The Winter Station

by Jody Shields

  “So national pride is what determines the use of the vaccine. Not the needs of the people.”

  An uncomfortable silence bound everyone at the table. Maria Lebedev struggled to keep her expression composed.

  Wu ignored the Baron. “Your opinion, Dr. Haffkine?”

  “Yes, of course. The patients are treated with my serum when the first symptoms develop. I anticipate it will slow the progress of the sickness. For those exposed to plague but without symptoms, the infection can be stopped with the vaccine.”

  The doctors shared smiles of relief.

  “Your claims are very positive.” The Baron set his cup on the table, the movement jerkily animated by anger. “I’m curious to hear what type of trials were conducted to test the Haffkine serum’s effectiveness?”

  Haffkine avoided his eyes. “Just recently in the Russian hospital, four plague-infected Chinese were treated with various amounts of the anti-plague serum made from pure plague endotoxin. Two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, and five hundred ccs were injected subcutaneously into their abdomens. A second group of sick patients received no treatment. We wait for the results of this trial but it seems promising. Everything is well documented.”

  “Were the patients informed that they were receiving this serum?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It wasn’t considered necessary.”

  “No?” The Baron recognized this game of charades, the players asking question after question to identify the hidden answer.

  Haffkine’s fingers tapped against a folder in front of him. “How could the concept be explained so these illiterate patients could understand it? No translator was available. It was simply more expedient to administer the medication.”

  “More expedient?” Iasienski spoke in a whisper.

  Dr. Wu said, “There was no plot against the patients, as you and the Baron seem to imply. It was a decision that I approved.”

  “Of course they’d want treatment that would extend their life.” Zabolotny nodded. “Anyone would make that choice.”

  The Baron turned to Haffkine and unfolded his challenge. “Mother of God. You claim the patients couldn’t understand life and death? Shameful. And you support this decision, Dr. Wu?”

  With Wu’s backing, Haffkine was bold enough to show his exasperation. “I’m not making excuses, but these risks are necessary to save other lives, Baron. Some decisions are guesswork but must be made quickly before we all sink. Deaths are counted by the dozen every day.”

  “It’s a state of emergency.” Zabolotny raised his voice. “The city collapses if the epidemic strikes. If we fail here, the consequences are disastrous. Should plague spread inside the wall at Shanhaiguan and Tientsin, Beijing is threatened.”

  “Yet you refuse to consider Kitasato’s vaccine.” Maria Lebedev gestured violently with both hands. “We all desperately wish for a solution and a cure. Every minute we make this wish. But we shouldn’t foolishly dismiss other possibilities, other answers. Or abandon our honor.”

  “At this point, there’s no proof Haffkine’s injections have saved a single life.” Messonier opened his hands palms up on the table, as if this vulnerability would soften his statement.

  “Say what you like.” Haffkine finished with his argument. “My serum is the only therapeutic measure that offers hope. I believe that when this crisis has passed, my actions will be viewed positively. I will be praised.”

  The Baron fought his anger, trying to give space to the others at the table who were afraid to show him their support. “I sense you view this situation as an opportunity to experiment. It’s death by plague or death by injection. Toss a coin. But unlike the patients, we have a choice about death.”

  “With luck.” Wu moved his head and light sliding over his spectacles blocked his eyes. “Bold words, since you lack any knowledge about vaccines.”

  Messonier gasped.

  Wu continued, “Let’s adjourn for today. Your differences can be settled with more information, which Dr. Haffkine can provide at our next meeting. In the meantime, he’ll arrange for your inoculation with the vaccine.”

  The doctors slowly pushed back their chairs and stood up, woodenly, clumsy in one another’s presence without the security of the table between them. They were numb, as if their dialogue, all the planning and strategy, was simply a useless vanity.

  He was driven home. Bitter cold on his cheeks. A life in rags of disorder. He fell into bed after disinfecting his hands and face. In the dark, he was unable to see Li Ju reach toward him until she touched his mouth, her fingertips like cold coins. She should be locked in a tower. How could he work, touch the infected, and return home if he carried a fatal souvenir, a hidden weapon that could cause her death?

  The hospital was filled with hundreds of new patients. One after another, the sick were carried or stumbled in, some barely conscious of their surroundings; others walked as if spellbound from the effects of their illness. The largest ward was a plain rectangular room, the beds crammed close together as if they had been forced there by an upheaval of the floor. The plague sick in the beds weren’t silent, as blood was violently expelled with choking, heaving gasps, red stains branching like coral across the white sheets, bedclothes, the thick towels held to their mouths. The floors and walls were spattered with blood, a record of suffering. The room appeared to be an execution chamber. As the doctors moved from patient to patient, their feet constantly struck pans, spittoons, and buckets filled with bloody sputum.

  In the hospital disinfecting room, two attendants stripped off the Baron’s day clothes and roughly bundled him into overalls, a long cotton coat, a close-fitting cap, a mask, gloves, and galoshes. He stood patiently during this process, waiting for the mask to be positioned across his eyes, a barrier that partially blocked his sight of the patients. He was ashamed of how quickly he had accepted this limitation. In this cumbersome white uniform, his senses were blunted, his movements slow and clumsy, as if directed from a distance. He was transformed into an uninfected living soul in a uniform that hid his health. What did patients imagine as he towered over them, a ghost-white figure, unidentifiable, featureless as a column?

  The Baron recognized the shape of the thing that occupied the hospital ward, dulled the patients’ eyes, filled their lungs, stole their breath and substituted blood. He could smell it. Plague burned quickly through their bodies. Pain could be muted with morphine but there was nothing that halted the trajectory toward death.

  He was suffused with tenderness for the afflicted. When he could steal a few minutes, he spoke calmly to those who could tolerate conversation, who were coherent. A few patients sat up in bed and spoke amiably or were even strangely exuberant. Others died in anger, revealing the chain of their illness, naming loved ones, friends, or acquaintances, recently deceased, who had infected them. Many victims died anonymously, refusing to reveal their identity or place of residence, fearing their families or co-workers would be hospitalized, their homes destroyed.

  There was also a web of purpose. Snow was cover for the dead. Dressed in their finest clothing, the dead were hidden outside, frozen solid, waiting until spring for a proper burial. It was a curse to be buried away from the ancestral home.

  “Why am I here in this place?” a man whispered. “I have only a slight cough. Others are sicker.”

  “Yes, perhaps there’s a mistake,” the Baron said. The man had a temperature and his pulse was rapid, symptoms typical of plague. The onset of the most severe symptoms arrived with unpredictable suddenness.

  “Tell me about yourself. How you arrived here in the hospital.”

  “I was a cook at the Metropole Hotel.”

  The Baron’s face contorted in fear behind his mask. Perhaps the man had been infected by Mesny before he’d died at the hotel. Was there a connection? He marveled at the uncanny neutrality of fate. Plague was passed by the crossing of two lines. An infected person sat with a friend or family at a table, sharing a cup of tea, a
conversation, spreading the infection. Perhaps the bacilli had leaped between them, lip to lip. Who knew how plague spread, how it ravaged the systems of the body? What were the conditions for infecting another person, an entire roomful of people? “Do you know anyone else who is sick? Someone at work, at the hotel? Anyone who died? A relative? Neighbors?” he asked the man. Many patients lied, believing this would keep others safe, away from the hospital.

  “I’m the only sufferer.”

  “Did you touch anything that might have been infected? Food or an animal?” The Baron made halting notes in a logbook. Perhaps this information might help someone else, the observations and guesswork salvaged from this circle of hell.

  The man shook his head. “Will I be released soon?”

  The Baron continued taking notes to avoid his question. “Has medicine—or anything at all—eased your symptoms? Tea, incense, a charm? Prayer? Opium? A needle?”

  “Nothing.” A calculating expression transformed the man’s face. “But I know a secret for a cure. A special tea. We can make an agreement. Let me leave and I’ll tell you everything.”

  The man bargained with death. “Little brother,” the Baron said, his voice warm, accepting. “This is a valuable offer. Guard your secret a little longer and I’ll talk to the other doctors.” Give him hope. It could extend life. If the man survived three days in the hospital, he’d be cleared of plague. If not, his ineffective secret for a cure, if there was one, would perish with him.

  The Baron left the ward. In the corridor, his foot struck a pail, splashing bloody mucus on his pants and boots. He swore. “Gospodi-pomiluy.”

  Two hours later, he returned to check on the man who’d claimed to have a secret cure. The patient was sitting up in bed, eyes closed. The Baron hesitated, then touched his shoulder, and the body toppled from the bed to the floor.

  When his rounds at the hospital were finished, the disinfecting process took over an hour. First, the soles of his galoshes were dusted with powdered lime. He stood unmoving while a medical student sprayed his uniform with carbolic acid solution, eyes squinting against the chemical fumes. In the dressing room, he gargled and spat a foul pale liquid disinfectant into a basin, then stripped, and two men sponged him with antiseptic. He was briefly immersed in a vat of slippery sublimate lotion before clambering into a wooden tub of hot fresh water. He finally relaxed, his flesh shriveled and wrinkled.

  Dr. Iasienski slumped on a bench in a blood-streaked uniform, waiting his turn to undress. The Baron could judge how long the doctors and nurses had been in the ward by the amount of blood on their clothing. “I’ve been here all day and half the night. Fifty patients dead in the last twenty-four hours,” Iasienski said.

  The Baron closed his eyes. “God rest their souls.”

  “They died about sixteen hours after being admitted. Some died quicker.” Iasienski continued, his voice dull with fatigue. “I cannot understand the Chinese. Many seem resigned to dying. They accept it. They don’t fight. But the young doctors and nurses blame themselves for the deaths. Their lack of experience. Or faith. But we know better.”

  It was useless to respond. Iasienski talked to himself, heedless of anyone else. The man needed sleep and vodka. No. Reverse that order. Vodka first. The Baron felt he was dealing with a sleepwalker. “Did you get vaccinated?”

  Iasienski finally looked up at the Baron, his face haggard. “No. Had no time. I’m thinking about it. A few new arrivals from medical school were vaccinated. I know Wang was vaccinated.” His hand waved away the thought. “They say Mesny caused his own death. He was careless. Took risks. Not me. But I’m exhausted and afraid I’ll make mistakes. God, to die like that. Like Mesny.”

  The Baron’s mouth was dry, foul. He couldn’t speak the usual platitudes, soothing words that filled space until the problem became lost. How could they be a strength for each other? “I know. I fear it too.”

  The Baron had discarded his bloodstained uniform but still felt marked by his passage through the patient ward. He clumsily moved from the disinfecting room into the corridor, barely aware of his surroundings. Someone took his arm. He recognized Messonier, and ten steps later, the door to his office closed behind them.

  The Baron collapsed in the worn leather chair. “You’re stronger than I am.”

  Messonier shook his head. “I went down to the canteen. I avoided the patients’ ward. Forgive me.” He smoothed back his thin blond hair until it peaked over his forehead. “The discussion with the doctors about the vaccine and serum was troubling. I think of the sick patients, innocently waiting for Haffkine’s needle. Waiting in hope. But it’s hopeless. Just a roll of the dice. And us? One mistake, we’re infected and we gush like Mesny. Sodden in our own blood. I’d rather have my neck wrung like a goose.” He took a deep breath. “No. Forget my words. I’m tired.” He blinked, straightened his slumped shoulders. “There was an early explorer in my family. He sailed to the island of Bourbon. But I never imagined I would weep in a hospital in Manchuria, this godforsaken place. But I’ve learned to respect the Russian use of vodka here.”

  The Baron studied Messonier’s face. “My friend, there’s a history of undistinguished vodka drinking in France. Some hidden purpose brought you here to encounter vodka. Take it as a good omen.”

  Messonier’s face creased with anxiety. “I tell you, Maria is also a weight on my mind.”

  “It’s a blessing that you found each other.”

  “Is it? I’m wrenched between joy and fear. I’ve never experienced such intensity.” He shyly studied his hands. “It’s difficult to embrace the two simultaneously. When we can be together, we stay in bed under fur blankets. She talks about Warsaw. The plum trees in her family’s garden. The color of the stones in the garden wall. We talk about Paris. Touring the gardens at Monceau. I serve tea.” His smile was lopsided. “I asked Maria to join me in Paris. Imagine the freedom. The warmth. To love someone without fearing their death. She said yes. But not until work here is finished.” He bit his lip, close to tears. “I’m afraid to continually risk my life. I dream of carelessness. To touch a patient—anyone—without fear. Am I a coward?” He turned to the Baron, an expression of shame on his face. “In this crisis, nothing seems to have any value. Except companionship.” He moved away and began to silently rummage in the cupboard for drinking glasses.

  The Baron watched him. “We’ll stay and trust one another. We’ll tell stories to survivors.” Messonier didn’t answer and the Baron sensed he was weeping. “There’s some comfort that our battle is an exalted one. The plague is a thing of genius.”

  “More lethal than any weapon of war. If the goal is to rid the earth of human life.”

  The Baron raised an eyebrow at this statement.

  “The infected have few symptoms—fever, racing pulse, blue lips, bloody expectoration—until shortly before death. So the infection swiftly passes from person to person like a secret.” Messonier held up the glasses. “How does it spread? Contact with blood? Is it in the air? On the skin? Here, let me pour.”

  “That’s the puzzle. One thing is certain. There’s no point at which the infection can be stopped. Except for it not to start.” The Baron made a gesture of benediction. “It’s a diabolical maze. We can only quarantine the infected from the uninfected.”

  “If you can find them in time. At first cough.” Messonier stared into the sharp clear liquid in his glass. “If there’s no successful vaccine or treatment, what do we have to work with? Nothing but fever and blood and bodies. Where’s our crutch, our staff? We’re outwitted and outmaneuvered.” He swallowed the vodka in a single gulp, then loudly exhaled. “There’s little protection for us if the situation spirals out of control. Maybe it’s the end of the world.”

  “No. That isn’t true. According to Wu, the plague cure has been delivered by Haffkine.”

  “I admire that you can challenge Wu.”

  The Baron frowned. “He’s young enough to be my son. But that doesn’t matter. I’ve watched him w
ith patients. Arrogance is his flaw. We’re expected to blindly obey him when there’s nothing solid, no real information behind his decisions. It’s all false hope. Wu has authority only from the Chinese. It’s certainly not from his experience. Or his fine English tweed suits.”

  Messonier’s usual caution was jagged from drinking. “Still, our positions depend on Wu’s favor.” He poured two fresh shots of vodka.

  “Everyone’s at risk in the hospital. I speak up only because I still have General Khorvat’s support. If I become less valuable as a translator and an inspector of inns, he could send me into exile. His soldiers would deliver me straight to the train without a hearing.”

  “They could do worse.”

  The Baron fixed him with a quizzical look.

  “He could throw you in quarantine.”

  “If that should happen, swear you won’t search for me.”

  “I swear.” Messonier’s promise wasn’t made in good faith.

  The Baron embraced Messonier and left the office. At the end of the corridor, a young nurse crouched on the floor by the supply closet, her back shaking with sobs.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The nurse didn’t respond. The Baron stooped to comfort her but first peered at the cloth in her hand to see if she was coughing blood. He recognized his transformation. Fear had become automatic.

  “Wang Xiang’an is dead.” Her face was wet, splotched red from crying.

  “Mother of God.”

  She hiccuped violently. He helped her stand, half-carried her to a chair, and shouted for someone to bring water. Or vodka.

  It was fifteen below zero when the Baron left the hospital. As soon as he took one step out the door, cold was a pressure against the two exposed inches of his face; the moisture in his skin stiffened like sap, the inside of his nostrils stuck together, his hair crackled. Skin turned white when it was frostbitten. Once bitten, it eventually blackened. But the dark areas of skin could be cut away and the body would heal.

  Wang’s death was a blackness that couldn’t be excised. Only calligraphy, the writing of characters, was a refuge, blank tunnel, the infinite edge of a line made by his hand.