Dom's Life in Short Stories
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About this ebook
In the summer of 2022, at the age of ninety, Domenico Bellini wrote nine short stories about the amazing life he lived.
It all started as a child caught between two world wars.
- In 1940, at the age of eight, he spent two years in children war camps,
- In 1943, at eleven, he lived through bombing raids in Lanciano (his native town in central Italy), while helping his mother and younger siblings survive.
- In 1945, at the end of the war, while still in Lanciano, he had his first job as a 'salesman' in a local store. He was not yet fourteen at the time.
- In 1947, at fifteen, he, along with his mother and siblings, rejoined his father in Libya (a former Italian colony) and helped run a local store in Garian, a small mountain town just south of Tripoli.
- In 1952, at twenty, he looked after his younger brother while studying and working in Tripoli.
He continued his accounting education (interrupted by the war) by correspondence and built a career starting at the American military base in Tripoli and continuing over the years in Belgium, Canada, France, and Italy. He saw it all through the ups and downs of fifteen career jobs, the last three of which at senior executive levels. He did so in four countries and in three languages to finally retire in Canada. His life is an example of mental fortitude and uncompromising integrity in the face of major family crises and too many personal misfortunes.
Victor Bellini
Victor or Vittorio Bellini - a retired business executive - received his early education in Italy and later in England and Canada. He joined a multinational corporation and was fast-tracked to senior management postings in several countries. In his retirement he drew from his international knowledge to create engrossing stories in global settings. The author lives in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
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Dom's Life in Short Stories - Victor Bellini
Foreword
There have been many great thinkers in the world. Their genius changed forever the life of many generations of humans and continues to do so at an ever increasing rate. The physical and social evolution of our planet, from prehistoric times to current interplanetary travel, is due to them. They are present in all fields of knowledge, with innovative ideas and technological tools that keep on changing the way we live. Many of those thinkers, from Babylonian times onward, have become well known to us all, not just for what they achieved, but also for how they did it. Some of them had to endure major hardships along the way, while others had it relatively easy. Whatever the case, their stories, as reflected in their biographies, have inspired many young people to do their best and aim high in their chosen career.
Similar sources of inspiration, however, can also be found in the life of many other great thinkers who remained unsung and forgotten. They belong to a special class of people who lived an exemplary life of uncompromising integrity, compassion, altruism and hard work, coupled with the tenacity to pursue their ideals to the bitter end. They have had the misfortune to live through too many setbacks, all beyond their control. Such people never achieved global greatness, but they did so within their own sphere of influence, and are so remembered by those who have had the privilege to know them.
One such person, Domenico Bellini, is the subject of this book and is the result of a collection of short stories he wrote in Italian, at the age of ninety, as he reflected on his life. As his younger brother I encouraged him to write those stories and took it upon myself to translate and compile them into a biography. It’s intended to be a testimonial to the man and to the kind of life he lived.
He is undoubtedly one of the most unassuming, selfless, helpful, honest and somewhat bashful man anyone will ever know. I am proud to be his younger brother.
Vittorio Bellini
*****
Prologue
Domenico Bellini came to this world on April 23, 1932. He was born to a family of cabinet makers in the town of Lanciano, in the Abruzzo region of central Italy. At the time, European countries were still reeling from the ravages of World War One, as they worked hard on rebuilding their infrastructures and reviving their economy. Italy too was in the process of rebuilding, but it did so by reinventing itself, as it steered away from an ineffective monarchy.
Contrary to most other European countries that continued to be governed by democratic regimes, whether monarchies or republics, Italy chose to be governed by a young demagogue, Benito Mussolini, leader of a ‘fascist’ party he created in the immediate postwar days, at the age of thirty-six. His popular March on Rome in 1922 forced King Vittorio Emanuele III to appoint him Prime Minister of what used to be a democratically elected parliament. Three years later, in 1925, he turned Fascism into a dictatorship and called himself Il Duce (The Leader). It was a period of time when dramatic changes were taking place in the political arena of Europe. Fascism was followed by Nazism in 1933 when another demagogue and dictator by the name of Adolf Hitler ruled Germany as its Fȕhrer. Such political changes soon led to a Second World War, with catastrophic consequences. Thus, Domenico experienced the agony of bomb shelters in his pre-teens years and then again the agony of postwar problems in his teenage years. One can easily imagine the emotional scars left in him by the time he reached the age of maturity.
It is not possible to imagine what it means to be born and grow up between two World Wars, while running from bomb shelter to bomb shelter as a child and then face, as a young man, the hostile environment of angry Libyan nationalists seeking retribution from former Italian colonialists. It’s a unique experience that shapes the character of a man in special ways, as can be appreciated while reading Domenico’s personal story.
He was the second child of Carmine and Eugenia (née Cotellessa) Bellini, born during a period of massive emigration of workers to four Italian colonies in Africa. Professionals and tradesmen were being recruited and shipped with their families to build infrastructures and populate their newly acquired territories. Carmine had tried to immigrate to America on a previous occasion, but without success, apparently because of poor eyesight. He then tried again by joining a family of farmers and close friends, the Nativios, slated to immigrate to Libya. Thus, in 1935, Carmine Bellini and the Nativio family left Lanciano for Garian, a small mountain town 88 kilometers south of Tripoli. A few months later the rest of the family, including, three-year-old Domenico, sister Violetta (then 8), their mother Eugenia (aka Caterina, then 33), and Carmine’s younger brother Michele (then 23) joined them and reunited in Garian as a family and as colonialists. They lived initially in a small two-bedroom apartment in central Garian, where they remained till the start of the war. It is at this point that Domenico’s personal story starts. He wrote it all in the summer of 2022, strictly from memory, in a series of short stories that have been translated and reported hereunder in italics.
*****
First Story
Life in children camps (1940-42)
In early 1939, Mussolini, believing that the war front would eventually reach Libya, decreed that all school-aged children be sent back to Italy to live in special maritime camps set up for the purpose. Thus, my sister Violetta (13) and I (8), along with other children from families living in Garian, were sent to Riccione, a well-known vacation town in the region of Emilia-Romagna, on the Adriatic coast. Violetta was in an all-girl camp while I was in an all-boy one. We were therefore separated and never saw each other while at camp.
It would be hard to describe the emotional state we were in at the time. As an eight year-old boy, I could not possibly understand the imperatives of that move. All I knew was that I was being abandoned by my family, destined to live in an orphanage. I remember crying my eyes out in those early days, while my older sister tried to console me. Violetta, then thirteen, was like a mother to me during the time we were together, but it didn’t last long. I have no idea how she felt at that sad junction of our life, but my guess is that she did not feel much better than I did. We were essentially orphans, abandoned children in a scary world at war, without knowing whether we would survive, let alone be reunited with our loved ones.
We stayed in Riccione for the first year and we were then moved to Ceriale di Pietra-Ligure, near the town of San Remo, on the Italian Riviera, where we remained for one more year. As a result, Violetta and I spent a total of two years away from each other and away from our parents. Both camps were located on a sandy beach and were well known for summer vacations, but for us children of war those places were more like prison camps, especially in the first few weeks of our stay.
Of the children who moved with me I only remember a boy from the Lupacchini family. He was a few years older than me and became my ‘protector’, so to speak, from abusive behaviour of inevitable bullies in our midst. We lived under the watchful eyes of a few lady-guardians. They enforced a severe discipline on us, but were otherwise very kind and helpful. We were told to make our own bed with great care, and be strictly silent at bedtime. Those who did not abide by the rules were shamed and punished openly, as examples for the rest of us. Some of the younger children cried a lot during the first few days. They received more attention than the older children but even after they stopped crying they were always sad. It took a long time before we accepted our fate and got used to living away from home. The sadness in our heart, however, remained and was clearly reflected in our eyes.
The food we had for lunch on week days was clearly insufficient, as we were hungry most of the time. Being hungry was a problem that made some bigger kids find ‘food’ in the most unlikely places. One day a couple of them showed the rest of us where to find edible roots growing by the beach. They told us that those roots were good to eat and showed us how to choose and pull them out of the ground. I was hungry, so I picked one and ate it. Then I picked more, just like other kids were doing. I remember them tasting somewhat sour-sweet.
From that day on pulling roots became a habit, but only for a few bigger kids. I remember waiting eagerly for Sundays, because on all festive days we were treated with lots of good food. In the evening our meal consisted of vegetable soup, along with bread and cheese. Sometimes, when they were in season, we were served boiled chestnuts. I loved them so much that I often traded my bread for a portion of chestnuts.
In our leisure time we played children's games, including ball on the beach. We were allowed to swim or learn how to