One morning, when her stamina was at its lowest, Mariana circulated among the patients on her ward, and those that overflowed into the hall, as was her routine. She methodically glanced at each chart and assessed needs, even though the hospital no longer had the capability of meeting many needs. Supplies were alarmingly low. She had to ignore all but the filthiest bandages because they had so few clean ones. Men who might otherwise survive their wounds were likely to die from infection. Philip had been fortunate to have incurred his wound when he did; if he had been wounded now, his leg would never have been spared. Amputations were the order of the day, and even Mariana had stopped fighting them.
She paused between beds and commented to Ludmilla, who was accompanying her on rounds, “Nurses are useless around here anymore.” She ran a hand through her stringy, unwashed hair.
“But we’re stuck here, anyway,” said Ludmilla.
“If only I felt I was doing some good . . .” Mariana ended her statement with a sigh that was interrupted by a cry and sounds of disorder from the corridor.
Leaving Ludmilla to finish rounds, Mariana hurried out to see what was wrong. Orderlies, bringing in a new patient, had stumbled and nearly dropped the stretcher.
“I’m very sorry!” exclaimed an orderly. “It’s so crowded here.”
“I understand,” the wounded man on the stretcher said in a wracked tone.
When Mariana arrived, the orderly tried to apologize to her also.
“I know you’re doing the best you can,” said Mariana. “Let’s just find a place for him quickly so there’s no more jostling.”
The cot was wedged into a corner, and Mariana turned to the patient to insure there had been no further damage done him. “Let’s have a look—”
“He just came up from surgery,” offered the orderly.
Mariana thumbed through his chart. Above-the-knee amputation of right leg, shrapnel removed from abdomen, and slight concussion. It looked as if this poor fellow must have walked right into a Japanese land mine.
She lifted up his blanket to check his dressings. They were already soaked with blood, and he was trembling with cold and shock and pain. There was no notation in his chart that he had been given any morphine recently. She knew they must conserve the precious pain-killer by extending time between doses, but such conservation could go too far.
“I’ll get you something for the pain—”
Only then did she look at the man’s face. She almost didn’t recognize him, with his stubbly growth of beard, face smeared with grime, and a bandage nearly covering his right eye. But there was something familiar. . . .
“Uncle Ilya?”
His eyes snapped open.
Mariana leaned closer. “Uncle Ilya, it’s me, Mariana.” She took his hand in hers. “Do you recognize me, Uncle?”
His lips twitched in a weak smile. “Praise the saints, little Mariana . . . it’s almost as good as being home.”
“Don’t wear yourself out with talk, Uncle Ilya. Let me get you something to ease the pain.”
“That would be good. My leg hurts so, but at least it’s still there . . . I’ll be able to harvest the crops when I get home.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him about his loss; he’d find out soon enough. Poor Uncle Ilya—strong, burly Uncle Ilya, so like Grandpapa Yevno, so full of vitality and gentleness. Now what would happen to him? How would he and his family survive if he could not work the land? He’d be too proud to take charity. Would he even make it that long? His wounds were serious, and Mariana had seen far less severe injuries end in death.
What would Aunt Marfa do? And Grandmama . . . to lose her baby son? Mariana shook the dismal thought from her mind and said a quick prayer for her uncle. He was alive now, and she would do what she could to keep it that way.
Mariana prepared a morphine injection, and after administering it, she sat by his bed until it took effect. When he was asleep she rose and kissed his dirty cheek, then turned to find Dr. Vlasenko approaching.
“Nurse, there isn’t time for such malingering,” Vlasenko said. “I was told you’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes.”
“I haven’t the patience to put up with you, today, Doctor.” She brushed past him, but he grabbed her arm before she was at a safe distance.
“I will not condone such disrespect!”
“I’m sorry.” The apology was halfhearted at best, offered only because she did somewhat regret her rudeness. “That’s my uncle.”
“You know he’s had an amputation.” Vlasenko’s tone held no emotion except perhaps a slight hint of gloating.
“Of course I know,” Mariana snapped. “I, at least, read my patients’ charts.”
“Now, look here—”
“What do you want, Dr. Vlasenko? I have work to do.”
“That’s what I wanted to remind you of.”
“All right, that’s done. May I go now?” Mariana glanced down at his hand, still gripping her arm.
He dropped his hand, and Mariana strode away. She met Ludmilla at the door to the ward.
“I wish I could stand up to him like that,” said Ludmilla.
“My mama would not be so pleased at my rudeness. She taught me better than that. But that man can make anyone forget her manners.”
“Is that patient really your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“I admire your strength, Mariana.”
“My . . . strength?” Mariana didn’t feel strong at all. She wanted to run away; she wanted to scream; she wanted to cry. . . .
Suddenly she realized she hadn’t cried in weeks. When she saw Uncle Ilya, her heart had quaked, but that wrenching of her heart hadn’t been accompanied by tears. Was that strength? She had tried to tell herself it was her duty as head nurse to be strong. But it was all just a whitewash, and she knew it. She didn’t want to be hard. She wanted to cry. But she couldn’t.
A few times she had seen Ludmilla go off by herself to have a good cry, and she had envied her. How odd that Ludmilla should admire Mariana for this weakness—for that’s what it was. Mariana was just too weak to allow herself the luxury of tears. She feared that once she allowed herself to feel, she’d never survive this cruel war.
Mariana looked at her friend and shook her head. “Oh, Ludmilla, if only I could . . . cry. But if I start, I don’t see how I would ever stop. I’ll break, Millie, I know I will.”
“Mariana!” Ludmilla put her arms around her friend.
Mariana felt her friend’s tears soak the cloth of her uniform. But still her own eyes remained dry.
Finally she took a breath, managed a thin smile, and stepped away from Ludmilla. “We’d better get back to work before Dr. Vlasenko returns.”
Mariana’s uncle remained in very grave condition. When Dr. Itkinson learned what had happened, he gave Mariana permission to spend as much time as she needed by Ilya’s bedside. A nurse in another ward offered to fill in, since Mariana and Ludmilla were the only nurses in their ward. These were kind gestures, but Mariana couldn’t allow herself to ignore her duties because of one patient, even if he was her own uncle.
And when more wounded began pouring in from another major battle being fought at the gates of the city, Mariana became all the more determined to do her duty. It just wasn’t fair to place one man above the needs of many. Simple rules of triage taught her that there were many wounded who, with her treatment, had a far better chance of survival than her uncle. Ilya would understand; Grandmama would understand; Mama would understand.
She had her duty.
She did stop by Uncle Ilya’s bed as often as possible. He was slipping into a coma; he probably wouldn’t know if she were there or not.
The day wore on, and Mariana moved through it as if in a dream. When she happened to glance up at the big clock in the ward, she realized with a sickening lurch that she had nearly forgotten about her uncle. Four hours had passed since she last saw him.
34
Mariana rushed into the corrid
or and to where Uncle Ilya was—where he should have been.
But a new cot was in his place, a new patient!
In a sudden panic, Mariana accosted the first orderly she saw. “Where’s the patient who was there before?”
“What patient? Where?”
She pointed. “Where is he?”
“Took him away an hour ago, miss. Dead, you know.”
“That can’t be! I’m in charge here. Why wasn’t I notified? You can’t just go removing anyone you think is—”
“But the doctor was here. He—”
“Vlasenko?”
As soon as the orderly nodded, Mariana spun around and dashed through the corridor. She looked in several wards, then someone told her he was on his way to surgery. Running now, Mariana went to the stairway the doctors used to reach the operating rooms on the first floor. She ran down one flight before she heard the clicking of shoes against the hard steps.
She bore down on Vlasenko like a charging army.
“You heartless animal!” she yelled. “You were probably waiting over him like a vulture—who knows if he was really even dead. I wouldn’t put it past you to send a living man to the morgue just to spite me. How could you—?” She was nose to nose with Vlasenko, screaming in his face, pounding on his chest with her fists. “I’ll see you banned from the medical profession for this! I’ll see you shot—”
“What . . . on earth!” Vlasenko could hardly speak in the face of Mariana’s bombardment.
“You’re finished here, Vlasenko! I swear you’ll never practice medicine again.”
“You’re talking gibberish, woman. Have you gone insane?”
“You’re insane!” she retorted. “Just because he was a poor peasant. You had no right! None, do you hear—”
“Mariana.” The voice interrupted her tirade, a calming tone that tried to soothe her like an embrace.
Her head jerked around. It was Dr. Itkinson.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Doctor,” she said. “This man must be stopped. Just because he hates me for rejecting him, it gives him no right—”
“Mariana, please—” Dr. Itkinson began.
“He killed my uncle,” Mariana accused. “I know how much he hates us.”
“You know that’s not true, Mariana,” said Itkinson.
“It certainly is not!” huffed Vlasenko. “Of all the—”
“Let me take care of this, Karl,” Itkinson interrupted as he put an arm around Mariana. “I’m so sorry about your uncle, my dear. No one could have done anything for him. It is a miracle he survived as long as he did. It’s no one’s fault.”
“No . . . no . . . it’s his fault. . . .” Mariana pointed a finger at Vlasenko, but even as the force of her accusation weakened, so did her outstretched hand. Her arm dropped useless to her side. “It’s my fault.” Her voice shuddered over the terrible realization.
“Neither is that true, dear. Come with me; we can talk in my office, have some tea perhaps.”
The very mention of returning to the hospital wards filled her with utter revulsion. “I . . . I . . . can’t . . . It’s too . . .” Her tortured eyes met Dr. Itkinson’s. “My uncle is dead.”
Then she turned and ran down the stairs.
Mariana ran for three blocks before she realized she had no place to run. There were no quiet places of retreat in this war-ravaged city, no parks or public gardens where she could sit in safety and try to make sense of an existence that was crumbling like the mortar of the bombed-out buildings. Even if there were, it was dark outside, hardly the time to stroll through a garden.
Where else could she go?
Then she thought of Daniel, and how desperately she needed a friend. He had known great loss; he would understand. He would be there for her.
35
A cold mist from the sea enveloped the town. Mariana shivered in the night air. More haunting than the darkness was the silence—a quiet almost as unnerving as the constant shelling had been. The fighting forces must be regrouping after the most recent battle—the battle that had taken Ilya Burenin’s life. Only the distant report of gunfire from a stray sniper filled the misty air.
Darkness and fog shrouded most of the squalor in the Chinese section of town where Daniel’s inn was located. Being on the outskirts of town, it had escaped the heaviest effects of the bombing, but there were still bombed-out buildings lining the roads and gaping craters in the streets.
Mariana’s frantic pace slowed, and her natural wariness took over. She didn’t want to think of what might lurk in the shadows. But Daniel’s inn was down a back street. She didn’t know exactly where, for he had only told her about it; she had never been there.
The Imperial Palace it was called. She could hardly imagine anything equal to that lofty appellation in this run-down neighborhood.
She searched down two streets without success. There was not a soul around to ask directions, and she grew more apprehensive by the minute. A cat’s shrill meow caused her to jump and gasp. The sound of a voice in the distance made her flatten herself against a wall for fear of being seen, in spite of the fact that a human was exactly what she needed in order to get some directions. She had brought no coat and was trembling with both cold and fear.
Then she turned a dark corner and collided with a dark figure.
They both cried out in shock, then the stranger scrambled to hurry away.
“Please, wait!” called Mariana as she regained some of her wits.
The person slowed. Perhaps he felt safe knowing the intruder was only a female.
Mariana gathered her courage and ran after him. “Please, can you give me directions?”
The man answered in Chinese. Mariana could not understand a word.
“Imperial Palace?” she said several times, hoping the message got across.
He answered with another stream of unintelligible Chinese, then pointed. But that gesture could mean anything, and Mariana shrugged her confusion. It took a moment, but he finally perceived that this Russian girl had no idea what he was talking about. He grabbed Mariana’s hand and tugged at it, indicating for her to follow.
In less than five minutes, he brought her to a door in a row of squalid buildings. The Chinese characters over the door told her nothing, but the faded likeness of a pagoda-style palace under them was unmistakable.
Mariana wanted to hug the stranger. She gave him a ruble instead, and he obviously appreciated this far more.
Three Chinese locals, two men and one woman, sat inside. Mariana was hoping one spoke her language, when the woman said in broken but decipherable Russian, “You want help?”
“I’m looking for Daniel Trent, the American.”
“He not here.”
“What?” It was more an indication of frustration than a question.
“I say, he not—”
“Where is he?” Mariana’s distress and disappointment infused her tone with impatience.
“How should I know? He no tell me.”
Mariana spun around and left. What her hurry was, she did not know. She had no place else to go. Perhaps she just didn’t want the people in the inn to see her in such a state. She had wanted to see Daniel—needed to see him. Where was he at this hour? Probably after some stupid news story. Why wasn’t he here when she needed him? Didn’t he care? Didn’t—
She stumbled aimlessly down the street, and would have laughed at herself had she been able. How could she blame Daniel for not being home? He had his own life, and work to do—important work. She was expecting too much of him to be there for her every whim. But ever since that day during the bombing when Daniel had rescued her, Mariana had come to depend on him more and more.
But this wasn’t a whim. She was in trouble, lost, confused. She had never experienced such heartache before; she didn’t know what to do.
“Why couldn’t he be there, Lord?”
She took a shuddering breath that caught on a tearless sob.
Sometimes he went to Saratov’s. But tha
t was on the other side of town. What if they missed each other? Could she chase all over town after him? Again, she realized she had no other options. She thought briefly of Philip, then dismissed the idea. Daniel was her best friend. He would understand her pain and confusion. Something told her that, though Philip meant well, he would never understand.
She began to retrace her steps through Chinatown, down the same dark, scary streets. Even the same cat uttered its night call. By now her mind was in such turmoil she was hardly paying attention to where she was going, trusting instinct to carry her toward Daniel. Instinct, and silent prayers she hardly perceived she was thinking.
“Mariana, is that you?”
He came toward her from a side street, shrouded in mist, his face shadowed by the darkness. Only the dear, familiar sound of his voice told her she could rest; she was safe. She ran into his arms, uttering his name over and over between choking sobs. As she felt the warmth and strength of his embrace, tears—real, cleansing tears—poured from her eyes.
“Daniel . . . Daniel . . . !”
“What is it?” he said softly, stroking her hair.
“I was afraid . . . I couldn’t find you . . . Oh, Daniel, I need you!”
“I’m here now,” Daniel murmured. His own mind was in a spin. She needed him! That was simply too incredible to absorb.
It thrilled him.
It scared him to death.
He never used to doubt his own prowess and abilities, and yet here he stood, quaking at the prospect of being needed by a woman like Mariana. This was completely new territory for Daniel; he had always been too footloose and unfettered to allow himself to be in such a position. More importantly, since his father’s death, he had been more acutely aware of his own shortcomings than he often liked to admit.
What did he have to give someone like Mariana? Money, yes. But emotional support? Spiritual guidance? Comfort? Was she truly looking to him for these things? In his mind, she had always been the strong one in these areas. Now she was turning to him? He had a paltry store of wisdom for such an occasion.
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