



BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 13)


By KATZMAREK ©

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Author's note.


This is a work of fiction based on fact. Opinions and
interpretations of events expressed are my own and as such are
entirely contestable.


This remains my property and may not be used for gain without
my express permission in writing.


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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.


-----------------------------------------


The apartment was small but adequate. It had two rooms and a
small kitchen. French doors opened out onto a balcony with views
of the river. The kitchen had been stocked with basic food items
and, on the table in the sitting room, there was an ice bucket
with a bottle of genuine French champagne and two glasses.


John opened his envelope and counted out 20,000 roubles in
crisp notes wrapped in a band. Benin told him it was a bribe and
she wasn't going to spend it. There was an additional bundle of
100 US dollars. Benin said that could be useful and pocketed
her's. There were ration books for each of them and identity
papers, temporary visas and tickets to the Ballet.


John busied himself with making lunch for them. When he brought
it out onto the balcony, Benin had set herself up in a chair
with a glass of champagne. She looked out over the river and
said, almost defensively,  "if the Russians want to supply us
with champagne, the least we can do is drink it." John smiled
and poured himself a glass.


John went to a big Russian copy of a Columbus radio and scanned
the dial until he found some music. A Russian orchestra was
playing jazz music. He turned it up as loud as he could without
distortion then settled back beside Benin on the balcony.


"This could be worse," he suggested.


"Mmm," replied Benin taking another sip of champagne.


------------------------------------


All was chaos in Barcelona when 'Oz' arrived. The docks were
crowded with refugees hoping to get onto ships that will never
arrive. They camped out in the open or huddled in the doorways;
family groups and single men, women and children, all terrified.


Organisation was barely functioning. The Civil Guard drove
around in lorries seemingly overwhelmed by the situation.
Sometimes they caught and shot looters, at other times they just
watched as department stores were stripped bare, often joining
in themselves.


The PCE militia and their Assault Guard cronies had gone on an
orgy of score-settling and bodies lay ignored in the street,
riddled with bullets.


General Modesto took charge of the defence of Barcelona and
sent General Miaja back to Madrid. The two had fallen out over
strategy. Modesto was for a general offensive with all the
forces at their disposal. Miaja was horrified, told him it was
suicide and suggested they ought to start some discussion of
terms with the other side. This was something Modesto was
adamant will never happen.


'Oz' could see the army was in no condition for any sort of
sustained operation. Much equipment had been left behind during
the retreat from the Ebro. The men were dispirited, inadequately
clothed, and lacking sufficent ammunition and supplies.


From the North, the Anarchist Brigades and the remnant of the
Lenin Division began filtering back into the city. From the West
straggled more troops retreating before the Nationalist 'tour of
Catalonia.' Eventually Modesto had under his command over 80,000
beaten soldiers of the Popular Army. Not more than a quarter of
them, however, were in any fit state to fight.


'Oz' found a bar crowded with soldiers. They spilled out onto
the street rolling drunk and fought and argued with one another.
He purchased a tankard of cheap red wine and crouched down
outside to drink.


He heard a car horn blaring and a motor revving. There, coming
down the street, was a black Austin with two armed guards
perched on the mud guards. On the bonnet flapped the Union Jack.
'Oz' sprang up and waved. 


"Hey!" he yelled, "over here, I'm English!" He ran over towards
the car waving. The nervous guards pointed their rifles at him.
But, from the passenger window of the car, appeared a white face.


"I say," the man said, "what did you say?"


-----------------------------------------


There was a knock on the door of the apartment about 6. It was
Rhykov with a large bunch of flowers for Benin and a bottle of
Stolynichkaya Vodka for John. He told them it was a Russian
tradition. He then insisted they opened the bottle. He fetched
some glasses from the cabinet. Benin noticed he knew exactly
where to find them.


"So!" he bolted the fiery liquid, "you like Russia?"


"Good!" John said.


"So far," added Benin.


"Is not so bad," he said, "once you get used to the weather,
restrictions, bullshit, is not so bad. I know about the West...
I know you can do more things there. But, I tell you.... no
bullshit, right? I tell you, I would rather live here... than in
London... Paris, New York. Is more to life than fancy cars...
listening to bullshit on radio. Here... we have only one
bullshit... that official bullshit!" he grinned, "is Party
bullshit!"


"Are you sure there are no microphones in the ceiling?" Benin
asked.


"If there are," Rhykov said, "is because I put them there...
and I not!"


"Have you been to London, Paris and New York?" Benin asked, her
eyes narrowing.


Rhykov stared back evenly. "I've been many places," he told her.


"I see!" she said. John looked on warily. Benin's voice had a
hard edge to it. He sensed something was happening but wasn't
sure what. "For the GPU?" she continued.


Rhykov paused, his eyes narrowing. He reminded John of a cat
who's noticed a sudden movement in the grass. 


"For my Government," he replied. His voice was clear without
any hint of intoxication. John felt a sudden chill in the
apartment.


"You murder anyone?" 


Rhykov continued to stare at her coldly. The silence was
deafening. John wanted to say something, to break the mood, but
couldn't think of anything.


"I tell you," he pointed with his finger. He reached for a
cigarette, lit it, and puffed a huge cloud of smoke. "I tell
you... I maybe eliminate 1 or 2. Some maybe deserving and maybe
some not so much, eh? I am soldier in the service of my
country... is sometimes not right to ask too many questions, no?
But I do my duty. Yes," he went on, "you ask me if I murder?
Sure I murder. But," he continued to stare evenly at Benin,
"but, in all my time, I never... shoot... balls... off...
priest!"


They continued to stare at each other for an uncomfortable
period of time. Eventually, ever so slowly, Benin's mouth began
to twitch. Slowly she broke out in a smile. Rhykov, too, grinned
like a Cheshire cat. He suddenly banged his fist on the table
and began to laugh. He poured another shot into a glass and
pushed it at Benin who picked it up and bolted it in one gulp.
John looked on bewildered.


-------------------------------------------


The Austin took 'Oz' to an airfield just outside Barcelona.
There, the evacuation of foreign embassy staff was in full
swing. He was taken to a hangar where British officials and
their staff had assembled. There a Captain in the British Army
took him aside and interrogated him.


The Captain listened carefully to his story and why he hadn't
left on the ship with the other foreign volunteers. 'Oz' passed
over his papers and the Captain took them away for examination.
At long last he returned.


"As you can see," the Captain explained, "we are evacuating
British and Commonwealth citizens from Spain according to the
instructions of the British Government. But, Mr. Callaghan, in
your case we have a slight problem. Officially you must be seen
to be a combatant in the employment of the Spanish Republican
Government. As such, could it be said you have renounced your
Australian citizenship? Is a soldier in the employment of a
foreign Government automatically a citizen of his employers? Do
you see the problem?"


"No," said 'Oz,' "why should it be different to a, say, mining
engineer who works in the Dutch East Indies on contract. Just
because he works for the Dutch for two years doesn't make him a
Dutchman."


"Quite true," the Captain replied, "but we're not talking about
digging for diamonds, are we? We're talking about fighting, Mr.
Callaghan, for a Government that... how should I put this, for a
Government of whom His Majesty's Government finds repugnant,
sir. I would advise you to go see the Russians. I'm sure they'll
look after you." The Captain let loose a predatory smile.


"I don't want to go to the Russians," 'Oz' told the Captain, "I
want to go home."


"Then go home," the Captain replied, "but not at the expense of
the British Government."


"Arsehole! Fucking Pommie arsehole!"


"Have a good trip, Mr Callaghan." The British Captain dismissed
him with a wave of the hand.


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Rhykov didn't leave until well after midnight. Benin watched
from the balcony as he weaved up the street towards the Metro
station. It had been quite a night. First the champagne then the
vodka!


John had flopped onto their bed and was sound asleep in his
clothes. She undressed, then tried to move him so she could get
in, but he was too heavy and out cold. Instead she folded
herself next to him and closed her eyes.


Sleep, however, didn't come instantly. Her mind was working
overtime. She analysed the evening carefully, picking through
everything Rhykov had told them. She realised he'd been ellusive
and vague about things to do with his job. She realised, too,
that they'd been carefully monitored all the time on the
'Tchervonya Ukrainiya.' John hadn't noticed anything. He was far
too trusting and willing to take people at face value. But Benin
had been raised in a tougher school where nuances of behaviour
could mean life or death.


'So,' she thought, 'is this just standard Soviet practice or
does the GPU have something more in mind for us than they've
been telling?' She had no answer.


She'd provoked Rhykov for a purpose. She wanted to see him lose
control and reveal himself to John. She wanted John to see the
thug lying behind Rhykov's amiable exterior. Maybe, she was also
staking her claim? Perhaps she was telling the GPU agent to stay
away from her man. She knew she resented the influence he had
over John. Perhaps this was nothing more than a woman's
jealousy? She hoped she was above all that.


But Rhykov had not risen to the bait. Instead, he'd turned the
tables on her while still maintaining that oafish, 'good time
charlie' persona. Benin knew he was way smarter than he let on.
She could see it in his eyes as he studied her. She hoped he was
a little afraid of her now, at least. If he pushed too hard she
would convince John to go to the British embassy.


John stirred and mumbled in his sleep. She patted him on the
arse and his arm came over her. She held it tight over her
breasts. He slept on.


A pity, she mused, she was feeling horny. John was far too gone
to oblige her.


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KATZMAREK © 















