Chapter 13

The crew of the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' grew more restless as the ship cruised through the Gulf of Finland. A Beriev flying boat had greeted the ship off Moon Sound at the entrance to the Gulf. The cruiser's crew had thrown their hats in the air and waved and yelled at the aircraft.

John Greenhaugh had waved as well. The Beriev had made a low pass and he could see the pilots waving back. An Officer had clapped John on the back and yelled excitedly. After months away from home the crew adopted a party atmosphere.

Except, of course, for the sailors who had to scrub the ship top to bottom. By the time the sirens blasted as they made their way into the Naval base of Kronshtadt, the cruiser was spick and span, sported bunting from the running lines and signal flags from the masts.

The vessel slid towards its anchorage with the assistance of a tug that poured oily black smoke into the clear sky. The crew lined up on deck in their dress uniforms to take the salute from the signal gun.

The ritual fascinated John. He stood on the lower bridge rail with the other 'Lieutenants' and saluted as they did. Rhykov had instructed him as to the 'proper' way to salute in the Soviet Navy. He told him that an Officer who missed his cue, or was sloppy, had to 'sail around the fleet.' This meant drinking a line of shot glasses of Navy Vodka running the length of the dining table in the Officers' mess. It was rare that a miscreant was still standing by the time he reached the end of the table. John made sure he was perfect.

Benin watched from the bridge, standing at the back behind the Captain, Helm, Signalmen and Watch Officers. Admiral Gorshin was dressed in his finery, complete with impressive rows of medals. He came and stood beside Benin and smiled. Rhykov stood beside them in his fake uniform. The two men spoke in Russian, and Rhykov translated for her.

"The Admiral said that this is the best part of going on a voyage. He said that he's done this more times than he can count and it gets better all the time. Over there," he pointed, "was the Admiral's home where he grew up. He said it's used by some Navy Department now."

"Where does he live now?" Benin asked.

"On base. The other side of Kotlin Island. He has a house with two floors... and a garden. This shows how important he is." Benin looked at Rhykov's face for signs of irony. She detected none and assumed he was serious.

"In Barcelona," she told them, "there was a priest, an archbishop. He had a mansion the size of half a block. He had servants, secretaries and whores." Rhykov translated for the Admiral who raised his eyebrows.

"Where is he now?" asked Rhykov.

"Dead! The 'Mujeres Libres' gave his whores rifles and they shot his balls off!" Rhykov coughed and wandered away.

Outside there was a loud shout and over 500 arms flicked up as one. Benin saw John snap up his arm with the rest of them. She felt numb.

John went back to his quarters to collect his belongings. He had acquired a full kit from his new Russian friends, and gifts; tobacco, a Russian doll and books, all in Russian, 'for when you can read them.' His old uniform had been returned to him, repaired, laundered and pressed. He changed into it and found the Russian tailor had done a good job, it was as good as new. His boots, however, had been beyond help and the Russians had substituted a pair of Navy ones. It was thus as a 'Tenente' in the Air Force of Republican Spain did he and Benin say their final farewells to the crew of the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya.'

Benin was glad to be off the cruiser, even if she had missgivings about going ashore to an uncertain future. Rhykov accompanied them on the boat to the shore. The Admiral had preceded them in his own pinnace with his staff.

The wharf was crowded with wives, girlfriends and families of the crew. They were all anxiously waiting for their men and, if they thought it unusual that a Spanish Air Force Officer should come ashore from the cruiser, they paid him no attention. Benin, in her drab militia uniform, still walked with a pronounced limp beside him. She held John's arm for support, but still insisted she carry her own knapsack.

Rhykov guided them to a large car, a Russian copy of an American Hudson, that was used as a standard official vehicle of the Government. They took their places and it sped off at breakneck speed.

The car whisked them through the wrought iron gates of a large, anonymous, brown stone building and into a central courtyard. A khaki-clad guard opened the door and stood to attention as they got out. Rhykov led them through a door and up a stairway.

"Where are we?" John asked, "where are we going?" Benin looked apprehensive.

"Interior Ministry," Rhykov told them, smiling. "Is all right. You must be processed... is bullshit we must go through."

They seemed to walk for miles along dim corridors with rows of doors. Occasionally a person appeared carrying a sheaf of papers. They'd look briefly at them before going about their business, head down.

Benin had had enough and wanted to rest. Just as she was about to complain, they came to a door, Rhykov knocked, and ushered them inside.

The office was large. A secretary banged away at an immense typewriter, totally ignoring them. Rhykov went to a door to an inner office and opened it without ceremony.

A man sat at a large desk cluttered with papers. He smiled at Rhykov and greeted him warmly. He was in his forties, perhaps, bald headed and wore a white shirt and tie. On his lapel, Benin noticed, was a small Party badge.

"This is Mister Zusov of the Interior Ministry," Rhykov explained, "he will, ah, smooth your wheels and oil your axles. He is a good man," he added.

Zusov extended his hand, smiling. Rhykov left, saying he had to make his reports.

"Lieutenant Greenhaugh," he said in perfect English, "Senorita Benin," he said in flawless Spanish, "welcome to the Soviet Union. You wish to converse in Spanish or English? What would be easier for you?" He repeated everything in both languages. They agreed Spanish for Benin's benefit whose English was poor.

Benin thought he was as smooth as a cat and she was instantly on alert. Clearly he'd been well-briefed by Rhykov. She wondered what more he needed to find out.

"John, may I call you John?" John nodded and Benin rolled her eyes. "Benin, it's all right?" she didn't reply so he continued. His secretary entered with two fat envelopes, placed them on Zusov's desk and left. "Here," he said, "is everything you'll need during your stay; temporary papers, ration books and money. I think you'll find enough there for your needs. If you need any more I can prepare a draft for you at the State Bank. I've found some accomodation for you, an apartment in a very good part of town, by the river Neva. My driver will deliver you later. But first, I want to know all about Spain."

They continued for almost an hour with Zusov asking specific, detailed questions about their experiences in the Civil War. He was well-informed, and knew of all the commanders, units and battlefields. John told him about his friend 'Oz', how they had to leave him behind. Zusov said he was sorry and could make some enquiries but couldn't promise any results.

"Many good and heroic people," he said, "have made great sacrifices in the cause of liberty. I wish I could rescue them all."

"And many good people," added Benin, "were butchered by agents of the Soviet Union because they dared to ask questions." Zusov stopped in mid sentence and stared at Benin. John looked apprehensively from his lover to Zusov. He thought she'd blown it for them. What had Rhykov urged him to do? See that she didn't rock the boat and drop them all in the shit?

"Shut the door!" he told John, his voice stern and commanding. John did as he was told and sat back down. "Listen," he continued. He spoke softly in a low voice. "Listen, I know there was some nasty shit. I know, Benin, that you would have preferred not to have come to Russia. I understand this, but you must see, also, that you are here now and have to make what you will out of something not to your liking. John, he understands, he adapts, he has... the big picture in mind, don't you John?" John nodded.

"And what is the big picture, Senor Zusov?" Benin asked, "what are we here for?"

"There is no conspiracy here, Benin, really. You may not believe me but it's true. The 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' could not take you to another country because of its schedual. Many Spanish have made the same journey to Russia as refugees. We have an official policy to offer sanctuary..."

"To your lackeys in the PCE?" Benin interjected.

"Spanish Communists certainly!" agreed Zusov, "but many more who've suddenly become Communists at the last moment," he grinned wryly, "we don't question too closely. John, he is free to go to the British Embassy any time. He may enquire there about repatriation back to New Zealand. I understand it's a mere formality..."

"But what about Benin?" John asked.

"Ah, well there we might have a problem. The French Embassy has been known to assist some Spaniards but their attitude, shall we say, has been ambiguous."

"I'm not leaving without her. Perhaps if we got married?" Benin shot John a shocked look.

"Ah, it's been done before, John" Zusov told him, "the British demand rather more proof of, shall we say, marital stability than a rushed wedding at a Soviet Registry Office. I understand two years?"

"So we're stuck here for at least two years?" Benin said.

"Maybe more? Who knows?"

"Then I guess we'd better make the most of it," John suggested.

"Exactly!" agreed Zusov, "and why not enjoy yourselves at our expense for a while? Perhaps later you might be interested in assisting us in some way?"

"Such as?" Benin asked, suspicious.

"John is an accomplished combat pilot. We have need of such people to help train our own pilots. Particularly those with experience of German aircraft and tactics."

"And me?"

"Ah, well, I understand you have a gift for languages?"

"I do?" Benin said in surprise, "who told you that?"

"We always have a need for foreign language teachers at our institutes and schools. It would be no problem finding something for you to do. We can discuss this later, meanwhile, might I suggest you settle yourselves in, take in the sights, do some shopping, perhaps? We have everything here, despite what you might have heard in the West."

Zusov handed them their envelopes and showed them the door. A driver was waiting in the outer office to take them back down to the official car.