Chapter 14

In four days 'Oz' had got no further than Manresa on the Lobregat only some 20 kilometres from Barcelona. Here, the front line was confusing. Sometimes he'd encountered parties of Nationalist cavalry on the road and hid in the nearby scrub. At other times, parties of Government troops sat dejectedly in groups, smoking, sleeping in the sun, totally worn out.

Signs of retreat were everywhere. Abandoned transport littered the fields. Guns, in full working order, sat protecting a bridge with neither ammunition nor crews to fire them.

Mountains climbed on both sides of the valley increasing in grandeur as 'Oz' trudged on. Is was still some 50 kms to the pass at Puerto de Tosas and 'Oz' was becoming exhausted. He realised he needed a ride but there was simply none to be had. The Nationalists had horses, but it was beyond him to steal one. Mules and donkeys were the standard transport in this part of Spain but those available had been long requisitioned by the military. It was said Falangist soldiers shot any donkey they found, but there were many stories about the Fascists. Most, he believed, were exaggerrated, but, at the same time, nothing surprised him anymore in this fucking country.

Many refugees were on the road, heading for the same destination. They told him the French turned away anyone trying to cross the border but they all knew hidden valleys, unguarded border posts, or just border police who turned a blind eye. 'Oz' listened to all the stories, trying to separate fact from rumour. He fell in with a party of Anarchists and POUM militia with the same idea as he. He figured he had a better chance in a group than trying to figure out things on his own.

They had little food with them, but this they happily shared around. Despite everything, 'Oz' was amazed at the group's spirit, a sort of 'esprit de corps.' Defiant to the end, even in retreat they were making plans to come back, to make every Fascist pay for what they were doing to their beloved country. They cursed the Communists for their 'sell out' to the Russians and 'betrayal of the revolution.'

He noticed a woman, a black clad Anarchist, who sometimes led the group in revolutionary songs. At times their voices would ring out over the valley and echo for minutes afterwards. 'Oz' feared they'd bring every Nationalist soldier for miles around, but none came. 'Perhaps, ' he mused, 'it was the quality of the singing that kept the Fascists at bay.'

When he'd first met them, they eyed his Russian PPD machine gun suspiciously. But 'Oz' was nothing if not a good 'bullshit artist.' In no time he'd made up a tale about stealing it from a Russian. 'Oz' was so convincing that they never questioned him again.

At night they slept off the road, anywhere that offered some shelter. They'd light a fire to keep warm, set a guard, then drift off to sleep telling stories. This was 'Oz's' element. The language may be different, the stories not quite the same, but it all reminded him of the drover camps of his boyhood. There, he'd learned to tell tales, to 'yarn' as the Australians say. A mixture of truth, embroidery, and downright lying designed to entertain, not inform. And 'Oz' was head of the class at 'yarning.'

The woman Anarchist took to sitting beside him. She was older than he, maybe mid thirties, and solidly built. She said her name was Catalina and she was from Provence in Southern France. She'd adopted a Spanish name for 'revolutionary purposes, ' whatever that meant. 'Oz' didn't care enough to ask.

'Oz' wondered if she ever had a day off, because her conversation was almost exclusively about revolutionary political theory. He thought she must have swallowed Feodor Bakhunin's 'Anarchist Manifesto' because she could quote it chapter and verse. 'Oz' tired of it but she wouldn't leave him alone.

Benin and John enjoyed the first week of their stay in Leningrad. They went shopping and brought several changes of fashionable clothes. French clothing was available at a high price from the 'International section' of the State Department Stores. Only when they got the clothes back to their apartment did they discover they were all very good Russian copies, complete with fake French labels.

They went to the Bolshoi Ballet's production of 'Sleeping Beauty.' Benin was stunned by the dexterity and skill of the dancers. She nudged John every now and again to wake him up.

Despite Stalin's disapproval of Jazz music, clubs abounded in Leningrad. They were often discrete, down alleyways or in the cellars of buildings, but John and Benin found them crowded and full of life. The Vodka flowed freely, the Russian bands were of a high standard, and the young people of Leningrad revelled in their own version of Southside Chicago. At some time they knew the curtain would come down at the whim of the authorities, but, until that happened, they were going to have a good time.

The music and atmosphere was something John and Benin found they were in full agreement on. John, despite his size, discovered he was a reasonable dancer with a good sense of rhythm. Benin, too, was no slouch on the dance floor either, they made a good team.

Everything was in walking distance of their apartment. They would stroll home, tipsy, in the wee hours and never feel anything but completely safe. There was simply no street crime in Leningrad at any time of the day or night.

And Benin discovered John was an accomplished arm wrestler. Arm wrestling was something of an amateur sport among Russian men. Benin found spontaneous matches could occur at any time in the clubs and bars. They'd soon attract a crowd who'd bet on the contestants enthusiastically. At these matches, Benin had watched her lover stare down an opponent before sending him flying over the table with one heave. She smiled in admiration. It gave her a sexual thrill she had to admit.

John was picking up more and more Russian. She resisted, but even she had to learn a few words so she could shop or ask for directions. In the end she caved in and purchased a Spanish-Russian Dictionary and basic Russian grammar. She studied it at night while John dozed or listened to the Radio.

John was growing restless, despite their active social life. During the day he no longer wanted to go out. He'd sit around while Benin studied, and looked out over the river until the weather started to grow cold.

She sensed he missed flying and just something to do with his time. Leningrad was not that interesting enough to keep him intrigued 24 hours a day. It was at the point that their relationship started to grow tense when Rhykov showed up once again.

He appeared with an Air Force Officer who he introduced as Captain Chernigovka of the Red Airforce's Tactical Research and Weapons Institute at Novgorod. As always, Rhykov told them he was a 'good man.' Over a bottle of vodka, always the finest in Russia, Rhykov asked John whether he'd be interested in helping the Institute out with some technical issues.

"What would I have to do?" John asked. Benin could see he was barely containing his excitement.

"Nothing much," the Captain said in English, "we would like you to look over a new aircraft. Perhaps take it up for a little while and give us your opinion?" John had difficulty remaining in his chair. Benin watched the corners of his mouth strain to prevent himself grinning from ear to ear. She'd already resigned to moving to Novgorod. She knew it the minute the Captain mentioned the word 'aeroplane.'

She wondered, though, that if John was made party to the latest advances in Soviet aircraft technology, how easy would it be for them to leave Russia?

While John and the Captain engaged in a deep conversation about aircraft, Benin tackled Rhykov head on.

"Tell me plain... no bullshit, Rhykov," she said, "you're not going to let us go, are you?"

"Why do you want to leave?" he asked, "you're not enjoying yourself?"

"Answer the question, Rhykov, your hedging?"

"'Hedging' I don't know this word."

"You do so," she told him, "you do it all the time."

"I do?"

"Answer the question? Will we ever leave Russia?"

"Maybe," he said, "when? Who knows? It's not up to me."

"Who's it up to?"

Rhykov sucked in his breath. "That is handled by the Interior Ministry. Benin," he said, softly, "I'd find some way to... settle, if I was you. I say this as your friend. Find something to do, perhaps? You learn Russian? This I know."

"How?" she snapped, "I haven't said anything to you. Have you been spying on us?"

"No," he laughed, "I see your books on the shelf. John, I know he couldn't be bothered studying Russian grammar so that leaves you. Is good! Maybe you'd like tuition? I can arrange some if you wish? You liked Bolshoi?" he asked. Benin had to concede that she had. "Good!" Rhykov clapped his hands, "we have a comic theatre just off the Ostrof Prospekt. I think you'd enjoy it. Those actors are very clever."

"Maybe!" Benin fiddled with her hands. She looked away as her eyes began to moisten. She felt Rhykov studying her.

"Something else?" he asked.

"John doesn't know, but..."

"Ah!" Rhykov interrupted, "when?"

"August, maybe September? I'm not sure exactly. You won't tell him?"

"Of course not. That is not my duty."

"But it changes things a bit, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed, "for the better, I hope."

"Have you any children?" she asked him.

"No," he shrugged, "not that I'm aware of. Is one regret I have."

"No Mrs. Rhykov?"

"No," he shook his head, "is impossible! But I have... adventures!" he grinned. He stood to leave as the Captain finished his conversation with John.

"You will keep my secret?" she said, quietly.

"Is something I can do!" he grinned.

"What'll we do?" the Anarchist known as Benino, or 'Beni' for short, asked. He scanned the obstacle carefully, looking for the armoured car's crew.

It sat squat in the middle of the narrow road, apparently lifeless. On the front guard was painted the Falangist insignia, its turret pointed out over the river.

The road wound up the side of the mountains in front of them. At the top, maybe 10 kilometres away, was the Puerto de Tosas and liberty.

The air was freezing. It blasted down the valley from the very tops of the Pyrenees. It stung the nose and fingers and decisions were that much slower to make.

"It's abandoned," said another fellow refugee.

"It's waiting. A trap!" said another.

"The roof is open," announced Beni, "perhaps a grenade?"

"Anyone got a grenade?" someone asked down the line.

"Yeah, me!" someone said, "a molotov."

"What if it's trap?" 'Oz' asked, "men could be concealed in those rocks. You'd never know."

"True," Beni agreed, "hey, Diego? You think you can toss that molotov into the hatch?"

"No problem. I was a champion discus thrower."

"You do that, then. 'Oz', you cover him, ok? Cover those rocks maybe?"

"Sure!" 'Oz' found a position from which he could cover both the road and the nearby rockslide. It was behind a dead tree, half buried in gravel, a little way up the cliff.

He watched the POUM man called Diego break cover and run towards the armoured car. 'Oz' watched the rockside carefully. This didn't make sense, they all knew it. What would an enemy armoured car be doing abandoned in the middle of the road, apparently undamaged?