Jody Shields - The Winter Station

“No one boards the train until they’re tested,” Wang announced and grinned at the Baron, visibly proud of his success.

He answered the young doctors in French. “Where are your masks? You should be protected.”

Wang dismissed his concern. “It’s difficult to talk and handle the thermometer wearing a mask and gloves. And there’s always a fight. But we study each passenger carefully.”

“Carefully? You’re too confident. Symptoms aren’t always obvious. It’s like gunpowder. You can smell it but the time of explosion isn’t predictable.”

Wang briskly prepared a thermometer for the next passenger in line. “We’ve tested hundreds of people this week. A good number were sent to the hospital with fever or a cough. There’s always a passenger who argues.”

“Move aside. Move aside.” A tall blond Slav in a shaggy fox coat swung his arms as he led a family—a gentleman, his wife, and four small children in identical black fur coats—toward the departure gates as if claiming a table at a fine restaurant. The crowd parted for the wealthy family. The Slav stalked past the doctors’ station toward the soldier at the gates.

Wang shouted after them. The passengers in line weren’t surprised. A voice jeered: “Money gets you on the train.”

The doctors, grim-faced, seemed diminished in their white uniforms, uncertain how to control the unruly group. “Shall I find another soldier?” The younger intern was panicked, but there were no soldiers nearby.

The Baron threatened the Slav. “I order you to halt.”

The Slav wheeled around, furious at this challenge. Fine hair, colorless as powder, fringed his pockmarked face; his pupils were pinprick circles. An addict.

“This man cannot board the train. He’s in possession of drugs. Opium.” The Baron beckoned to the soldier, who winced, reluctant to provoke a rich man’s fury and lose a generous bribe.

The gentleman flushed with anger. “My servant is stopped on whose authority?”

“The city health commissioner’s.”

The gentleman scornfully studied the Baron, an official in a thick, worn sheepskin coat, a cotton mask wrinkled around his neck. The Baron knew he was an unprepossessing figure. No one of account. But he spoke for all the passengers. “On whose authority are you boarding the train without medical clearance?”

The gentleman frowned. “Very well. The servant stays here.”

“Please hand me your papers.” The Baron took a thick envelope from the gentleman, unfolding it carefully so as not to dislodge the wad of rubles inside. A letter stamped by General Khorvat, wax seal, ribbon. It appeared authentic. The Slav took advantage of the Baron’s distraction to slip into the crowd.

“Baron Rozher Alexandrovich, can we help?” Wang played the nobility card.

At the mention of the title, the gentleman straightened and studied the Baron with an incredulous expression. “I am Sergei Ivanovich Zhirmov. Our fathers were friends in St. Petersburg.”

“God have mercy. Why are you in Kharbin?”

Zhirmov relaxed. “I opened a timber concession here. My wife’s mother is very ill. We’re traveling back to visit her.” He leaned closer, edging for sympathy.

The Baron understood Zhirmov’s unsaid message. The watching passengers were a pressure behind the little group.

“Sir, my friend, my mission is to save your life and the life of your children—”

The wife interrupted. “It’s urgent we leave immediately.”

The woman had a pleading expression and something else, hidden knowledge, a calculation. Perhaps she suspected one child was ill. If so, the entire family would be sent to quarantine. A doomed situation. The Baron cursed his own thoroughness. He imagined a long line behind the family, those they would infect and who would infect others in turn. A chain of infection. There was no choice. No exceptions. “Let the doctors check you and your family. After this single test, you’ll never need worry.”

Wang, hovering behind them, stepped forward and presented a thermometer to Zhirmov, who scowled but allowed it between his lips. The intern swiftly distributed thermometers to the other family members. The last child backed away and hid behind her mother’s long skirt. Wang knelt, coaxing the child into cooperation, while the intern read the thermometers from the rest of the family.

“Everyone is within the range of health. Their temperatures are normal.”

They gathered around the little girl, waiting for the glass stick to declare her family’s fate. The mother exchanged an anguished glance with the father and he leaned over to rummage in his satchel.

Does he have a weapon?

Even suicide to avoid the purgatory of quarantine seemed reasonable. Betrayed by only the slightest tremor, the Baron slipped the thermometer from the child’s lips, turned it over. “She’s fine.”

The mother closed her eyes. The group smiled, a burst of exuberance.

“Give my regards to the Neva and Vasil’evskiy Island. Years since I’ve been there. I wish you a pleasant journey.”

Relieved, the Baron embraced Zhirmov. The other man laid his gloved hands on his children’s heads and ushered them toward the gates.

The Baron turned to Wang. An impressive young man.

“I interrupted you. I hope I acted correctly.” Wang was uncertain.

“I applaud your quick thinking. The situation was difficult to anticipate. It could have been deadly. Now, I have another assignment for you. We go to Torgovaya Street. A sick man was discovered by an innkeeper. But first, scrub your hands and put on fresh gloves. Otherwise, we ride in separate vehicles.”

The Baron and Wang Xiang’an stepped into the inn, and the door slammed behind them. They stood in a murky room, suffocatingly hot, the walls and ceiling layered with smoke from lanterns. A group of men were gathered around a table and a small stove, their figures stern black silhouettes that turned toward the intruders.

It was customary to weave a narrow strip of red cloth into children’s queues to ward off evil spirits who brought smallpox. The Baron wished for a similar protective charm as he began the inspection. “I apologize for interrupting you after a hard day’s work.” The surprise of a Russian speaking Chinese momentarily held the men’s attention. “We’re doctors. We’re here to find someone who was reported ill. The sick person must be treated.”

Faces unmoving as a wall. The men muttered and shifted uneasily. No man would betray another. The Baron was a Russian telling lies, his Chinese words a trick. He was seeking prey. Why would he help a Chinese?

“If one person is sick, everyone here will become sick. This is truth.” The Baron spoke softly to Wang as he set up a small lantern on the table. “How can we make it clear that the sickness jumps from person to person?”

The young doctor’s face creased with impatience. “They’re too stupid to understand. You might as easily explain a microscope. Lie to them,” he sputtered. “Frighten them. Force them into cooperating.”

“We’re outnumbered.”

Wang shouted for silence. “Your lungs, one of the five yang organs, guards your vital breath. Feng, the empty wind, possesses the body only when the body is weak. We will check for signs of weakness in the yang organs.”

This was familiar, and the tension in the room eased slightly.

The two doctors cleared space around the lantern, unpacked a medical kit, and placed thermometers, a jar of alcohol, and cotton masks where they could clearly be seen. The Baron held up a tiny wand of glass, a thermometer, then slipped it into Wang’s mouth. After a moment, the thermometer was removed, dropped into the jar.

“See? No harm.” Wang smiled. “If anyone is sick, they will be taken care of in the hospital without fee. They will be fed.”