwei Lim on Unsplash.

Acknowledgments for the use of copyrighted material appear in , which constitutes an extension of the copyright page.

All rights reserved. Potomac Books is an imprint of the University of Nebraska Press.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: DeFonzo, Alicia, author.

Title: The time left between us / Alicia DeFonzo.

Description: Lincoln: Potomac Books, an imprint of the University of Nebraska Press, [2022] | Includes bibliographical references.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021057673

ISBN 9781640125131 (hardcover)

ISBN 9781640125490 (epub)

ISBN 9781640125506 (pdf)

Subjects: LCSH : DelRossi, Anthony, 19242018. | DeFonzo, AliciaTravelEurope. | DeFonzo, AliciaFamily. | World War, 19391945Personal narratives, American. | World War, 19391945VeteransUnited StatesBiography. | World War, 19391945CampaignsWestern Front. | Grandparent and childUnited States. | BISAC : BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Military | HISTORY / Wars & Conflicts / World War II / General

Classification: LCC D 811. D 355 D 44 2022 | DDC 940.54/1273dc23/eng/20220328

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021057673

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To my Mad Max

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Map

When I was small enough, I swore my grandfather was Frank Sinatra. Few possessed the effortless charm of this tall, silver-haired man. When he smiled people caved, and when he spoke people listened. Most of his stories began with a knock of his knuckles on the table followed by So THIS guy... On the stoops of 17th Street in South Philly, we would wager a fresh bag of Peanut M&M s over my first lessons in poker. Grandpop taught me how to read a face, and that there was no such thing as a lucky hand.

There was, however, one area of his life he hardly discussed: the war. Like many veterans, old and new, he remained silent. Sure, there were general bits like how he landed at Utah Beach, fought in the Bulge, and returned home. It wasnt until the age of eighty-four that he agreed to go on record about his experience. Never said a word. That was the thing. We did what we had to do and came back. Rubbing his forehead, You have no idea.

When I asked why he had kept his stories quiet all these years, he replied, Because no one ever asked or gave a shit.

He was right.

He was right about many things, as grandfathers often can be. The stories of soldiers mattered, of families matteredbut the truth, well, truth, I came to find, was an entirely different story.

I always time the drives to my grandfathers house to arrive by five oclock: happy hour. He retired on the Eastern Shore of Virginia to get away from city life, and the house rests on the Chesapeake Bay bordered by thick woods and silence. The closest neighbor is a hundred yards away, just the way he likes it, on a road named Assawoman Drivehe always appreciated Native American culture. A year after he moved, a community petitioner came to the door seeking a more appropriate street title. My grandfather told him, How bout we change it to Big Assawoman? and slammed the door on the guy.

I knock while entering the house and yell, Helllooooooo! so the high ceilings boom my voice, indicating someone is here. He slowly reaches for the pause button of his Library of Congress books-on-tape and removes his headphones. Hey, it must be Alicia, he tells Linda, his second wife, twenty-five years his junior, who is already greeting me at the door. He takes his time walking over from his spot on the couch. Every step is mapped out, remembered. At eighty-four he has only ten percent of his vision left due to macular degeneration.

I give him a hug and detect the same aftershave he wore when I was a kid. Old Spice. His large hands, which Ive seen crack walnuts, grasp my shoulders softly. So, youre back from Paris. How was it? I had returned a month ago. Funny how he can sense it. Why Im really here.

I hesitate to discuss my trip just yet when he remembers, Hey, should be happy hour about now, and smiles. What are you drinking?

Water first, then vodka-soda. Just let me put my stuff up.

Though they moved here ten years ago, nothing ever changes. The place mirrors an eccentric antique shop where all the contents grow old but stay the same. He has kept many of the same fixtures from the South Philadelphia row home he shared with my late grandmother. A dark portrait of a Quaker man and his wife in a winter forest; three-foot tall wooden gargoyles protect the fireplace (they once guarded the bathroom, terrifying my brothers and me from using the toilet); an old Victrola player with big band vinyls; a glass cabinet of memorabilia including the trinity of Italian American iconsFrank Sinatra, the Statue of Liberty, the pope; and an antique chestnut armoire displaying his World War II medals, photographs, and artifacts, including the diary of a young Waffen- SS soldier he found dead in the winter of 1944.

By the time I return, Linda is setting out his favorites: chips and salsa and wasabi peanuts. My grandfather is on a strict low-sodium diet due to his heart condition, but Linda lets him indulge when I visit. After his defibrillator install last year, she reads the scale every morning to measure his water weight; any gain means flooding in the heart or lungs. I go to help her in the kitchen and grab some water when she whispers to me, You know hes still trying to drive that tractor? I wouldnt mind so much if it was a riding mower, somethin that could cut the engine off if he fell, but the tractor? She swiftly waves her palm in front of her face and looks down shaking her wavy gray curls. No. No. I dont feel good about it, raising her right arm to God.

I hear you, Grandpop interjects. I shouldnt be surprised. His expensive hearing aids distinguish hummingbirds at the porch feeder. I see the shadow of the tree line in the grass. He slices the air with his hand. I follow the line. Thats how I cut!