Rufus cuts the engines and turns to us.
“Well spotted, Prof. A salt pan.”
“Yes, we are safe for now. But our situation is rather desperate, I fear.”
I throw down the ladder and climb down it. As I step from the last rung onto the strange white surface, I feel something I’d almost forgotten. Heat.
The sun, reflected from the salt crystals, is like fire. My shoes touch the ground, and I let go of the rope ladder. I turn and try to look around me, my eyes scrunched up in the blazing light. I see the bleached white of the salt pan, surrounded on all sides by livid yellow dunes that tower into a burning sky. Everything is lifeless: there is no water and no vegetation anywhere in sight. But I don’t really notice the scenery much, because I see something I never expected to see.
Three faces.
They are men in late middle age, their faces wrinkled and sunburnt. They wear pale cotton shirts and trousers, but cloaks to keep off the sand and the sun. One of them steps forward, eying our airplane cautiously.
“A fine landing! I must congratulate your pilot. But first, we need to know who you are – and, which side you are on.” He points to the hammer and sickle painted on the side of the fuselage.
I try to think quickly: should I tell the truth? I look up at the professor, who is climbing down the ladder behind me. But his face gives me no clue; we’re at a loss what to tell them. I have to say something: I begin to speak.
“We are foreigners in Russia – American, Swedish and British.”
The man looks warily at me, but there’s a hint of something in his demeanor, as if encouraging me to continue. Without thinking, I ask a question.
“Do you know the Cossacks of Astrakhan?”
His curving mouth shows uneven teeth, gleaming white in his tanned face as he replies to me.
“If you are trying to find the Astrakhan Host, then your choice of landing place was indeed perfect.”
As I try to make sense of the man’s reply, he does the oddest thing. He begins to laugh. I have no idea how to respond. Rufus and the professor are now standing with me; I glance at them, but they look as confused as I am.
The man looks at me with kindly eyes, and explains.
“If you seek Cossacks, then you are looking at them! Me and my brothers are members of the Astrakhan Host; we are Cossacks of the Volga. I am Bogdan Kovalenko; these are my brothers Dmitri and Anatoly. And we’d be happy to help you – unless you are supporters of the cursed Bolsheviks.”
I start to tell our story. “The Red Guards are pursuing us. We stole this airplane from them, and we are trying to escape from Bolshevik-controlled territory. We were told that if we came to Astrakhan, we might get help from the Cossack Host.”
All three Cossacks are now looking at me intently. Bogdan asks me “Who suggested that you come to Astrakhan?”
“Do you know a Captain Sirko?”
Bogdan’s eyes widen. “Of course we do! Yuri is like a son to us. How do you know him?”
I’m about to explain, but all three men extend their arms, shaking our hands and smiling warmly. Very simply, Bogdan says “You are our friends.”
We smile too, but the blazing sun on our heads is physically painful. We all move to the shade of the plane’s wing, and Bogdan looks around us at the hostile landscape.
“You three – you are so lucky, to find this landing place! This salt pan was created long ago, a dried-up lake, and then it was hidden by shifting dunes. The sand moved and exposed it recently; me and my brothers were the first to see it.”
The professor stares at the salt pan. “It’s utterly desolate here. Why are you in the desert?”
“We were on our way through the sands to the salt lake at Inderbor, far out in the lands of the Kazakh people. Then by accident we spotted this pan. So we are digging salt from here; it’s much less far to travel than Inderbor. The salt trade doesn’t pay well – but in these hard times, everyone must make money however they can. And we own camels – so we may as well make use of them. We are taking the salt to Astrakhan to sell it.”
Dmitri adds to Bogdan’s explanation. “Well, we did trade in salt – until now.” He brandishes a piece of paper. “Read this, if you want to find out how the Bolsheviks think they can treat us.”
I take the letter, and hold it where the professor and Rufus can see it too.
“Mssrs Kovalenko
It has come to the notice of Party officials that you are mining and trading in salt. As you know, private enterprise of any kind is an anti-Communist, bourgeois activity. It is theft from the Russian people.
Unless you desist immediately from entrepreneurial and profiteering activity, forcible measures will be taken against you.
He looks at me. “Their words are longwinded, but their actions are very direct. The Bolsheviks have already imprisoned several shopkeepers in Astrakhan for refusing to hand over all their stock ‘for the benefit of the people’”.
I re-read the letter, trying to make sense of it. “But if this is true, it will affect every shop and business in Russia…”
“Indeed. Every business, however small, will be taken from its owners and run by the Bolsheviks ‘for the benefit of the people’. And worse, all farms too.” He carries on grimly. “Hundreds of years ago, the Cossacks settled the Volga valley, and defended it for the Tsar, against the attacks of the Turkish Empire. Most Cossacks in this area now own small farms. We’ve heard many stories of lands and farmhouses being taken away from the farmers at gunpoint. So they are all joining the Volunteer Army – part of the White Army, who are right now encamped up-river on the Volga, ready to attack the Red Guards. We hear they are greatly outnumbered by the Reds, but they are all brave fighters.”
Bogdan interrupts. “Let’s not stand about here. Even in the shade of this wing, it is too hot. Now, if your airplane can fly no further, then come with us to Astrakhan.”
Rufus answers eagerly. “That would be marvellous – thank you! We were heading for the airfield at Astrakhan, to refuel. But we ran out of fuel and made a forced landing here.”
“The airfield is full of Red Guards, as is the Kremlin – the fortress of Astrakhan. In the current situation, you may have found your best chance of refuelling your plane by meeting us.”
The professor looks at them, puzzled, but Bogdan goes on. “Despite the Bolsheviks’ edicts, the markets are busy in Astrakhan – including goods stolen from the Bolsheviks, which are to be sent on secretly to the White Army. You are welcome to take any aviation fuel we can find in the city.”
“Don’t, on our account, take any risks—”
“Nonsense! It is a gift to you, and will be our pleasure. Leave it to us. We’ll get your fuel for you – and bring it back out here to your airplane. Now let’s get on.” Bogdan looks at the three of us, in our Western clothes. “Ahem. An American, a Swede, and an Englishman… I suppose none of you has ever ridden a camel before?”
The camels, two-humped Bactrians, are gentle, patient beasts; mine looks at me from under extraordinarily long eyelashes, chewing quietly to itself as if to pass the time. There’s a leather saddle between the animal’s two humps, and with help from Bogdan and Rufus, I finally manage to climb up, and we’re ready to go. Rufus looks round.
“Will the airplane be safe, here by itself?”
“Look at this place.” Bogdan gestures towards the tall crests of the dunes, rising above us like mountain peaks. “This salt pan is totally hidden by the sandbanks. You could pass within a hundred yards of the airplane, and never know it was here.”