Chapter 6

"Truth was always something you pulled out to suit the needs of the moment, Mischa," Mary Ashburton told the astonished and confused group around the tables. They'd pushed them together and picked at the greasy fried food in front of them, spread out on newspapers. "Or, at times when you are between sleep and consciousness, and are unguarded in your thoughts. That's when you told me of Svetlana. You've no idea what you say in your sleep, do you?"

"I don't remember..." Mischa replied, swallowing.

"No, I expect everything is new to you at the moment - new to all of you. Let me jog your memory? Do you remember the Moscow to London route - oh, I'm not sure of the date - it would be, about..."

"1938!" Mischa said. "Soon after that, they gave me Tashkent. They would rotate the crews. I guess it was to stop anyone getting too friendly with the locals. We didn't want any of our pilots getting subverted by capitalist ideas," he chuckled.

"They may want to go swanning around the English countryside in flashy American cars, Mischa," she chortled. "1938? You are probably correct. Lana was born in January the next year," she thought aloud. "That would be about right."

"Who's Lana?" Mischa asked, his face ashen, as if he knew the truth already and feared the confirmation.

"Why, your daughter, of course, and Michael's grandmother."

Svetlana, Irina, Mischa and Rostrimov looked at Michael in astonishment, who, not understanding the Russian conversation, was completely oblivious to what had been said. "But, that can't be right," Svetlana said. "That would mean Michael was born when his mother was, ah..."

"Four years old," interjected, Rostrimov, helpfully.

"Actually, she was 24. Married a nice man, Allan Atherton. He's an accountant, you know."

"You're not making any sense," Mischa said. "You tell me I have a daughter, then suddenly she's, what? She'd be 41, today? You seem scarcely older than that, yourself. I'm sure I bred no children when I was, ah, 18?"

"You were 38, my dear," she laughed at his confusion. "Oh, you were a handsome man, Mischa, and such a charmer. I was quite the envy of the other girls in that cafeteria at Hendon Aerodrome."

"Hendon? Did you say, Hendon?" said Mischa, shaking.

"Yes," she smiled. "You remember me, now, don't you? Oh, I was very young. 17, you know, but you liked the young girls, didn't you?"

Svetlana looked at Mischa, narrowing her eyes slightly. He shrugged, trying to profess his innocence. "I still don't..."

"Understand? You don't understand, Mischa? None of you understand, but you all will, in time. Svetlana, did he say you can't get pregnant standing up?" Svetlana sucked in her breath. "He lied to you as well? But, we didn't care, did we? We knew exactly what we were doing. Even if we were so young and foolish, we were never that innocent?"

"I never..." gasped, Svetlana.

"Then, who is this?" she pointed at Irina. "I'm pretty sure she wasn't your first, Svetlana."

"But, I'm only 22..." she shivered.

"Time doesn't mean anything, here. For us, it's always June the 7th. You will soon understand it all. Mischa is starting to realize, don't you Mischa?"

"I..."

"She's not my mother!" cried, Irina. "My parents are the Bernstein's."

"They never told you you were adopted?" Mary smiled. "From Tula, perhaps?"

"Tula!" gasped Svetlana. "Oh, no, oh, God no!"

"You remember?" Mary asked.

"Oh, God, it can't be true! It's a dream, I'm having a nightmare!"

"Yes, I expect you are," Mary said, not unkindly. "To have given up your daughter..."

"But it wasn't like that!" Svetlana cried in horror. "I had no choice, they..."

"Took her away? The authorities took her?"

"No. Not Irina, never with Irina. They didn't take ... I left. I left her behind."

"Oh, my dear, my poor dear," Mary said, her own tears welling up. "You must have suffered, so." Svetlana buried her face in her hands and howled so her tears ran between her fingers. Irina looked on bewildered, and automatically, put her arm over her shoulders, hugging. "You must forgive her, Irina. Sometimes, we're not the masters of our own destinies. You can see how she always loved you."

"I don't understand," Irina, moaned, burying her head in her mother's arms.

"And her father?" Mary continued, very softly. "She should know about her father."

"He was navy, on submarines..." she began, quietly.

Vice-Admiral Adam Vladomirovich Rostrimov, stood with his head bowed, whispering so that no-one else could hear. His shoulders were hunched, as the speakers played out the unofficial, slow march of the AF-MF 'We Who Give Our Lives To The Sea.' It was a plaintive song, with soaring violins over a paced, persistent drum beat. As the march ground slowly towards the end, there began a hum, growing in intensity, until the very ground began to shake. At the last beat of the drum, exactly on cue, a Tupolev Tu-95 growled over, perhaps less than 1000 metres above the heads of the seated crowd. The Admiral raised his head, and tipped it towards the honor guard of Naval Infantry. With a clicking of gear, barely audible over the ringing in everyone's ears, the 6 guards stepped forward, worked the bolts of their rifles with a clatter, and fired a volley over the two coffins.

On the curtain draped, prefabricated stage the coffins were completely shrouded with the flags of the Navy - white with the red star and hammer and sickle. On each was an official portrait and inclined board with rows of medals - that of the Senior Captain was dense, the Officer-Candidate, rather less so. The guns fired again, and again - three volleys appropriate for a Captain of the First Rank. Admirals were entitled to four and an Admiral of the Fleet, six. Admiral Rostrimov stepped back three spaces, and stiffly saluted. Following his lead, the crowd arose, and those dressed in military uniform, or sporting the medals of a veteran, did likewise, thumb together, palm outwards.

Four Naval officers then marched forward, two to each side of the two coffins, and reverently removed the dressings placed on the top. They then, carefully folded the ensigns in the prescribed manner, one guard taking the flag, while another held the portraits and medals. They then awaited the Admiral, standing stiffly to attention, eyes forward. Admiral Rostrimov turned and began to march off to the left, with the four guards carrying the flag and dressings, following after. An aide then appeared, and walked along with him, but two paces back. With that, the coffins slowly retracted on mechanized rollers behind the curtain and onto the flatbed of a GAZ lorry parked discretely out of sight. The cover would be pulled down and it would drive off after everyone had gone.

"Admiral?" A woman cried out among the weeping mourners. "Admiral?" she ran forward. The aide made to cut her off, but the Admiral turned and nodded and he backed off. "Admiral Rostrimov," she said. "I'm so sorry about your son."

Admiral Rostrimov wore a full, brown beard flecked with silver. His eyes were red and sad, as the woman gently touched the sleeve of his jacket. She was 30ish, tall, slim, with fair hair. She wore a plain, green jacket with three medals pinned to the chest. Rostrimov, noted they were service and conduct medals from some time in the Army Reserve. "You are very kind," he thanked her, looking strangely into her eyes as if finding something there that unnerved him. "And you are?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Svetlana Kuznetsova, Admiral. I believe the Captain was my father."

"Ah!" he said in surprise. "Yes, I thought I saw him in you. Please, but, these must be yours," he said, beckoning the officers with the flag and medals. "As far as we know, you must be his only surviving heir. Please accept these with the condolences of the Navy - and myself, my dear. Your father was my friend, as he was to those with whom he served."

"Thank you, Admiral."

"Is your mother with you?"

"No, Admiral, she passed away - a long time ago."

"Ah! Then I hope they are reunited," he whispered. "And, in the care of God!" His eyes flicked nervously around lest he was overheard.

The Admiral turned to go, but Svetlana hesitated. "Admiral?" she said. "Can you tell me about my father?"

"What, my dear?"

"I, I never knew him - never met him. I was placed in a State Orphanage when I was a little baby. I had no knowledge of my father nor my mother until last year. I was able to find some records, you see."

"Ah, I understand. Look," he said, glancing around. "Let's go into the garden. Yuri?" he turned to his aide. "See that we're not disturbed, please and ... and, bring a bottle of vodka, if you will, and two glasses?" With that, she followed him through a gate into the memorial gardens with it's statues and plaques dedicated to the fallen. The woman looked back at the parked truck, and the Admiral followed her gaze. "The coffins are empty," he told her. "We have not found the bodies. The waters are too deep there. In any case, the helicopter blew so catastrophically, I'm afraid, there will be little left to find. It is perhaps best they find their rest in the sea," he shrugged. "And together. That is one thing I'm grateful for. Yvgeny is with Captain Yefremov. He will look after my boy," he said, sadly.

"Do you know what happened?" she asked.

"The investigation is not completed, but, we have a pretty good idea," the Admiral explained. "You see, the helicopter on the Petrovska was an experimental and, unlike a normal engine, Captain Yefremov's had one that was cooled by liquid, not air. Now, engines will leak fuel in the North. It's inevitable, because the extreme cold affects the rubber in the seals. An air cooled engine is attached to a fan that blows any vapor out vents, so a little leaking fuel is not so much a problem. But, the Captain's aircraft had no such fan, because it had radiators, instead, and these are obviously mounted outside. The engine compartment had inadequate ventilation to vent any excess fuel vapor. We believe that was the cause of the explosion. The trawler men all say the same thing - the helicopter just exploded in mid air. The Captain and my son would not have known a thing."

"That is a blessing," she said, kindly.

They strolled to a nearby bench, painted white every Spring to repair the damage from the ice and snow. The Admiral's aide marched across the green, finely manicured, lawn, with a silver tray, bottle of vodka and two glasses. "You'll take a drink with me?" he asked, and Svetlana, smiled. The aide poured them a drink each, then respectfully saluted and retreated. "You want to know of Mischa Yefremov?" asked the Admiral, after bolting the first glass and pouring himself another. "Let me begin with our first meeting."

"It was 1941," the Admiral began. "The Germans were only a few kilometers away. Their big guns were within range of Murmansk and bombers and stukas were bombing us every day. People lived in basements and among the ruins, surviving as best they could. Our Air Force was non existent. The few aircraft we had had been shot out of the air or bombed to pieces on our airfields. Mischa was on flying boats out of Polyannii and he comes up with this crazy idea for the Navy to have our own interceptors," he chuckled. "He did not give a flying fuck about how important an officer you were. Oh, I'm sorry, madam."

"I have served in the army," Svetlana grinned. "I'm not afraid of profanity."

"Quite," he squeezed her hand. "He built up Eskadron 2 from nothing but a few old ex VVS crocks, even they would not fly. His men worshipped him. He could charm a she wolf from her cubs, that man. With the utmost respect to your mother's memory, I doubt you were the only one, my dear. In fact, I know you weren't. He'd been an airline pilot, you see? Travelled all around the world breaking hearts. But, you would never hear any of his women friends say a bad word about him. Isn't that extraordinary? Why is that? Why is that?" He shrugged his shoulders, and took another belt of vodka.