Argentine Archive №1. Магомет Тимов

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      Giovanni Renzi again used the Lord’s name in vain and lifted his greasy palms to the low night sky oozing with a dull, heavy rain.

      “Pepo, you bastard!” he barked, trying to out-scream the roar of the downpour on the roof of the stubby superstructure of the schooner. “Where the fuck are you?”

      His son, a twenty-year-old fool who volunteered to go with him on this voyage, responded from the bowels of the small engine compartment.

      “Yes, Father?”

      “What the devil are you messing around with? If we don't start this damn clunker in the next half hour, the oncoming storm will throw this tub onto the rocks south of Genoa Bay!”

      “But, Father…”

      The rain's cacophony made Pepo's voice hollow like he was speaking in a barrel. Old man Renzi just waved his hand. He raised his wet beard to the sky as if calling on all the saints to witness how useless an heir they had sent him.

      He did not want to go to sea. Hunger, that unavoidable companion of these recent years, had forced him to push away from the mooring wall and try his luck on this rainy April day.

      In the morning, while the weather was still relatively mild, they went out. They had thrown their nets out a few times; already some fish were splashing in the hold when the old 'Marconi' gurgled as if it had swallowed with a huge gulp of seawater. It sneezed twice and stalled.

      All attempts to breathe at least some life into the engine got them nowhere; the schooner dangled lagged to the wave, taking the blows of foamy crests that came at it steeply. Both of them, father and son, were soaked to the skin. From somewhere on the Atlantic side, a sudden gust of wind drove in a vast bank of rain clouds, and all hell broke loose.

      Water from above, water splashing at the bottom of the engine room, water wherever you look. And with no prospect of reaching the port, at least not till morning. The old man, of course, realized he was being unfair to his son: under the circumstances, no one could revive this tired old waterfowl. Most likely water was clogging the air filters, but it was almost impossible to make out anything in this pitch-black darkness and with such pitching and rolling.

      On the bright side, these clouds made it impossible for those damn Americans to fly out here. Otherwise, he could expect some 'Mustang' or 'Brewster' pilot to get bored with his routine patrol and decide to harass the defenseless schooner. It was impossible to predict what these Yankees might get into their heads next. They were so drunk with the prospect of their imminent victory. Their regiments were already on their way to Genoa! Taken as a whole, Giovanni thought, the situation was not that unbearable. Sink? That has happened so rarely during his life at sea! They will get out somehow, just as they did before.

      Pepo, a lanky fellow, scrambled out of the engine compartment’s pit. He stretched himself until his joints squeaked, and froze, looking somewhere to the side.

      The old fisherman looked in the same direction and shuddered: a grey shroud of rain, some half a cable from the side of the schooner, thickened suddenly, grew cloudy, and became tangible.

      The damned rain drowned out all other sounds. Something huge seemed to approach the small boat with all the inevitability of fate. Another boat?

      The old man was already reaching for the time-darkened bell to signal a warning. Something made him pull his hand away at the last moment.

      Like a ghost from children's fairy tales, the long body of a submarine, sailing on the surface, glided past the side. There was no rumble of diesel engines; the sub must have switched to its electric motors.

      The boat crept forward and, at some point, came to a stop near the fishing schooner. Old man Giovanni stepped out of the wheelhouse to his son and covered his mouth with a broad palm, stifling his surprised cry just in time. Renzi knew that a German submarine would not just appear on the shores of an Italy that had become hostile overnight. The old man did not doubt this was one of Dönitz's boats. He had seen enough of these silhouettes during the last war. But what was she doing here, instead of looking for enemy convoys in the vast Atlantic?

      He heard the creak of a cranked rack, somewhere above the waterline, around the wheelhouse. A hatch opened, and he heard the guttural sounds of German speech. Renzi listened intently: there were two talking. The old man was quiet, trying to make out every word.

      Oberleutnant zur See Otto Wermuth, commander of submarine U-530, climbed onto the ring bridge of the wheelhouse and immediately threw the hood of his rubberized cape over his head. Yet this did not save him from the nosy sheets of icy April rain. He shivered in the chilly air and took a step to the side, making way for his first mate, Rudolf Schlitsch. Leutnant zur See Schlitsch served with the first commander of U-530 Kurt Lange. He was written off to shore in January because of his advanced age, for a submariner, despite him being only forty-two. Schlitsch knew everyone on board. From the start, he was an excellent first mate for the young and ambitious Wermuth.

      They sent Otto himself to the boat as only a watch officer. Still, the deputy of Admiral Dönitz, Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg, considered it appropriate to appoint a young twenty-four-year-old chief lieutenant as commander of the submarine.

      “Well, where are they?” muttered Schlitsch with displeasure, looking around. It was almost impossible to make out anything in this grey haze; turning on a searchlight near a hostile shore would be complete madness. Otto shrugged.

      “We are at the rendezvous point; the rest is no longer our concern.”

      “Doesn’t it bother you that, right when the whole Reich is ready to put its head on the altar of victory, they’ve forced us to act as some kind of water taxi?” asked the first mate, raising the collar of his raincoat higher and wiping an icy drop from his nose.

      “Do we have a choice?”

      “I guess not.” Lieutenant Schlitsch was about to take a cigarette from under his cloak, but, wincing from the rain streams, he gave up this venture. And at that moment, from somewhere to the side, they heard the cautious clatter of the engine of a small boat.

      “Signalman!” barked the chief lieutenant, waving a gloved hand at the invisible sailor. Above the deckhouse, from the antenna pin disappearing into the darkness of the night, a dazzling white searchlight beam descended. It smeared across the water’s surface, dotted with the crests of evil waves. In its spot, a cable from the narrow body of the submarine, a boat appeared of those on which the Genoese smugglers had fled to Corsica and Sardinia.

      “Deck crew, get ready for mooring,” the first mate shouted, leaning over the ring-fence of the platform, and the distinct clatter of the sailors’ boot heels rolled across the deck.