The Winter Station

by Jody Shields

“If you miss a single infected person, it could cause hundreds of deaths.”

  Protected from one another by white cotton masks, their identities safely hidden, the wagon men shouted down his accusations. It was impossible to verify their claim that fewer people were infected.

  Later, Zabolotny met with General Khorvat and suggested a bounty be offered for each plague-stricken person delivered by the wagon men. The general refused, since his budget was already strained by bounty paid for fifty thousand dead rats.

  In the Russian hospital, just over one hundred and fifty patients died every day, a number that had remained steady for weeks. But gradually, there had been a decreasing number of patients brought in by the plague-wagon men.

  The medical staff quietly tracked the declining number of deaths tallied on the clipboards. But they anticipated something worse would happen, an ambush, double or triple the number of patients. Or the plague would transform itself, develop terrible new ways to infect and kill. The devil came in many guises.

  “After an earthquake, everyone stands on the street waiting for the next stage of destruction,” Wu reminded Zabolotny. “The epidemic has the shape of a curve. The end is still invisible.”

  Five beds in the plague ward remained empty for twenty-four hours. Then ten beds were empty for three days. This new pattern held over the next week. The medical staff cautiously identified a turning point in the epidemic. It was unsettling. It was considered bad luck to talk about the situation. Do not tempt the gods. The hospital workers were still in the grip of a siege, unable to dismiss their fears, grasp a rescuer’s hand, escape through a door accidentally left unlocked. There was no celebration or self-congratulation. The doctors and nurses were only survivors.

  It seemed the grip of winter had slightly loosened. According to the Chinese, the fresh east wind would mark the beginning of spring and have a positive effect on everyone’s health. The Russians prepared for the fast for Great Lent, which began in February and continued for forty days, until Easter. All meat and animal products, including lard, eggs, milk, butter, and cheese, were forbidden by the Russian Orthodox Church. The very devout also refused sugar and fish during the first and last weeks of the fast.

  Holiday traditions were observed. Eggs were hard-boiled, dyed red with beet juice, and painted with geometric designs and inscriptions: Take, eat, and think of Me. This present I give to Christ I love. XB, which symbolized Christos voskres, “Christ is risen.” Red eggs filled bowls placed in the conference room, the nurses’ station, the doctors’ mess, even on a shelf in the guards’ box downstairs. The entire staff, Russian and Chinese, appreciated the shared offering, as red eggs were also a Chinese tradition, a gift at the birth of a baby.

  “Red for good fortune,” a Chinese nurse had quipped.

  “Good fortune? The color gives me no joy,” said her Russian co-worker, an intern from Tomsk. Red was the sign of plague, the bleeding that drained away life.

  The devout claimed the blessing of the red eggs broke the plague. Others were convinced that it was prayer and the intercession of Saint Nikolas the Wonder-Worker, Kharbin’s patron saint, that had delivered them from death.

  Messonier remained in mourning. He occasionally worked at the hospital, was silent with colleagues, left after a few hours without signing out on the schedule. The Baron had no idea where he spent his time. Messonier was beyond criticism.

  The Baron respected this gulf between them. But there was a gift he held for Messonier. He would make a plea to the other doctors that Maria Lebedev be allowed to rest in peace. Messonier was unaware of his plan. He resolved to practice self-effacement when presenting his case to the others, speak to them without overconfidence or scolding. Illness had stripped away a layer of the Baron’s self-regard. He recognized this presence of mind had been initiated by his teacher.

  A guard forbade the Baron entry into the Russian hospital. A smile, a recital of important names, and a generous bribe were provided. Upstairs, the conference room was crowded and noisy as the staff gathered in small groups, waiting for latecomers to the morning meeting. Few noticed the Baron had joined them and only Dr. Iasienski courteously greeted him. Dr. Wu called the meeting to order.

  “Please forgive my interruption.” The Baron stood up to speak, his manner apologetic. “I have an urgent matter that needs your attention.” He walked to the head of the table next to Dr. Wu and Dr. Zabolotny. Wu graciously moved aside for him. “Last week, I entered the plague burial pit in the field north of Kharbin. Unprotected by gloves or a mask, I handled two corpses.” He slipped the photograph of himself cradling the dead infant from a leather case and held it so that everyone at the table could see it.

  No one spoke. He handed the photograph to Zabolotny, who immediately put it facedown on the table. Wu picked it up and turned it over.

  “I’m no danger to anyone here in the room. I was isolated in quarantine for three days afterward. I have no symptoms. None. As I stand before you now, I’m perfectly healthy.” The Baron showed them the image of the dead girl. “Without protection, I also handled the body of a young girl dead of plague in the burial pit.” This photograph was also placed on the table in front of Wu.

  “Baron le docteur, this is a surprise.” Zabolotny’s eyes swept the table to gauge the doctors’ reactions. Who will rid us of this man? “A surprise and an outrage to bring these grotesque images here.” He flicked a photograph with a finger and it skidded across the table. “Leave the room as a gentleman before you are forced to leave.”

  Protests erupted around the table.

  “Let the Baron speak.” Wu gestured for quiet. “Continue.”

  Zabolotny didn’t hide his displeasure at Wu’s request and the Baron was reminded of how the man enjoyed centering attention on himself. The aggrieved party. “Thank you, Dr. Wu. I admit my experiment was unorthodox, but it proved that those who died of plague are no threat to the living. Corpses aren’t contagious.”

  “He’s mad,” said Dr. Haffkine.

  “No, he’s trying to be a hero.”

  The Baron agreed. “Yes. It was foolish to risk my life for a medical theory.”

  “Let’s consider your foolishness. You’ve published articles anonymously—surely written by you—in the St. Petersburg newspaper criticizing our work. Our sacrifices.” Zabolotny looked to Wu for confirmation.

  “That’s not the issue under discussion.” Wu’s stern voice. “What do you propose, Baron?”

  “Leave the plague dead undisturbed in the cemeteries. There’s little chance infection will spread from the bodies, since the ground stays frozen until May. There’s time to test my theory. Be thorough and logical. It’s less work and disruption than digging up the cemeteries. Let’s not act without consideration.”

  “There’s no time for the luxury of guesswork,” said Dr. Boguchi. “I say remove the infected dead before there’s a new epidemic. It’s dangerous not to eliminate the problem. The dead are a time bomb buried under our feet.”

  The translator had a stricken look but Wu had remained calm in the storm of scornful dismissal. “Baron, as you explained, the corpses are frozen. But once they thaw, it’s possible bacilli infesting their bodies could still be alive. Perhaps the bacilli are only in a suspended state, hibernating inside the corpse. We don’t know. The plague could reemerge and strike Kharbin again.”

  The Baron tried to retain a neutral expression despite the escalating hostility. “There’s another issue. You need the blessing of the Russian Orthodox Church to exhume the cemeteries. It’s sacrilege.”

  “Who could argue against the dead?” Zabolotny acted as if he’d been unjustly accused. “Respect the dead but not at the cost of the living. The priests will be reasonable.”

  “You would watch your families and friends taken from their graves? Betray them without protest? Maria Lebedev is buried in St. Nikolas cemetery. Surely you’d spare Dr. Messonier, her fiancé, this anguish?” The Baron’s words pulled a momentary silence from the room.

/>   The mood shifted against Zabolotny, as there was little enthusiasm for digging up dead Russians. The cemeteries of other faiths wouldn’t be defended.

  “Perhaps an exception can be made for Dr. Lebedev,” Wu suggested.

  “Although Dr. Lebedev had a woman’s soft heart, she wouldn’t agree with this sentimental decision about her grave.” Zabolotny’s anger built a wall for benefit of his argument.

  The Baron couldn’t let this pass. “Now you speak for Dr. Lebedev?”

  “There may be another solution. We can discuss it with the archdeacon at St. Nikolas. Let Maria Lebedev rest in peace,” said Haffkine.

  “No, Dr. Haffkine. No one should shelter a poisonous body in the churchyard. The entire cemetery is festering. Thank God it’s sealed under snow, although snow is no disinfectant, regardless of the Baron’s wild claims.” Zabolotny’s lips curved with distaste. “It’s expected you would defend the dead, Baron, when you’re not defending the Chinese. A pity that your medical knowledge is less than your sympathy. Someone should step in and protect you from your own experimenting.”

  The Baron was ice. “God’s mercy, have we survived the plague, witnessed countless deaths, to behave with such a lack of grace toward each other?” He gripped his hands together for courage, checked the other faces at the table for support. “Dr. Zabolotny, your insult is not to be borne. Sir, I challenge you to a duel.”

  The room exploded with shouts.

  Zabolotny’s voice was louder than the others. “Baron, even if you were half your age, I wouldn’t consent to a duel.”

  The Baron gently excused himself without anger or haste. No one followed him from the room or urged Zabolotny to apologize.

  * * *

  Inside St. Nikolas Cathedral, the Baron steered Messonier up the shallow steps of the sanctuary. The church was unlit, had been closed for over a month, and they were trespassing. They walked through the royal gates in the center of the towering iconostasis, where only clergy were allowed, careless of the wet trail left by their boots. In the sanctuary by the chapel of prothesis, they huddled together to wait, comforted by the lingering scents of myrrh, incense, and beeswax candles from the vestry. The altar was covered with a cloth, a frozen white drape, anchored by shadowy holy vessels and a seven-tiered candelabra. A boy had been paid to alert them when the vehicles arrived in the churchyard. The Baron dozed under the soft creaking sway of the building, a cocoon of woven timber, until nudged awake by Messonier.

  A ghost of movement at the far end of the building. The two men slowly stood up, the Baron’s knees stiff and aching from the cold. A thread of light, a thin gray vertical, signaled the opening of the front doors. The light widened and vanished as someone entered and closed the door. Their eyes strained in the dark to find the figure attached to the barely perceptible approaching footsteps. A moving grayness separated itself from the room, followed by colder air as the boy materialized in front of them.

  “They’re here.”

  They waited a few minutes, snugging their heavy sheepskin coats tight, before slipping out of the church. The Baron and Messonier ducked behind two wagons drawn up in front of St. Nikolas and watched a group of men, dark silhouettes, gathered in the adjoining cemetery. Soldiers? Corpse carriers?

  When it was clear they hadn’t been seen, Messonier swung himself into the back of a wagon, landing with a hard jolt. He crawled over to huge metal cisterns upright against the wagon rails, wrapped in heavy quilted cloth and animal hides. The lids were tightly fastened and couldn’t be forced open. He shoved the cistern and liquid sloshed inside. The other wagons were loaded with shovels, pickaxes, cords of firewood, stacks of tin buckets, boxes of tools, ropes, and chains. Weapons for dismantling.

  “Curse your mother!” a voice shouted. Three men crossed the cemetery in the direction of the church.

  Messonier jumped down and, crouching behind the Baron, moved alongside the wagons back into St. Nikolas. Inside the cold hive of the church nave, they gasped, catching their breath, a fog of wreathing white evidence.

  The Baron refused to whisper. “Let’s wait here. No need to freeze to watch the grave robbers dig.”

  “There are more men outside than I anticipated. If we’re caught, what do we confess?”

  “Nothing. Tell them you’re a cloistered monk. The church forgives.”

  “But not the men in the cemetery.”

  “More likely they’ll break into St. Nikolas for the silver candlesticks.” The Baron was relieved by Messonier’s smile at his weak joke.

  “I resent hiding here like a thief.”

  “Patience, friend. We have the advantage of stealth once the men are busy working.” The Baron remembered a window overlooking the cemetery. “Let’s go upstairs. For the view.”

  At the top of a narrow staircase, the window framed a number of fires burning across the cemetery. There were dark circles where snow had melted.

  “Now I understand. They must have fire and water,” the Baron whispered.

  Messonier turned away from the window. “I can’t watch.” His strained cheer had vanished and he was tense with anticipation. He insisted they couldn’t wait, they must risk entering the cemetery immediately.

  Outside, snow had leveled the landscape like a stationary flood, hip-deep in places, and the effort to walk around the gravestones strained their hearts and lungs. Breathless, the Baron asked Messonier to stop and rest. He picked up a stone left in the crook of a tree branch, just for luck.

  At a slight distance, visible through thick brush, a steaming cauldron hung on a stand over a log fire. Moving as slowly as sleepwalkers, men filled buckets with hot water from the cauldron, then poured them into a partially excavated grave. A fury of steam rose from the hole as the frozen earth bubbled and softened. Vapor wisped from the exposed coffin. A man jumped into the grave, landed on top of the coffin. An ax was placed in his hand and he splintered the rotten wood into an opening large enough to remove the corpse. At the side of the grave, another man waited with ropes to free the frozen body from the coffin.

  Messonier clapped his hand over his mouth to stop his cry. They turned away from the grave diggers, their axes and fires, moved deeper into the cemetery.

  “What’s this?” The Baron noticed a long strip of red cloth tied around a gravestone. Then he understood. The strips marked the graves of plague victims to be disinterred by the men. The Baron kept this discovery to himself.

  “Are we closer to her grave?” The Baron avoided using Maria’s name so as not to upset Messonier.

  His answer was hesitant. “I believe so. Yes.”

  Messonier turned around to get his bearings, place himself in relation to the gate, two spindly trees, the cross atop a monument. “I remember the church roof was visible from a certain angle near her grave. But this side or the other side? I think it’s this direction.”

  They skirted a small copse of trees. The Baron’s nervousness increased, and he stayed close behind Messonier. A spark, a bright point, moved in their direction. Frightened, they waited, and it silently passed by. Or perhaps whoever carried the light was invisible.

  Messonier became increasingly disoriented in the unfamiliar landscape. The hood of his coat was loose, and his breathing was strained. The Baron watched his every step, fearing he’d shout or confront the men.

  Lost in the forest. The Baron remembered his babushka’s folktale of Baba Yaga. The witch lived in a house mounted on the legs of a chicken so she could chase her victims. He grasped Messonier’s shoulder. Pull him to earth, pull him back. Messonier stared at the Baron, not seeing him. “If there was sun I’d know the direction.” He took five steps forward, then slipped and fell.

  The Baron helped him up, his limbs slow and heavy with cold. He urged Messonier to rest for a moment.

  “No, no. Am fine.” His eyes confused in a pink face surrounded by dark fur. Messonier peered around, mumbling calculations. “I’ve never walked this way before. Snow buried the usual landmarks. I’m lost.” He
angled his head as if he’d heard a sound or someone speak.

  The Baron stood in front of him, the deep snow holding them both locked in place so there could be no sudden movement. Messonier dodged clumsily around him, staggered a few steps forward, then dropped to his knees and clawed at the ice on a gravestone.

  “Help me.” Breathing heavily, Messonier stared at the grave marker. “We have nothing. No tools.”

  “Here. Get back.”

  The Baron struck the gravestone repeatedly with a stone, gripping it in his clumsy mitten, the dull thwacks of breaking ice echoing around them. Thick ice fell away and they read the inscription. The first letter was wrong. Not M. Messonier scrabbled through the snow to the next grave marker, furiously rubbed his arm across it to clear a cushion of snow. The Baron read the names.

  Sonya Vasilevna, daughter. Dmitry Vasilevich, father.

  The poor girl and her father. So she had died. A lifetime ago. Their gravestone was tied with a cloth, blood red in this light. He tore the red strip from their cross, stuffed it in his pocket.

  Messonier was already at the next grave, speaking to himself now. “Maria. Maria Lebedev. She’s very near. No one will take my ring from Maria’s finger.”

  Heedless of the risk, the Baron shouted at Messonier, “Calm yourself! Maria waits for you. Let her speak.”

  Messonier stopped and turned to his friend, a strange expression on his face. “Yes. She tells me what to do. Come.”

  The two men floundered from grave to grave, their legs punching through snow. They slid and fell, exhilarated, tearing away the red flags, the notices of exhumation. The sky darkened, pressure tightened around them, and a furious snow began to fall. Within an hour, it would conceal all signs of their presence. Messonier halted by a tall grave marker with a distinctive carved wreath. He tenderly brushed away snow, revealing Maria Lebedev’s name etched in stone. He untied the strip of red cloth fastened to her gravestone with intimate familiarity, as if adjusting her veil or a scarf.

  * * *

  For Epiphany, the Sungari River was transformed into the Jordan River for the blessing-of-the-waters ceremony. A broad area of ice was shaved and smoothed with metal scrapers to a mirrorlike surface and a red carpet had been unrolled from the bank near the flour mill, spanning a distance across the river. A large temporary building, a white and scarlet temple surmounted with a cross, had been carefully pulled by horses into position over a large hole bored in the ice at the end of the carpet.