I thought about my great-grandfather when I leaped into the water from the overhanging deck of the Costa Concordia. It was night, it was winter (the Cruise ship Costa Concordia ran around just off the island of Giglio at 21:42 on the 13th of January 2012) and my first thought was to find out if the water was too cold.
Pedro Gutiérrez Ubero
The torpedoes fired from the German U-38 submarine impacted the SS Ancona’s port side in twenty second intervals. Built in Belfast’s shipyards in 1908 for the Society di Navigazione a Vaporetti Italiana, with a capacity of 400 passengers, it was sailing at the time of its sinking under the Italian tricolour flag.
According to the archives of the Marina Militare, the foundering of the SS Ancona occurred at dawn on 8 November 1915. At that moment, the ship was south-east of the island Sardinia, some twenty nautical miles off Cape Carbonara and close to the tourist islet of Cavoli.
On a clear day, following their breakfast, the passengers of the SS Ancona would probably have been scattered around the humid deck trying to spot some mountainous features of the African coast of Tunisia on the horizon. But that autumn morning was one of those typical misty mornings that are so common in this part of the Mediterranean.
After the sinking of the RMS Lusitania on 7 May of that very same year, sunk by torpedoes fired from a U-20 submarine off the coast of Ireland, the SS Ancona was sailing with minimal lights and insignias in an attempt to avoid detection by German submarines. It was for that same reason that the captain had decided to follow a somewhat strange course from Messina to the Straights of Gibraltar, likely motivated by his protective intent to sail under the protection of the coast.
If it hadn’t sunk, the SS Ancona’s planned itinerary in the logbook was to sail from Messina to New York with an intermediate stop in the Spanish port of Málaga. The first of the U-38’s torpedoes hit closest to the SS Ancona’s bow tack, while the second aimed to damage the stern fin. In both cases, the torpedoes reached their intended targets.
A risk-free manoeuvre for any experienced seafarer facing an opponent who does not expect surprise aggression, sailing unaccompanied, as slow as an elephant in his manoeuvres and with a lack of weapons to defend themselves.
In the days that followed, the Italian and Allied press ruled it a war crime, whilst the nine North American fatalities gave way to a diplomatic scandal in foreign ministries on both sides of the Atlantic. In the United States, meanwhile, the event sparked a wave of protests in favour of America’s entry into the war and against the anti-war policies of Democratic President Woodrow Wilson.
After seeing the heavy damage caused by the torpedoes on the surface, the submersible’s commander, the veteran Captain Max Valentiner, knew that the SS Ancona would sink quickly and rescuing any potential survivors was not among his priorities. The orders he had received ten days earlier at the Dresden submarine base from Grand Admiral, Anton Haus, turned him into a ruthless predator. Therefore, his order to U-38’s helmsman was to turn to starboard and head for Sicily to continue the hunt.
By nightfall that day, the SS Ancona would be another notch on the revolver of his war record. A crime against humanity in the case of losing and a heroic achievement in the case of winning. As Captain Valentiner had predicted, in just a few minutes the ship began to lose its balance and heel over the gaping wounds that the torpedoes had opened on its port side.
Those who were able to save themselves, had little time to dive into the water before the ship sank for good in a huge whirlpool. Once in the water, submerged in temperatures that the human body would not be able to handle for long, all that was left was the individual challenge to survive. The idea was to hold out until another ship came to the rescue from the nearby port of Cagliari.
In the shipwreck of the SS Ancona two hundred people lost their lives, and my great-grandfather Pier Luigi Varzi was one of them. He simply ceased to exist in the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Just like thousands did before him, and like thousands would after him. My great-grandfather never managed to disembark the ship in Málaga and he never returned to Madrid, where his dear wife and five year old daughter were waiting for him.
On the 15th of May 1915, Italy officially declared war against the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but in September, when he received an urgent telegram from his sister Allegra with the bad news that their father had died. Despite the risks, my great-grandfather didn’t think twice before embarking on the ship at the Port of Barcelona headed for Genoa.
He was born in Milan into a wealthy family of glass entrepreneurs, not glassmakers. Since the 16th century, generation after generation of Milanese goldsmiths had excelled in the carving of pieces made of hyaline quartz or rock crystal. Unique and exclusive works of art which, due to their high artistic and monetary value, had been and still are the main clients and collectors of the high nobility and sovereigns throughout Europe.
In 1711 the first Spanish Bourbon king, Philip V, did not hesitate to accept the inheritance of a large part of the collection of the Grand Dauphin Louis of France. A treasure (the Treasure of the Dauphin) of hyaline quartz carved for the most part by Milanese artists, which in 1839 came into the custody of the Prado Museum.
Pier Luigi Varzi, my great-grandfather, arrived in Madrid at the end of September 1909. He was 21 years old. His first intended on staying in Barcelona, a city which was only a few days sailing away from Genoa, the Italian port closest to Milan. However, after the incident of the Tragic Week (between the 26th of July and 2nd of August 1909), which led to the deaths of 150 people in confrontations with the army and the fall of Antonio Maura’s government, he decided that it would be a better idea to move to the capital to escape the politicised and extremist environments, the same environments that had himself fleeing to Spain.
My great-grandfather’s family was very catholic and very conservative. A classic family of the wealthy Milanese bourgeoisie class of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, his ideals of equality and social justice led him to join the Italian Socialist Party, which had been created in Genoa in 1892 under the name of the Italian Workers’ Party, at a very young age.
This was only a few years before Benito Mussolini became the leader of the Fascist Party of Revolutionary Action, but the first viruses of fascism were already beginning to infect many of the Italian social fabrics that would bring him to power after the end of the First World War.
During the first years of the newly inaugurated 20th century, the were increasingly frequent actions of the so-called “Fascio Milano”, a paramilitary and violent organisation that targeted the Italian Socialist Party and its militants. In order to save his own life, my great-grandfather decided, involuntarily, to board a boat headed for Spain.
Once in Madrid, he survived the first few months with the financial help that his family regularly sent him from Italy, and he even rented a ground floor apartment in Calle del Piamonte. Thanks to his open character, his good looks, his qualities as a trickster and his skills and talent as a painter, he began to earn his living by painting portraits, still lives and pictorial commissions from some of the wealthiest families in Madrid, eager to put a bit of art on the dull walls of their homes and to show off their wealth through the paintings of Pier Luigi Varzi.
He met my great-grandmother Francisca in the house of one of these wealthy families. She had arrived in the capital a few months earlier from her native Ronda to work as a servant. I don’t know if, when or where they got married, but what is important for the story of their lives is that my great-grandmother and my great-grandfather fell in love and that from that love my grandmother María was born.
After her trip to Italy, the last letter they both received in her own handwriting was dated 27 October 1915 in Milan and addressed to Manuela Vázquez García, calle del Piamonte 15, Madrid (Spain):
My loved ones:
Two days ago we buried by dear padre in the Cimitero Monumentale di Milano. I miss you all so much, ti amo and I cannot wait to return to Spain, but first I must go to Sicilia to deal with some inheritance issues and then I will board a boat in Messina bound for Málaga. We will be together again soon.
Hugs and kisses for my two amori.
Pier Luigi.
The lives of my great-grandmother and my grandmother ended without knowing what happened to her husband and her father. The only thing certain was that he never returned to Italy. As if he had been swallowed up by the world. Of course, they never knew anything about the SS Ancona’s sinking on the 8th of November 1915, and that a German U-boat had fired two torpedoes between bow and stern as it sailed around the southeast of the island of Sardinia, my great-grandmother could barely even read. For them, my great-grandfather simply vanished into thin air.
Nobody contacted them from Milan, probably because they were unaware that in Madrid there was a girl of the same blood. So, alone in the capital and with a small daughter, Francisca decided to return to Ronda as a single mother, now widowed, carrying in her luggage only the carving of a small rock crystal swan with gold-plated wingtips. That swan was the only memory she had of the handsome young Milanese with whom she had shared the best moments of her life in Madrid.
Not even in the worst economic hardships, of which there were many during her lifetime, Francisca never wanted to sell that jewel and against all odds she always remained faithful to my great-grandfather. A man whom, many years later, she claimed had been the love of her life, a love that had disappeared without her knowing what had happened in the Mediterranean.
I thought about my great-grandfather when I leaped into the water from the overhanging deck of the Costa Concordia. It was night, it was winter (the Cruise ship Costa Concordia ran around just off the island of Giglio at 21:42 on the 13th of January 2012) and my first thought was to find out if the water was too cold.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I shouted at the top of my lungs, trying warm up and cheer up, but I never managed either of those things. The water was like a gin and tonic with too much ice.
I floated in the middle of the darkness. Despite it being winter, that night the swell was not too uncomfortable, and on the horizon we could make out the lights of the port and the city of Civitavecchia and a large number of bright spots heading towards our position.
Nearby, the white hull of the Costa Concordia, ever more tilted, was tearing against the rocks and I could hear a crowd of survivors trying to save their lives, crying out for help to all the gods and in all languages. Not being a believer myself, it seemed illogical for me to plead and expect the Catholic god to do anything for me, but in my desperation, I thought I heard someone call my name….
‘Antonio! Antonio! Antonio!’ That voice shouted my name three times from somewhere amidst the darkess of the shipwreck. It may sound like a joke, but that night, floating in the icy water of the Mediterranean, I thought it was the voice of an angel with an Italian accent.
‘Antonio…Antonio!’ repeated the Angel.
At that moment, I felt someone forcefully grab my left shoulder from behind. I thought that it was the giant squid from the Jules Verne novel. I turned my head and there was Massimo di Tomasso. We were both waiters in the bar on the second deck and we were both scared shitless. We hugged each other and tried to float, whilst at the same time swim towards the lights of Civitavecchia that were growing larger.
I was scared. Scared that I wouldn’t survive. Scared that the waves would end up throwing my devoured and unrecognisable body onto the sand of any beach. Scared that I would disappear without a trace, not being able to say goodbye. Scared of drowning in the Mediterranean like my great-grandfather, like thousands of swans before me, like thousands of swans after me.
This story was translated by Jack Caine and edited by Jasmin Griffiths.
Pedro Gutiérrez Ubero is 65 and was born in Madrid (Spain) in 1958. He studied Media at the Complutense University of Madrid. His professional career includes journalism, communication, digital content and publishing.
Jack Caine is a twenty-something freelance translator from the Lake District, England who translates documents from Spanish, German and Italian into English on topics such as literature, other cultures, travelling and more.
Jasmin Griffiths is a Plymouth University graduate with a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. She grew up in the south of Spain and after moving back to England decided to pursue her passion of writing. She has performed music and her poetry all over the country and also enjoys writing creative nonfiction and short stories.
This short story is part of a research project on speculative historical fiction in Ireland and Spain funded by the AHRC and the University of Plymouth.
Picture credits: JPatR
THE WANDERING BARD 