Jody Shields - The Winter Station

“Of course the goal is to prove their medical practices are legitimate.” Zabolotny looked to Mesny for support.

“A rival hospital is an insult to our hard work.”

Khorvat sketched a vague expansive movement with his cigarette.

Wu’s gaze moved around the table, avoiding the Baron. “I believe that I speak for everyone here. We will not cooperate with the Chinese medical men.” He turned away from the Baron as if to block him from the others at the table. A wall had been assembled. The Baron could sense it, almost touch it.

“The Chinaman has made a wise decision.” Mesny was oblivious to the disrespect in his comment. “Imagine if our colleagues heard we were advised by these so-called doctors.”

“I’d be mocked from my position at the Imperial Institute.”

“The Chinese probably hold the same scorn for our medicine,” the Baron said.

“You would defend them. You may find yourself chanting alone in a Chinese temple someday.”

Wu added to Mesny’s comment. “Baron, if you intend to practice unorthodox medicine here, please keep me informed. Not all the patients will welcome your experiments.”

“I imagine even a sick Chinese would refuse his care. They come here for Russian medicine, not some concoction from lotus pods and rainwater.”

Sounds of appreciation for Wu’s barb. He had skillfully isolated the Baron.

The Baron’s breath was measured. He wondered how Wu thought this mockery would aid their work.

Messonier began speaking in a reasonable tone. “I must point out that a crisis strains everyone’s nerves. Judgment becomes impaired. Some of us speak and act carelessly. Almost as if we’re drunk. Everyone here is at risk and it’s crucial to support each other. It could save lives. Even our own.” Because he wasn’t angry and his words were careful, they created space in the room. The doctors had been called to account.

The Baron wished Dr. Lebedev were present to witness Messonier’s tour de force. His own proposal for working with the Chinese was lost. He couldn’t see the arc of the epidemic but sensed a vast shape that they would try to name and control with their evidence. Build a fence of hypodermic needles.

Dr. Wu did not forget Mesny’s insults. He immediately sent a telegram to Alfred Sze at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Beijing, offering to resign as health commissioner. It was intolerable to work with Dr. Mesny, a foreigner who did not respect his position.

In private, the Baron began to criticize Dr. Wu, his English clothing, the thick tweed jackets and waistcoats. His inability to speak Chinese. His need for a translator. Wu was arrogant, constantly miscalculating the effect of his words and attitude on patients. This was an unforgivable flaw for a doctor. The Baron had lived in Manchuria for years, was fluent in the language, and respected the Chinese. Yet Wu didn’t ask for advice or recommendations. Never shared a cup of tea. The man seemed to represent everything that was wrong with the system.

Standing onstage, Dr. Broquet waved a pair of floppy black rubber gloves overhead so they were visible to the Russian hospital staff in the assembly room. “Cover and protect yourself. Always wear rubber gloves.” His dark hair gleamed with pomade under the spotlight. Dr. Zabolotny, seated at a table next to him, watched the presentation. “Wash hands before and after you wear gloves.” Broquet’s voice was tremulous, as he was obviously uncomfortable speaking to a large group. Flustered, he dropped a glove, and Zabolotny made no effort to pick it up.

Broquet retrieved the glove and caught his breath before continuing. “Your life may depend on your face. A mask shields nose and mouth from plague bacilli circulating in the air. See here.” He held up a mask, pale, glowing, translucent as honey. “This mask is made of mica. Lightweight. It’s one piece, without holes so the mouth and eyes are covered. Visibility is affected.” He slipped the mask over his head; his features became tightly flattened and distorted behind its slightly glittering sheath. He turned left and right before awkwardly removing it. “After each use, sterilize the mask in boiling water. It can be worn several times.”

A question from the audience. “Dr. Broquet, will the mica mask protect us? What are the disadvantages?”

“Face moisture condenses inside the mask.” Broquet’s hand flapped. “It’s useless in the colder hospital wards. I wore this mask in the patients’ ward and was blinded by ice on my eyelashes.”

A young woman in the third row stood up. “I’ve heard it’s important to protect the eyes. Can plague bacilli infect the body this way?”

Broquet shared his hesitation with Zabolotny before answering. “Possibly. Probably. We aren’t certain.”

The young woman persisted. “Obviously, goggles would offer better protection?”

“The problem with goggles is that there are no goggles.” Broquet was exasperated.

A sympathetic murmur from the audience. “A shipment of goggles will arrive very soon,” Zabolotny calmly announced from his seat onstage. “We’re under enormous pressure to analyze plague bacilli and conduct experiments during this crisis. Small animals, rats and guinea pigs, had their eyes dusted with powdered dry bacilli to see if airborne particles can cause infection. It’s one of many experiments. Few doctors have ever faced such an enormous challenge without properly equipped laboratories.”

Another question from the audience. “The masks protect medical staff but how do we stop the sickness spreading between patients?”

“We’re not certain at what point infected patients are contagious. Many facts are still unknown.”

“I have proposed that all patients wear masks,” Zabolotny answered. “Let the burden be on the sick. Gauze can be draped over patients’ heads to catch discharge and sputum when they sneeze and cough. This is standard in India.”

“But there’s a shortage of gauze.” Broquet stared at Zabolotny, challenging him to defend his proposal. “Here’s another option.” He waved two long strips of fabric as if deflecting attention from his previous ill-judged comment. “This mask is so simple a child can make it from two pieces of fabric.” He spread the cloths flat on the table. “First, fold a three-foot-long strip of thin wool inside a piece of gauze of the same length. Cut three small slits at each end so it’s less bulky. Cut two holes for the eyes in the center of the strips. Dr. Zabolotny, allow me to demonstrate on you. Hold very still, please.”

Peevish, Zabolotny stood while Broquet wrapped the fabric strip over his eyes and across his face, tied it at the back of his head.

Broquet continued, “A second fabric strip goes over the top of the head to hold it in place. There we are.”

His head clumsily wrapped in the bandage mask, Zabolotny stepped from behind the table, stumbling slightly, as his vision was impaired, to face the audience and make a stiff mocking bow to applause.

Broquet gestured for quiet. “These cotton masks are contaminated after exposure to the patients. Burn them after use.”

In the first row, a middle-aged man raised his arm for attention. “I need more information to better understand the situation. What’s the time span between infection and the appearance of symptoms? How do we know when it’s necessary to wear a mask?”

Zabolotny awkwardly loosened the cloth strips from his head, and they dangled around his neck. “We believe it’s only a day or two at most between infection and the first symptoms. But no facts are definite yet.”

Another questioner: “Does the treatment begin when the infected patient is admitted? How long does it delay the onset of symptoms?”

“Records of patients are still being compiled.” Zabolotny was increasingly restless and batted at the hanging cloth strips.