The ghost of number 11
In the old streets of Odessa, where the scent of the sea mixed with the smoke of tobacco, there was once a man who walked alone. My grandfather remembered him. A neighbor. A shadow. Short, unshaven, eyes dulled by time and drink.
Many people can still remember how, in the early 60s, at the gate of number 11, he often strolled by and snatched cigarettes from passers-by.
Those who knew his name ran to the kiosk on the corner and bought him a fresh pack of Belomor.
For once, long ago, he had been Captain Alexander Marinesko.
There had been a time when his name carried weight, when it was spoken in offices and whispered in fear. They said he had been a war hero, though no one had dared call him one until thirty years after his bones had turned to dust. They said that he was number two on Hitler’s list of personal enemies.
It was the night of January 30, 1945.
The sea stretched wide, a black abyss indifferent to the lives upon it.
He had commanded a submarine then, defied the impossible, and sent the Wilhelm Gustloff - a floating fortress of the Reich - to the depths of the Baltic. Nine thousand souls had gone down that night. Over 25,000 tons, 219 meters in length - swallowed by the waves within one hour after being hit by only three torpedoes. There was not enough time for prayers to be answered.
He had never followed the rules. Not in battle, not in life. He attacked from places no one dared, struck when no one expected. Out of 13 S-type submarines fighting in the Baltic, only one survived, with the unlucky number of 13. His.
The sea had protected him, but the land had no mercy.
War forgot its heroes as quickly as it made them and Marinesko spent five years in the camps. Stripped of rank. A captain without a ship. A soldier without a war. Forgotten.
And so, fifteen years later, he wandered through those old streets of Odessa, a relic of a war no one wanted to speak of, like a ghost still bound to a world that had moved on. He would stop at the gate of number 11, watching the world move past him. Neighboring yards celebrated weddings and birthdays, dancing recklessly and singing along, rejoicing that tomorrow was Sunday and there was no need to go to work.
When he died in 1963, there was no grand ceremony, no speeches. Just neighbors, collecting what little they had to bury the man who had once commanded the depths.
And yet, when the wind swept through the streets at night, some swore they could hear a voice - a quiet, steady voice, whispering from the shadows. Perhaps it was just the wind.
Or perhaps the sea never truly let go of its captain.
