The Red Staircase

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ I could feel my heart beginning to beat faster.

  ‘To see a man.’

  ‘The Englishman you were sent to find?’

  ‘Sydney is dead, poor fellow. I have discovered that he was dead before I came. But this is another Englishman. He is ill. I want you to look at him.’

  He wasn’t joking. None of it was a joke. He meant we should take a walk in the copper mine. ‘Have you the courage?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I could hear my voice crisp and clear, committing myself. ‘Let’s do it now.’

  There was no gate through the fence into the cemetery, but presently Patrick lifted up two palings and we squeezed through. I guessed it was a route often used by those in the know. There are always secret routes and secret doors in Russia, it is part of the way of life; if you have a strong, oppressive government then you must have such contrivances. Often the government knows of them, and even connives at their use. I had learned this, and probably Patrick had by now too, for he smiled at me as we went through without a word. Then he slipped the wooden struts back into position behind us. On each paling was a dark brown spot, a sign I supposed, for those following the route.

  There were no paths discernible in the graveyard which on close inspection presented a field of unnamed humps, miserable to see.

  ‘Is no grave identifiable?’ I asked.

  There are numbers, as you can see if you look closer, but they don’t mean much because the numbers get lost or mislaid. There are a few headstones.’ He pointed out one or two where I could see low wooden crosses, obviously homemade. ‘They are the lucky fellows,’ he said with irony.

  We were coming up to a long, low facade of stone and plaster with a wooden roof covered with turfs. I could see no windows, although a few high slits in the wall may have been intended to let in air and light. Even the door was hard to see, so dark and stained that it seemed part of the wall. It looked coffin-shaped, I thought with a shiver.

  ‘Come on,’ said Patrick, and bundled me through. ‘Now, don’t speak, and hold your breath as we go through. Your nose, too, if you can manage it.’

  I was in a low, long room, so dark that I could scarcely see through the gloom to the end of it. Beds, of a sort, were ranged in rows on the floor, mere pallets some of them, and as to cleanliness, not fit for dogs. There were bunks let down from the roof, forming dreadful recesses on which corpses might be lying, for all I could see. I understood what Patrick meant about holding my nose when I was forced to breathe and took in the foetid, sickly smell.

  But the strange thing was that, except for one or two still figures who looked moribund already, all the beds were empty. Nurses I had not expected, but the sick I certainly had. Were they all so healthy in this place? ‘There’s hardly anyone here,’ I murmured.

  Patrick looked at me as if I had said something extremely naïve, and just shook his head quickly and pushed me on.

  We came out of a door at the further end of the pesthouse straight into a great square filled with wooden huts placed at random. Beyond, I could see sombre blocks of buildings, and I could hear the distant rattle of machinery. I had the impression that even beyond what I could see were more buildings and more machines, stretching on and on.

  But there was not a soul in sight. ‘Is it always so empty?’

  ‘Above ground, in daylight, yes.’ A matter-of-fact but chilling answer.

  ‘But the man you want me to see?’

  He took me by the hand and hurried me round the corner of one of the huts; the door stood open and I could see it was a living-place of some sort, with beds on the floor and bundles round the wall. A few flowering weeds had been placed in a stone mug as a sort of decoration, infinitely pitiful to see, but at least a sign of humanity. I wondered briefly whether, if you were a prisoner here, it was better for you to retain some feeling of being a person or better ultimately to sink to the level of a nameless drudge.

  ‘In here.’ In spite of the fact that Patrick had said no one was about, I noticed he was keeping a weather eye open, so I guessed there were a few guards to be found. ‘Come right inside.’ And he drew the door to so that we could not be seen from the outside.

  ‘Graham, is that you?’ said a voice weakly.

  ‘He’s English,’ I said, and I knew, too, that whatever he was now he had been an Englishman of education and breeding. Only a man of that class could have said Patrick’s surname in that way; men of that sort never use Christian names to each other, no matter how intimate and long their friendship. Besides, there was a hint of authority in the voice.

  ‘Yes,’ said Patrick briefly. ‘I told you there was this second compatriot. Rose, I want you to look at him, tell me what he’s got and what his chances are. Coming, old fellow,’ he called out.

  I followed in the dim light to a bed on the floor in a dark corner. I could just make out a pair of eyes blazing with fever.

  ‘Who’s this?’ The voice was weak but suspicious. Fearful too, I thought.

  ‘I told you who she was, old boy,’ said Patrick soothingly. ‘I told you she was coming.’

  ‘But I never believed …’ His voice died away. I had my hand on his pulse which was racing maniacally. ‘I know my chances,’ he muttered. ‘Heard you then. But I know.’

  ‘Tell me his symptoms – if you know them?’ I commanded Patrick. I was in charge now.

  ‘Oh the usual – sickness and the rest – you can tell, can’t you?’

  I nodded. ‘And how long has it been going on?’

  ‘Only twenty-four hours. But that’s a long time to be ill in this place.’ His voice was hard.

  ‘So I guess. Why doesn’t he go to the hospital?’

  The man began to struggle on the bed. ‘No, no hospital. No. Better anywhere than there. Never, I won’t.’

  ‘Hush.’ Patrick put a soothing hand on him. ‘You won’t go there. That’s what she’s here for: to give you stuff so that you can get better.’ He appealed to me. ‘You can give him something, Rose, can’t you? You must know something with all your knowledge?’

  I knelt down beside my patient to get a better look, but I had already made my diagnosis. In health he must have been a big burly man, and he was still young, though his hands and forearms were already stained with the green of the mines and his face had a coppery sheen, almost irridescent, that was alarming. But this was not his sickness.

  I stood up and drew Patrick aside. ‘He has typhoid. God knows if he will recover. I can give you some stuff for him to take, it’s what I had for Ariadne. And of course I will come back myself.’

  ‘No. No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll do all that’s to be done.’ He bent over the sick man. ‘Lowther, old chap. I’ll be off for now, but back soon. Hang on.’

  Hang on was about it, I thought; the man called Lowther might live, or he might die.

  ‘Come on, Rose,’ Patrick was on the move. ‘The sooner we get you out of here, the better.’ I followed him silently. There were a lot of things I wanted to say, but I was saving them up.

  Outside there were voices. I could hear a man shouting. Well, screaming it was, more accurately. I turned round in alarm to Patrick, and he flattened himself in a doorway, drawing me with him.

  Three figures came tumbling into view; two men dragging a third between them. They hauled him between them to the door of the hospital, tumbled him inside and shut the door on him, then they stumbled off.

  I turned to stare at Patrick, who shrugged. ‘Now you see for yourself. No one, no one, goes to the hospital if they can stay out of it. Once that door closes on you, then you are as sure to die as if a knife had been put in. And they all know.’

  In an unsteady voice, I said: ‘I might be able to do something. We have to go back that way.’ Since the men had gone I thought we could move forward, but Patrick held me back. ‘Wait,’ he said warningly.

  Another figure had appeared through an archway and was surveying the scene. He wore a loose square-necked shirt with
a square yoke, and baggy trousers, more the sort of dress that the others had worn, but he did not look like one of them, he looked healthy and formidable.

  ‘He’s the straw-boss,’ said Patrick. ‘You know who that is.’

  I nodded. ‘The man responsible for all of them.’

  ‘Oh well, not altogether. The truth is he’s not as bad as you might think, for this place. No one is, that’s the hideous pity of it. Nothing is straightforward here, there’s always more muddle than rigidity, just that touch of humanity where you least expect it. Even he has it. All the same, he’d better not see us.’

  ‘He’s gone now.’ The man had swung on his heel and disappeared back through the archway. ‘Gone back to his bottle,’ murmured Patrick. ‘That’s his particular weakness. Come on.’

  He strode forward. ‘I blame Lazarev more, he’s lazy,’ he said as he walked.

  ‘Marisia says it’s not his fault.’

  ‘In her funny way she loves him. As he loves her, God help them both. But they are adept at turning a blind eye on each other. Anyway, I blame the government, and the government is the Tsar. Stupidity is the worst crime when all is said and done – I’m angry, Rose.’

  When we got inside the hospital, the man was lying on the floor where his friends, or enemies, had deposited him. I knelt to examine him. ‘Well, he isn’t dead yet.’ I could see the little pink flowers of God already forming on his chest, his badge of release. ‘You could try giving him some medicine when you go back to Lowther, but I don’t think it’ll do any good.’

  ‘Don’t talk of him as if he was an old dog!’ said Patrick angrily. I did not answer.

  I looked at my watch as we got back to the compound where the Lazarevs’ home stood. Only half an hour had passed – but a very educational one. I thought: ‘It’s hard to be a good person in Russia, perhaps hard to be a person at all. Patrick and I are lucky, because we don’t really belong.’

  I ran up the verandah steps two at a time and into the house. ‘Wait here,’ I called to Patrick.

  When I returned I offered him a box of medicines and some towels, old but clean. ‘Have you thought?’ I asked as I handed the stuff over to him, ‘how many more of them inside there have typhoid?’

  During the course of the next morning Marisia was called away several times to talk to her father, and each time she returned with a solemn face. She said nothing to me, however, and I did not try to question her. We were friends now, but still we kept up our reserve. For both of us there was ground we did not trample on. I wondered if what was troubling her had something to do with Patrick’s and my exploits yesterday. He did not appear.

  As the day wore on, Marisia grew quieter and more sombre. I noticed she was sharper than usual to her sisters who, quiet as mice, certainly did not deserve her wrath.

  It was one of the hottest days we had experienced; I remember there seemed a preternatural vividness and sharpness to the day. Ariadne, still weak, found the heat particularly taxing. She was looking forward now to getting back to Shereshevo.

  ‘It will storm,’ said Marisia, looking out of the window.

  ‘At least the temperature will drop.’ I was fanning myself.

  ‘Not necessarily; it doesn’t always. Sometimes we seem to live under a belt of thick cloud.’

  From the inner room one of the sisters called: ‘Marisia, come and explain this problem in geometry you have set us.’

  ‘Coming. Oh, it’s too hot to think,’ said Marisia, disappearing.

  ‘I wonder you don’t let them off lessons. Or at least work outside,’ I called after her.

  ‘Never!’ she called back.

  I wandered outside in the hope that it might be cooler. If anything it was hotter, with a deep amber sun hanging in a livid sky. I strolled towards the path that ran by the graveyard, wondering if I would see Patrick but not daring to hope. Then I saw his figure bending over one of the little mounds. He was placing something there. A stone.

  He had left one of the palings loose so it was easy for me to scramble through and join him. He turned round to look at me as I approached, and then turned back to study the grave.

  ‘Why, it’s the stone I saw you working on,’ I said. ‘The one I saw you chipping away at. You were making a gravestone.’ In rough, clumsy letters he had inscribed:

  Henry Sydney

  died June, 1913

  age unknown

  Rest In Peace

  ‘If there is any peace here,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, there is for him.’ And I put my hand on his. But he drew it away quickly. ‘Better not touch me, I’ve been among the sick all day.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, they are going down like flies in there now. Bad cases too. Don’t tell me you are surprised.’

  ‘No.’ I said, remembering how preoccupied Marisia had been. ‘I suppose I expected it really. Perhaps not so quickly. There is usually a sort of lull, a false calm before the epidemic breaks, after the first cases.’

  ‘This is more like a forest fire. It is utterly disorganized in there. All night new cases have been appearing. It’s like Dante’s hell, with the healthy trying to run away from the sick and the dying. Only there’s not far to run,’ he said grimly.

  ‘And the hospital – so-called?’

  ‘It’s full enough now. Burials started early this morning.’ My eyes had already fallen on what were certainly new-formed mounds, and I could see work had begun on a big pit. ‘I just hope all of the poor creatures were dead.’

  I bit my lip to stop myself from crying out at the horror. ‘And Lowther?’ I said.

  ‘Oh he’s still alive. Barely. But the other chap died.’

  I had been thinking. ‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back.’ And I hurried back the way I had come. The first flash of lightning lit the sky as I went, and the air grumbled. I collected an apron, gloves, and some large handkerchiefs to tie over my hair and over my mouth as a mask, a box of what medicine I had, and one object which I put in a pocket, and prepared to go back to Patrick.

  I met Marisia at the door, and she tried to bar my way. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going in there. Don’t try to stop me.’

  ‘Rose, you don’t know what you are doing. It is not the sickness, it’s the prisoners themselves. My father tells me that they have all but taken charge in there. They are very violent; they might kill you.’

  ‘I can but try,’ I said. ‘And I mean to. Stand aside, Marisia. Organize what you can here. Get help from the town.’

  ‘They’ll never come near us under such circumstances.’

  ‘Is there a Governor in the town?’ I didn’t know much about Russian local government.

  ‘Of the district. He has a deputy in the town.’

  ‘Then threaten him with the Tsar. Make your father go to him. Go on, Marisia, you can do it!’ I said. ‘And the Tsar shall know what’s done in his name.’ And I touched my pocket, in which I had a talisman.

  I met Patrick, walking towards me. He too tried reasoning. ‘You don’t know what you are trying to do, Rose. I can’t let you go through into there. I’m keeping away myself.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I can see in your face that you mean to go back in.’ He was silent. ‘And I am going too. Don’t mistake me: I don’t think I can work any miracles. But what, in humanity, can be done, will be done.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, Rose. As so often. I won’t stop you. Give me that box and let me carry it for you. What’s in the pail?’ He looked. ‘Oh, water.’

  ‘Hot water,’ I said briefly.

  We took the same route as before to the hospital, but this time the door did not open as easily before us. I looked at Patrick questioningly. ‘Locked?’

  ‘I think not. Here, let me.’ He put his shoulder to it and pushed.

  The door slowly gave before him and I caught my breath, a wave of nausea rising thickly up inside me. The door had been blocked by the body of a man wedged against it. Lying across him was yet another man, and beyond him, anoth
er. It looked as though the sick had simply been trundled through the door and dumped. Well, I had seen for myself yesterday what went on.

  Together, Patrick and I got the men on to the nearest beds, and I tried to think what to do. In spite of my brave words to Patrick I felt desperate. And now I could see what faced me. In the dim light which filtered through the window-slits I could see that beds and floor bore the bodies of the sick and dying. Some, I thought, might indeed be dead already. A bright flash of lightning lit the room vividly for a second, illuminating a scene of horror.

  I walked quickly down the aisles between the bunks and beds, assessing the situation. ‘What help can I get?’ I demanded of Patrick.

  He thought for a moment. ‘One or two of the mine officials aren’t as bad as you might think. I’ve got to know a couple. I could bully them a bit. And then the music master is a decent little fellow and fears little, none of these Poles do. They’ve lost everything. He will help.’

  ‘Good.’ I began to show him what to do. ‘The main thing is to make them drink, as much as they can, and make them as comfortable and clean as you are able. Nature will do the real cure.’

  Together we worked over a few men, washing where we could, forcing drinks and medicine down the throats of those who could swallow. ‘The medicine is a mere palliative,’ I said. ‘I know that well enough. But if we can give hope they may pull through.’ I stood up. ‘You know what to do?’ All the time I had been keeping my eye on the door that led to the mine in dread that more bodies might be thrust through. So far this had not happened.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Patrick. He was still on his knees.

  ‘Then I’m off to see the straw-boss.’ And wiping my hands on my apron, I strode off.

  I did not have far to look. I could see him standing in the archway across the court. Rain was falling heavily, he must have been getting wet but he seemed oblivious. A zig-zag fork of lightning flashed across the sky, and then another, and simultaneously came a tremendous ripping noise as if the earth were being torn apart. He saw me watching him then, and after giving me a long, hard stare, started across the courtyard towards me. I came forward too, and we met in the middle, rain pouring down on us both. Close to, I could see he had small pale-blue eyes, the whites yellowing and veined with red.