BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 14)


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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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.


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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.


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"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?


Diego was a swift runner. He kept low and darted from cover to cover until he was within throwing distance of the car. Just then, 'Oz' spotted a fleeting movement above the rockslide.


"DOWN!" he yelled, but it was too late. A heavy calibre machine gun began thumping from the rockslide. Blue smoke from the muzzle was quickly blown away by the wind. 'Oz' fired with his PPD, short scattered bursts, until the magazine was empty. Before he'd clicked in another, the valley reverberated with the sound of general firing, it seemed to come from everywhere as echo fell upon echo.


'Oz' saw that Diego was down. As he watched, the man picked himself up and stumbled towards the armoured car. Yelling, he lobbed the molotov cocktail. As it left his hand, he was all but cut in half by a burst of machine gun fire.


The molotov hit the armoured side of the car and, with a whoosh, burst into flame. The black smoke was driven towards the Falangist's position, temporarily blinding their gunners.


A man stood up from cover. 'Oz' caught him with a burst and saw his body slam against the rock behind him. His friends then turned on 'Oz' and he lay on his belly as the tree showered him with wood splinters from Fascist rounds.


"'Oz'!" he heard a woman's voice call his name, "I'm coming, comrade!" It was Catalina.


"Don't!" he called back, but he saw her climbing towards him. "Go back!" he yelled, but she ignored him. 'Oz' pushed his gun over the tree and fired at the Falangists. "Fuck!" he yelled, and popped up to fire another burst. The PPD ripped briefly then stopped. 'Oz' banged the cocking lever in frustration, forgetting to get back under cover in his excitement. A Falangist popped up with a rifle. Before he could fire, however, 'Oz' heard a loud crack near him and the rifleman flung his gun in the air and fell backwards. 'Oz' looked in astonishment and saw Catalina, grinning from ear to ear, at the crouch with her rifle propped to her shoulder. "Stupid bitch!" he yelled in English, but couldn't help grinning back at her.


A volley of riflefire opened up from the direction of the river. Some of 'Oz's new friends had infiltrated around the flank of the Falangist position and were enthusiastically firing into them. Soon, John saw them running back up the valley with the Anarchists chasing them yelling at the top of their lungs.


"Hey!" Catalina said, giving 'Oz' a hefty punch on the shoulder, "we make a good team, no?" Rubbing his shoulder, 'Oz' agreed.


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Novgorod was one of the most ancient cities of medieval Muscovy. At one time it had been part of the Lithuanian Empire. Some say it was founded by the Varangians, the Nordic adventurers who'd come looking for land and booty in around the 10th century AD. It was most certainly in existence before that time, however.


Novgorod had been one of the most important cities to the Orthodox Church. Under the Soviets, however, many of Novgorod's fine medieval churches had fallen into disuse, converted into museums, or simply as warehouses. Their icons, and other sacred relics, had been plundered by a cash-strapped Soviet Government and sold off overseas.


The Red Air Force Tactical Research and Weapons Institute was simply gigantic in scale with many thousands of workers and scientists. It occupied a sprawling compound outside Novgorod encompassing nearly 1000 acres of countryside. There were proving grounds, a fully equipped airport, three smaller fields for testing aircraft, an artillery range, a 3 acre factory for manufacturing prototypes, metalurgy and other scientific laboratories, an engine factory and accomodation for nearly 7000 staff and their families, schools for their children and all the facilities of a small town.


And Benin flatly refused to live there.


The problem with RAFTRWI was its very lack of any cultural or intellectual life outside of research and development. There was a cinema, sure, but they only screened films once a week and only grainy old Russian historical dramas. The Ballet never came to RAFTRWI, there were no jazz clubs, little dancing of any kind and the bars were just huge drinking dens for after work. They were all but empty after 7 o'clock.


Benin looked over the apartment that had been allocated to them. Through the window she could see an apartment block exactly like their's. Down below, from the 15th floor, she could see a precisely laid out fountain and flower beds. No flowers had been planted and the fountain had never been connected to a water supply. She folded her arms, stared at an apologetic John, and demanded to be taken 'home' to Leningrad.


John had noticed that Benin had been more tempremental lately. He'd come to recognise the warning signs. Her eyes would narrow and almost smoulder. She'd go quiet and he could almost see the static electricity around her building to critical limits. He learned to make himself scarce before all-Hell would erupt, because Benin in a fury was positively awe inspiring.


They moved to a hotel in Novgorod. Benin demanded to speak to Rhykov. He couldn't be reached, but they were moved that very afternoon. The RAFTRWI accomodation official did not want to fuck with the GPU.


The 'Pravda' Hotel in Novgorod had been built in 1909. No expense had been spared nor compromises made in this tribute to Tsarist splendour. It was well-run, with an army of efficient staff in crisp white shirts. Benin found out why very quickly. It was owned and run by the Central Committee of the Communist Party for the benefit of its top officials. Anyone who stayed there was assumed to have the utmost bite in the Communist Party pecking order.


The first floor contained the suites with their own balconies and private entertainment rooms. The second contained the less salubrious accomodation for the more minor Party hierarchy. The third was most likely for local officials with two rooms and a shared bathroom between two. John and Benin were given a room on the third.


Benin looked out of the window, past the window box, at the domed townscape of Novgorod and smiled. This will do nicely, she declared.


The phone rang, it was Rhykov calling from... somewhere. He said he'd heard they'd tried to reach him and was glad things had worked out. Benin thanked him and he promised to look them up when he was in the area.


"You told him yet?" he asked. Benin admitted she hadn't, that she wasn't sure how he'd take the news. "You must!" he said, "he is a good man!"


"I know," she grinned. She imagined 'a good man' chiselled on Rhykov's tombstone.


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They could see the French border town of Bourg-Madame from the ridge. From the town, high on a plateau, a narrow road wound down into the Segre Valley below them. Out of sight was the border post where they knew would be guards. They also knew that the post on the Spanish side was controlled by the Nationalists of General Franco.


They had climbed to 1800 metres above sea level. They knew they couldn't stay there for long without shelter. A camp fire, if it could be lit in the wind, would almost certainly be seen for miles.


"Well?" Beni asked the group, "any ideas?" They all shook their heads.


"We'd better think of something soon or we'll freeze our arses off!" someone said to a murmur of agreement.


"We'll have to go over the mountain," 'Oz' said. The mountain in question was the Western peak of the majestic 3000 metre Mount Puigmal. They all looked up at the wall of rock and shivered. The Western peak must be only about 500 metres lower than the main one. There seemed no other way.


"No," Beni said, "it's foolish. We have no climbing equipment, inadequate clothing and no-one knows the route for sure. It's insane and I'm not going to preside over the pointless deaths of my comrades."


"You have a better idea?" one of his comrades asked.


"I suggest we take our chances at night down the valley. If we're quiet we might sneak past the border post."


"What does this post look like?" 'Oz' asked.


"I've never seen it," Beni admitted.


"I suppose I'd better have a look, then," 'Oz' said. "I'll nip down the ridge until I can get a good look. Maybe count the guards?"


"Good idea," Catalina spoke up, "I'll come with you." 'Oz' was about to object, but couldn't think of any logical reason why. She was at least as fit as him, was a dead shot with a rifle, was as agile as a snake and she could flatten him with one punch.


"Sure, ok," he said. He tried not to look at her smile of pleasure.


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"STUPIDO!" Benin yelled, "Idiot!" She emphasised the point with a piece of the Pravda's fine crockery. John was equal to the assault, however, but it still grazed the top of his head as it sped towards the wall. He tried to interpose himself between her and the dinner service while evading her right arm. He didn't want them to be thrown out of the hotel.


He ducked inside her reach, put his arms around her waist, and lifted her up off the floor. She flailed away at him with her feet while he carried her to the bed and dropped her on her back. Quickly, he lay across her before she could get up again.


"Let me up!" she screamed through gritted teeth, "bastard!" She struggled but it was useless. John was way too strong for her. She punched at him but she may as well have socked a bullock. John didn't flinch, and she growled in frustration.


"Stop!" he said with a firmness she'd rarely seen. He was normally so adoring of her it was boring. "Stop!" he repeated, equally determined. She couldn't breathe, his weight on her ribcage was too much.


"Let me up!" she gasped, quickly, "please!" He let her go and Benin lay for a while catching her breath.


"Benin?" he asked softly, "Benin, what's wrong with you?"


She looked up at his face, at the barely concealed panic in his eyes. She realised she was tearing him apart inside. Her frustration, her homesickness, her fear of the future and her little 'secret' must eventually push this man away. How would she manage on her own in a strange country that, perhaps, won't let her leave? John, 'Mr Reliable,' just *had* to be told the truth.


"John," she faltered, regained her composure and tried again, "John... I'm pregnant!"


The words appeared to slap him across the face in a manner she could never achieve with her hand. He sat up as if pole-axed. Slowly, she watched the implication of what she'd just said sink home. He broke out in a smile, scooped her up, and crushed her to his chest.


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"Fuck!" 'Oz' said.


"Fuck!" repeated Catalina.


They could see sandbagged machine gun positions on each side of the valley completely covering all approaches. A Cavalry patrol of 6 men were watering their horses in the stream. The border post itself was a concrete structure with shuttered rifle slits high up on the walls. A double wire fence topped with barbed wire was strung across the stream and anchored high up on each side of the valley. To get around that would take the talents of a mountain goat.


The fence itself was broken only by a double gate, chicane style, to slow down any vehicle making a run at it.


The French side was out of sight around the valley about 100 metres away. 'Oz' and Catalina couldn't see it unless they broke cover. Silently, they crept back up the ridge to pass on the bad news.


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KATZMAREK ©
