Chapter 12

John stood and watched Benin for a little while. He was dressed in a Soviet Naval Lieutenant's greatcoat complete with epaulettes and a fur hat. Benin sat on a deckchair below the after bridge house tightly wrapped in a grey blanket. John thought she looked miserable. He went to her, smiled, and put a hand on her shoulder.

"You look the part," she told him without looking up. Her voice was dull and lifeless.

"Rhykov gave it to me. He said it would be better if I wore a uniform," he explained.

"Did he?" she replied, uninterested, "is he turning you into a Russian?"

"No, just until we reach Leningrad."

"Then what? What is Rhykov planning for you?"

"Not sure," he shrugged, "don't know much about the place. Maybe get a job flying somewhere?"

"Huh!" she looked away. Turning to look at him, she stared straight into his eyes. "Do you honestly thing you'll have any sort of choice about what you do? And what about me, John? Did you ever spare a thought about what I wanted to do?"

"Of course! I... we had no choice. You couldn't have walked over the Pyrenees..."

"You carry me out of the hospital, put me on a plane that nearly killed me. Then you set me on a Russian cruiser heading for Leningrad! I trusted you, John, I put myself into your hands believing I could trust you. Well, you've just proved what I should have known all along. I should never put my faith in any man!"

"I don't see the problem. If we don't like Russia we can go someplace else!"

"Oh, John, you really are a fool! In Russia you have to have permission to travel to the next city, let alone leave. And do you know something, John? Do you know why there are no Anarchists in Russia? Do you know why there aren't any supporters of Trotsky? Syndicalists? Republicans? Democrats? Do you know why? Because there's not allowed to be, that's why. You can't belong to any organisation unless the Communist Party says it's ok. That's what you're dragging me to, John!"

John Greenhaugh found a spot on the deck to look at. "We'll be all right," he said, "Rhykov said he'd..."

"Rhykov, huh! That man's sucked what little sense you had out of your brain. You know he works for the GPU, don't you?" John nodded. "And you know what the GPU is, don't you?"

"They're like a secret intelligence service."

"They're a department of the NKVD, the security police. They're Stalin's goons, John. They do all the dirty work the Soviet Politburo tells them to do. They murder opponents overseas as well as in Russia. Anyone who earns the displeasure of Josef Stalin gets put into the hands of the NKVD. They are the controlling arm of the Party, John, answerable only to the big man himself. And you trust such a man as Rhykov? He's using you, John. I don't know what for, but men like Rhykov don't spit unless they're ordered to so if Rhykov told you anything it's because he's been told to."

"I think you're wrong, Benin. Rhykov's not like the others. And Admiral Gorshin seems like a decent fellow."

"Maybe, but he didn't make Admiral by not following orders."

"That's not what I heard. The other Officers say he's quite a maverick..."

"What other Officers? You can't even speak their language. How do you know what they tell you?"

"Rhykov translates for me."

"Oh, shit!" she said, rolling her eyes, "I give up!"

The 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' had met with its tanker 'Alma' and support ship 'Anadyr' off Lisbon and the three ships sailed together to meet two Soviet freighters and escort them past the Nationalist Naval base at El Ferol. The small convoy was then to head back to the Baltic and home.

Admiral Gorshin was glad this tense mission was at an end. He understood that such a delicate operation required the judgement of a trusted senior Admiral. An error by a mere ship's Captain could've involved the USSR in a confrontation with, not only the Axis powers, but France and Britain. But Soviet interests had to be seen to be defended. It would not do that Blum, Chamberlain, Hitler and Mussolini should be shown that the Soviet Union had no teeth. Not do at all.

Men like himself had seen Russia similarly torn apart in a brutal civil war. And, as in Spain, foreign powers had rushed in to protect their own interests with little idea, or sympathy for, the complexities of the situation. The end result has always been to pour petrol on the fire and ratchet up the stakes. It's always the little people who suffer. Those with no means of getting away.

He'd been fortunate in chosing the winning side in the Russian Revolution. What charms he had to avoid the shifting fortunes of society and the navy he didn't know. He did know, however, that he'd been lucky to, not only survive, but to prosper when so many people he knew had not.

Could he have ever had such a fortunate life in the West? He'd had the opportunity on many occasions but it would've meant leaving his beloved Katka and their children behind to face the fury of vengeful authorities. In any case, he'd never seriously considered abandoning his homeland. He was Russian, and his life was irretrievably grounded in the soil of the Motherland. Like the Baltic pine, he may be uprooted and refashioned, but always his essence was from the very soil that gave him life.

The Admiral saw the two refugees as he was making his daily rounds. He'd always done this since his first command way back in the days of Tsar Nicholas. He'd speak to as many of the crew as he could, show interest in their duty and career. It was the cotton that bound the fabric of the crew together.

The Spanish woman reminded him of his very own Katka. She was not dissimilar in appearance, too thin by half, and dark. She was miserable, he could see, about being separated from her home. Like Katka, who was Latvian, she could probably never return home. Like Katka as well, she'd been 'stolen' by a man utterly devoted to her well being. The Admiral grinned at the memory. Not all felonies have unhappy consequences.

And this man? He was from a country on the other side of the World from just about everywhere. From a country where most people would be at a loss to find in the atlas. An adventurer who'd staked his fortunes, deliberately or not, in a hopeless cause. A man who tries to make the best out of every situation, who'd never contemplated wandering around a Soviet warship on its way to Russia with his reluctant fellow traveller. The Admiral watched him standing by the handrail, looking out to the ocean, dressed in a Soviet Lieutenant's uniform Rhykov had fetched for him.

He had little idea what was in store for him, little idea of Russian society, culture, and the State. But he plays his cards calmly with the hand he's dealt. 'That boy will survive, ' he thought, 'of that I'm sure.' He only hoped his Anarchist lady finds the truth in what she has. Because, the Admiral thought, it's only through their love and passion can they find a purpose in a grey World.

"Good Morning," he told them in English, the little English he knew.

"Admiral, sir!" John saluted. Benin nodded sullenly and looked away. Unable to communicate further, the Admiral smiled then continued aft.

"Benin is not happy," John told Rhykov at dinner. Rhykov observed that John had taken to the little customs of the mess. He'd done his best to blend in with the crew in most respects. And that without knowing a word of Russian. The man was remarkable!

"She is afraid, perhaps, of what happens when we get to Russia?" Rhykov suggested.

"I think so. She thinks she'll be arrested and put in prison. And, I think, she misses home."

"Ah, I can understand her homesickness. It is a hard thing to be separated from all you've ever known. But you must tell her that Spain will shortly change from the society she knew to one she wouldn't want to live in. Tell her she is more likely to spend her life in prison there than in Russia."

"Is she right, though? Will she be in trouble in Russia for being a 'Mujeres Libres'?"

"I'll tell you plainly, John, no bullshit, right? There is a risk, sure! If she wanted to stand on Nevsky Prospekt handing out leaflets suggesting Stalin is an idiot and we should all raise the red and black banner over the Kremlin, she will be picked up quickly by the militia. No doubt she will spend time in the Lyubyanka at the Party's pleasure. This is something you can't do in Russia. But if she obeys the laws as they stand, there will be no trouble. You know something, John?" he continued, "the way to thrive in Soviet society is by patronage, you understand?"

"Um, no!" John shrugged.

"Ah, you see, I'm this big shot, ok? I need someone to protect my arse so I take John Greenhaugh under my wing. John proves himself very reliable and a devoted friend. So when I get to go places, I take John with me. I get the top job so I never forget the friends who've helped me. I make sure they're ok. I use my power to protect their interests just as they protected mine. That's how the system works. Gorshin, he bullshits for me and I bullshit for him. But if I ever fuck him up, then I know I'll be shovelling snow in Irkutsk for the rest of my life. Make no mistake, the Party knows this and has little sympathy for someone who betrays their boss, whatever the circumstances. Loyalty, above all else, is the most important thing."

"I see."

"And Benin? You must see that she is happy. You must see that she does not want to rock the boat and cause trouble. If she does, she will not only cause problems for yourself, but the Admiral and me as well. You protect our arses, see, and we will look after you both."

"How do I do that?" John said, "she doesn't listen to me."

"Fuck her, John! Fuck her day and night and don't give her time to think. You think you can do that?"

"Umm," John replied, embarrassed. He looked down at his plate trying to conceal his discomfort.

"This is the task I have set for you," Rhykov said, grinning, "your orders!"

Many of the GPU agents had abandoned the cruiser for much more comfortable quarters on the 'Anadyr.' The support ship had spare accomodation for relief crews. This eased the problem on board the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya.' There was now more space available and the senior Officers returned to their own quarters. Rhykov elected to stay on board the cruiser. The Admiral regained his day cabin and John was given quarters of his own.

The cabin normally accomodated two Officers but, in this case, the other bunk was empty. It was smaller then the day cabin, just one room, but it had a small metal desk and a shared shower and toilet. On any warship, privacy was rare, and John considered himself fortunate.

But he wasn't alone for long. Little did he know but Rhykov had seen to it that Benin was evicted from the medical bay. There was now no need for her to be under constant care. The Doctor had removed the last of the shrapnel from her legs and her broken ribs had begun to heal. Still sore, she walked with difficulty on crutches and wore a brace around her chest. Two orderlies escorted her to her new quarters, much to John's surprise.

"Hi, Benin, you well?" he said, smiling. She shrugged.

"Which one is mine?" she asked, nodding at the two bunks.

"I guess that one," he indicated, unless..."

"No, that'll do." She eased herself down onto the bunk with John hovering. She told him she didn't need his help, she was not a child.

John felt awkward. He didn't know what to say or do. Benin lay on the bed and closed her eyes. He sat on his bunk and watched her. "You painting a picture?" she said, eyes still closed.

"I..." he swallowed, "I... love you, y'know!"