The Winter Station

by Jody Shields

  It was growing darker, the snow blue-tinted as he struggled around one pyramid and then another. He positioned himself between two pyramids, arms open wide to hold them back, their edges seemed to shift and blur. He’d walked in circles, walked over his original footprints. Something visible against the snowbank, a figure, Li Ju’s coat. She was teasing him, a child’s game of hide-and-seek. He fixed his eye on the place where he saw her and moved forward, his left hand tracking a line in the snow across the structures as a guide.

  A woman in fine clothing sat cross-legged, her back against a pyramid. In front of her, the snow was bright with red, yellow, and green stains, and burned candles had melted into blackened ice-filled holes. She was dead, eyes closed, frozen upright. Someone—probably her family—had surrounded her with paper replicas of food, money, clothing, a horse, to provide for her in the afterlife, and their fragile colors had dissolved into the snow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Three figures—identically dressed in white cotton coveralls, aprons, and close-fitting caps—waited outside the patients’ ward as if for some strange ceremony. The Baron and the doctors Maria Lebedev, Paul Haffkine, and Gerald Mesny were nearly unrecognizable in their cumbersome protective garb. Smiling, Maria Lebedev offered the Baron rubber gloves and officially introduced Dr. Haffkine, recently arrived in Manchuria.

  “Welcome to Kharbin.” The Baron brought up Haffkine’s distinguished medical family. “Your uncle developed a remarkable vaccine to treat bubonic plague in India.”

  “Thank you. I’ve also been working on a plague serum. It’s ready for trial here. I intend to make my mark.” Haffkine poked a wisp of dark hair under his cap.

  The Baron wondered at the difficulties of a medical trial staged in this chaotic situation. “We certainly need a cure. Or a miracle.”

  Haffkine didn’t appreciate the Baron’s attempt at humor and briefly wished him good luck before hurrying to another meeting.

  Mesny led them along the corridor to a door posted with a warning sign, QUARANTINE, in Russian, Chinese, English, French, and German. “All the floors and walls have been completely sealed with metal strips to keep out rats. No one will be infected—or re-infected—by rats in this hospital.”

  The Baron stopped. “I need a face mask.”

  “A mask? No, a mask isn’t necessary. I don’t wear one. There’s little risk of infection.” Irritated, Mesny opened the door and entered the patients’ ward, reluctantly followed by Maria Lebedev. It was a breach of protocol to challenge a senior doctor.

  With his first step into the room, the Baron cursed that fool Mesny for shaming him into compliance. Then he cursed himself. He should have worn a mask. Yet he didn’t leave, didn’t turn away, as if powerless to change his fate.

  The white figures of the two other doctors moved ahead of him, as isolated as candles in the poorly lit ward. There were six iron beds with patients, separated at a distance from one another. The ward smelled of unwashed bodies and the bitter chemical odor of formalin. Someone coughed intermittently. He sensed the contamination that haunted the room, filled the thickness of the air, was layered on every surface, spread across his open eyes, entered his nose, his body. It was constant, invisible, like a vibration or music. Each bed held danger. His breath became irregular and he began to sweat in his bulky coverall. Certain he was using up a lifetime of blessings, he swore never to put himself at risk again if he escaped infection this time. This clarity shook him. He whispered, “God have mercy. Gospodi-pomiluy,” as if these words were a charm against plague.

  They stopped at the bedside of a pale young Russian man who didn’t seem to be in distress. He promptly sat up and quietly joked as Mesny listened to his chest and back with a binaural stethoscope.

  The Baron noticed that Maria Lebedev maneuvered her clipboard like a shield to protect her from the patient. She recorded the patient’s pulse, rapid at 110 beats per minute, and his temperature, elevated at 38 degrees Celsius. “According to the chart,” she said, “his pulse increased fourteen beats per minute for each degree that his temperature rose. Breath slightly labored.”

  “Good day, sir.” The Baron fought a feeling of dread and addressed the young man without getting too close. “Your name? Nikolai Ivanovich Popov? Yes? What is your profession?” Popov was a soldier who patrolled Central Station.

  “Don’t bother with your questions,” Mesny directed. “All his information is in the file.” His harsh voice disturbed the patient, who moved fitfully under the blanket.

  “You’ll have the file later.” Maria Lebedev fidgeted with the clipboard.

  Mesny handed the stethoscope to the Baron. This was his test. Under intense scrutiny from the two doctors, he fumbled with the stethoscope, bent over, placed it on Popov’s chest. He angled his face away to avoid the man’s breath, trying not to touch him. The pounding of his own heart was louder and faster than Popov’s in the stethoscope. Disoriented, he immediately stood up, relieved the patient hadn’t coughed or sneezed.

  The Baron managed to smile at the man. “Tell me, Nikolai Ivanovich, do you have pressure anywhere? A heaviness in your body?”

  Popov’s fingers fluttered near the center of his chest, his expression anxious.

  “Your chest aches? I will make a note. You have courage. It will help you through this time.” No platitudes, You’ll be fine, you’ll recover, God will bless you.

  Popov rewarded him with a wavering grin. The Baron met his eyes, which was his gift. No one likes to look directly at the dying.

  The Baron stepped away from the bed so the patient couldn’t hear the doctors’ discussion. “Can his fever be broken with cold compresses?”

  “We’ve tried.” Mesny was increasingly irritated.

  “That’s certainly very general. What specific measures were taken?”

  Mesny frowned. “We have nothing but generalities to guide us, according to our expert colleagues. Unless Haffkine’s new medicine proves to be the nectar that cures. And brings him a medal from the czar.”

  “God willing.”

  “Yes. Then we can leave this place.”

  The Baron asked Maria Lebedev about the patient’s current treatment.

  “After the first major symptom of plague appears, he’ll have injections every six hours. Camphor, caffeine, or digitalin intravenously and subcutaneously. Oxygen or champagne can also be given.”

  “These injections are successful? They ease lung congestion?” The Baron wasn’t convinced.

  Mesny appeared less confident for the first time. “We haven’t treated many patients. But at the next stage, I anticipate Popov’s symptoms will become more severe. Coughing, bloody expectorate, high fever. Then we use stronger measures—morphia, argentum, unguentum Credé, or adrenaline.”

  “Very resourceful.” He didn’t question Mesny’s choices. Morphia for pain. Argentum as a disinfectant. Unguentum Credé, a salve containing colloidal silver, distilled water, wax, and benzoinated lard, for bacterial inflammation. A compassionate doctor would reassure the patient there were many options for treatment. However, the Baron knew from the witches’ brew of injections that they were simply trying everything in hopes something would be effective. It was proof of desperation. He sensed Mesny was on the verge of telling the patient how much longer he’d live.

  Maria Lebedev was also quick to anticipate Mesny’s potential blunder and suggested that they check the next patient.

  As they approached an older Chinese man, they saw his breathing was spasmodic, guttural, and then he broke into loud, convulsive coughing. How could such a frail body produce such a wrenching sound? Exhausted, the man collapsed against his pillow. His face was ruddy, his lips pale blue, cyanotic. The Baron stepped back, refused Mesny’s invitation to check the patient’s respirations and heartbeat.

  Mesny’s face locked into a scornful expression and he roughly pulled the patient into a sitting position. The sick man didn’t protest but was clearly uncomfortable as Mesny pushed aside his shirt and press
ed the stethoscope to his chest. “Breathe.”

  The Baron spoke a few words of greeting in Chinese. The sick man looked up with dull, wondering eyes and the Baron had the wild thought to apologize for Mesny’s brusque examination.

  Outside the ward, he spoke quietly to Mesny. “You should protect yourself. Clean your hands after each patient—”

  “That’s enough. I know how to conduct myself. I’ve had years of experience with epidemics. Neither of you should be offering an opinion here.” His head tilted toward Maria Lebedev.

  “Dr. Mesny, the hospital isn’t a place of competition.” The Baron walked away.

  Afterward, at the nurses’ station, the Baron stripped off his rubber gloves and poured half a bottle of carbolic over his hands, wincing as it stung his skin, the stink burning his nostrils. He washed his face and neck with harsh green soap and hot water.

  After he’d dressed, he approached Maria Lebedev in the corridor. “A word with you?”

  “Certainly.” She was cordial but distant.

  “Dr. Lebedev, it was a mistake not to protect myself in the patients’ ward.”

  “I was equally foolish.”

  He spoke more quietly. “How long will the patients live?”

  “I haven’t treated enough patients to make a prediction.”

  “But if you were to guess?”

  Her pale eyes blinked. “Dead within a day. The onset of the severest symptoms happens very quickly.” She changed the subject. “Would you teach me a few words of Chinese? For the patients. They’re surrounded by Russians.”

  “God bless you. It’s said that hearing is the last sense to go before death. There are simple Chinese words of respectful address I can teach you.” He considered what to say. “But you cannot promise the patients health or hope. Nor sympathy or pity, because you won’t be believed.”

  “But what can I say?”

  What could be said? Words were such poor tools. The words that would comfort a dying Russian weren’t suited to the Chinese, who avoided the direct mention of death. “Let’s discuss it later. I need to think through my vocabulary, thin as it is.” He wished Maria Lebedev good day, then walked down the corridor and up two flights of stairs to Messonier’s office. It was unlocked, unoccupied, and he sank into the largest chair, exhausted. In winter, there were few opportunities to be solitary inside the hive of the hospital. Everything took place in the presence of others near the heat and smoky scent of the wood-fired stoves.

  He picked apart his unease, mocking himself: Should I make a list of my faults? His inability to comfort the patients. The risk he’d taken in the hospital ward, touching the patients, sharing breath and space with the infected and dying. His resentment of Dr. Lebedev’s uncomplaining obedience and Dr. Mesny’s hostility.

  To unstring himself from this, he imagined warm weather, a walk by the Sungari River watching boys with burning bamboo torches guide passengers from the ferries. By morning, the decks would be littered with blackened husks of the torches, like pits of discarded fruit.

  He surveyed the shelves of Messonier’s precious teas, rows of metal, lacquer, and ceramic containers, each with a gummed paper label identifying the contents in Chinese and, underneath, the doctor’s curved handwriting in French. Messonier must have been drilled in cursive as a child in Paris; the scrolled loops of his F, D, and P arched artfully as feathers. The quantity of stored tea filled the room with a dry, slightly musty welcoming fragrance. In the past few days, he’d noticed unfamiliar odors in the hospital, a faint floating ghost. Even Zabolotny had commented on it. “It’s the smell of the sick. The blood of the plague-infected.”

  The Baron traced the odor to newly arrived shipments of antiseptics, sterilizing supplies, crates of cotton towels and sheets. He’d torn open a large box of black rubber gloves, shaken off the white powder that kept them from sticking together, lined them up like hollow fish on the table.

  Messonier quietly entered and swept his arms wide in greeting to find the Baron sprawled in the chair. He immediately offered him a drink then noticed the Baron’s expression. “Something has happened.” He slowly unbuttoned his white coat and hung it on a peg.

  “I went into the patients’ ward with the doctors Lebedev and Mesny this afternoon.”

  Messonier began to prepare tea, quietly pouring water from a flask into the kettle, giving the other man time to regain his composure. “Do you wish to talk?”

  “Dr. Mesny is a reckless man. You must urge Dr. Lebedev—Maria—to protect herself when she’s with the patients. She must take precautions and not be swayed by him or others.”

  “She knows her own mind.”

  “Yes, but I was also foolish. I was in the patients’ ward without protection. I’m ashamed I didn’t speak up. I’ll be sleepless thinking about it tonight.”

  “An hour with patients is unlikely to be fatal.”

  There was no proof for his statement but with the bloom of Messonier’s sympathy, the Baron sensed something easing inside and he felt lighter, unguarded. Then he became aware of a hunger, a beseeching presence that craved comfort and attention. It was a familiar state, carried like an offering in his hands. Have I always been like this? he thought or spoke out loud as Messonier swung around and stared at him.

  In the silent room, icy pellets of snow drove against the window, thrown like rice, a hard, irregular tattoo.

  “I’m making you tea.”

  Messonier had absolved him. Salved his conscience. Hot tears brimmed in his eyes and he couldn’t look up or they would leak down his cheeks. He tightened his face to keep control. Haltingly, he began to describe the dead woman sitting in the snow, the objects set around her for the afterlife. “When I first saw her, she seemed to be a statue. A goddess surrounded by offerings.”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe her family feared her sickness would be discovered so they abandoned her in an isolated place.”

  “Remember, she was likely infected with plague. A bomb.”

  The Baron ignored his comment. “Li Ju fell on her knees before the woman and wept. She forgot her prayers. I made the sign of the cross over the body although I immediately regretted it. The dead woman didn’t need my Russian blessing. Always inserting myself into my wishes for others.”

  Messonier stood with a spoon poised above the tea canister. “A blessing is a blessing. Forgive yourself.”

  Water boiled, a loud rattling shake of the kettle on the daisu. The interruption broke their connection and the two men quickly backed away from their fragile exposure to each other.

  “What do we drink, sir?” He hoped Messonier wouldn’t notice his voice was husky from emotion.

  “Huangjin gui. Osmanthus tea. A special oolong from Fujian with rolled leaves. One of the nurses has a brother stationed in Anxi. She gets the tea before the British traders. At a price. It’s too subtle for the British. They prefer pedestrian black tea.” Messonier busied himself with the teapot and utensils. “Should the woman’s death be investigated?”

  “I reported the location of the body. The soldiers found nothing.”

  “Seems impossible.”

  “Lazy soldiers. It was too cold for them to investigate. General Khorvat prides himself on rule of law. But as Chang the dwarf said, ‘Baron, a lack of bodies keeps the crime rate down.’”

  “A system is in place. Fill your cup, Baron?”

  He nodded. “If Khorvat’s men are picking up plague dead, someone will eventually become infected unless they take precautions. It’s dangerous for them. For everyone.”

  Messonier cradled his cup. “This is guesswork. Until it is confirmed—”

  “I hope my suspicions are uglier than the truth. If it please God. I beg you, friend Messonier, be cautious until the facts about plague are known. Our truth, not their truth. Who knows, perhaps the teapot we just shared is infected. I touched the patients. I touched the teapot. An infection could spread from me to you. Anyone, any object could be dangerous. We’re wringing our h
ands at the edge of the volcano.”

  “The volcano is still somewhat unofficial.” He raised the teacup to the Baron. “À la guerre.”

  “To war!”

  Messonier watched the steam wreath up from the spout of the teapot, white in the chilly room. “Is there a future for the type of medicine we practice here? The Chinese are slow to accept new medicine. May never accept it.”

  “I’ve been here almost seven years longer than you. And I still haven’t decided.” The Baron’s fingers tenderly circled the hot cup. “Chinese don’t seek treatment with me unless it is accompanied by free rice. I’m not critical. I understand this. I’m grateful when they ask for my aid purely from optimism. But at times it seems so futile. I showed a young man how to disinfect a cut with iodine. But then he vanished with the bottle. Probably to sell on the black market. Probably to you.” He grinned at Messonier.

  “Or to a soldier to drink.”

  “The young man must have thought that I was mad. Bacteria? The word doesn’t exist in Chinese. I didn’t have language to explain it to him without sounding like an evil spirit, a domovoy. Or a quack.”

  A clink as Messonier set down the empty cup.

  “Did I tell you about my consultation with a Chinese doctor? I was allowed to observe him with a patient. It was confounding.” The Baron held up his cup for more tea. “Here’s my suggestion. I’ll propose to the doctors at the hospital that we form an alliance with the Chinese doctors to fight the plague. They have traditions and knowledge to share. It’s hardly a gamble, since we have no solution as yet.”

  “I admire your plan. But I don’t believe the others will be receptive.”

  “I can only try.”

  “Tell me what the Chinese doctor did with his patient.”

  The Baron disliked uncertainty and felt unable to accurately describe the experience, even to Messonier. He set down the cup. He pressed his fingertips against the inside of his wrist. “Here. The doctor diagnosed the patient by touching the cunkan, a narrow spot, about an inch at the wrist. He said that palpating the wrist is qiemo.”