Jody Shields - The Winter Station

Messonier caught Maria Lebedev’s eye. “Only desperate doctors blame their failures on others, including their patients.”

“They hide bodies to save their families from being thrown into quarantine.” The Baron’s voice was mild from fatigue. “It perpetuates the epidemic. But it’s not hard to understand their desire for self-preservation.”

Zabolotny grimaced. “We know you’re a Chinese lover, Baron. Always an explanation.”

“The Baron has searched many inns for plague victims. A dangerous mission no one would willingly choose.” A rebuke to Zabolotny from Khorvat. “He’s saved lives.”

This answer didn’t please Zabolotny, but he didn’t waste energy arguing as the Baron continued.

“The situation is complex. The Chinese won’t cooperate because they’re certain everyone in quarantine is forced to drink poison and eat disinfectant. They believe our goal is to rid the city of Chinese. But they’re not against just the Russians. They claim Japanese poisoned all the wells with disease. People drink and get sick.”

Haffkine pointed out that several Japanese pharmacists had recently arrived and set up a laboratory in Pristan, probably to peddle cures.

“No law against Japanese who treat plague.” Messonier remained calm.

“They probably hope to become rich from selling cures.” Haffkine waved his hand. “Always profiteering in a crisis.”

“I wonder how long the Japanese will remain healthy,” Zabolotny said. “The Chinese hospital didn’t last long.”

“I welcome Japanese medical personnel unless they’re escorted by the Japanese army.” Khorvat was grim. “Now, let’s get to the numbers. I was told there are one hundred dead every day. And the count is going up.”

“Yes,” Wu responded. “The actual numbers are probably higher. It’s difficult to get figures from the buildings around the city where patients have been dispersed.” He measured his words. “As you know, a boys’ school, a theater, a department store, a bank, and two inns have been converted into hospitals and quarantine wards. Messengers with supplies go back and forth between these locations but communication is erratic for many reasons. We’ve lost many messengers. Large amounts of supplies have been stolen.”

“The reason is simple. No one will go near the plague victims.” Zabolotny expanded on Wu’s explanation. “We’ve had to pay Chinese workers double wages just to get them to take supplies from the train station to the quarantine ward. Of course, they must undergo a disinfection process each time.”

“Thank you, Dr. Zabolotny, for sharing that information.” It was difficult to tell if Wu was being sarcastic. “The team of microbiologists who just arrived from St. Petersburg have set up a laboratory and living quarters in a stable. The largest stables on Artilleriaskaya and Pskovskaya Streets were converted into laundries, disinfection stations for mail and vehicles, eating halls for corpse carriers and plague-wagon men. Needless to say, there was resistance from the owners of the buildings when they were ordered to relinquish their property. But the general’s soldiers were very persuasive.”

“My soldiers are dependable.” Without looking up, Khorvat searched through the papers on the table for his cigarettes. “The new arrivals—five hundred men—are quartered in Bogoslovsky’s mill by the Sungari. Conditions, I admit, are not optimal. But they’re temporary.” His expression showed his unease.

The Baron stared at Khorvat. “Five hundred soldiers in the flour mill? It’s not possible. One infected man and the plague spreads like fire.” He turned to Wu. “You’ve allowed the men to live in these conditions?”

“There’s no proof infection spreads from close contact, Baron. The cause has yet to be determined. There are many theories. But we’re in crisis. There isn’t enough housing for hundreds of soldiers.” Wu recited his words as if reading from a textbook.

“Your hopeful calculations don’t change the risk to these poor soldiers. Plague thrives where people are packed together. I’ve seen it in the inns. One death. Then three deaths. Then everyone else.”

“The history of medicine is filled with risk. It’s the only path to progress.” Haffkine was severe.

“You’re unreasonable. The soldiers are provided with masks, soap, and water. Disinfectant is spread on the floors by the latrines.”

“Yes, unreasonable. It doesn’t matter what proof I present. Death will fix their accommodations.” The Baron checked the faces around him to gauge their reactions. “God have mercy. Gospodi-pomiluy .”

“We can only make our best choices.” Wu’s voice was as flat as if he were discussing the weather.

The Baron, reacting to his composure, violently pushed back his chair and left the room.

He stood outside the door to quiet his breath. His hands trembled. Messonier would search for him but he needed to drain his anger, so he began to move slowly down the corridor. He passed an open door where interns, all of them young, probably Li Ju’s age, made face masks, yards of cotton and white gauze draped over three tables. He noticed a young woman drop the fabric she was holding and slump over in the chair.

The Baron rushed into the room, straightened her body in the chair, and felt her pulse. Normal. Then he jerked his hand back, remembering she might be ill. No, her skin had felt cool. The young woman had fainted. Her eyes blinked. After she had mumbled a few words, he walked her to a comfortable chair near the nurses’ station, brought her a cup of water. She stared at the cup in his hand, wouldn’t accept it.

He understood. He dug the rubber gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, and filled a second cup with water.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the cup from his hand.

“Tell me your name.”

“Gaidarova Manzhelei.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry. I’m the only one who can hear you.”

“I’m afraid of the room. Someone could be infected. No one wore a mask. I wanted a mask but I couldn’t be the only one covered, you understand.”

He nodded. In a few minutes, he coaxed her to return. They entered the room, interrupting a young man mocking Gaidarova for her weakness.

The Baron gently addressed him. “Your name? Stepan? I would listen to Gaidarova Manzhelei’s advice. She understands the perilous situation here. The number of people in a room multiples the chances someone is infected.” He took a finished mask from the table and tied it around his face. Everyone in the room silently followed his example.

Rude, fatalistic jokes and superstitions were survival tools in the hospital. Washing hands three times in succession guaranteed immunity for a day. A broken thermometer meant a broken promise. The Baron remembered this type of behavior from his wartime service, when soldiers clung to coincidences, and the smallest things—a knot in string, a lucky pencil, a specific number of steps across a room—were a guarantee against misfortune in battle. Every Russian child receives a small metal cross on a thin chain that is worn for life. Several days ago, he’d caught his own chain on a shirt button and realized it had snapped only when he felt a slight tug on his neck. There was little blood from the fine cut. Was this a warning of future ill fortune? Had he broken a charm, angered the gods?

Nothing could be trusted. Not the visible or the invisible world. What offered protection? Not gloves or a mask of cloth. Not vaccine in a needle.

Some doctors and nurses realized they were outmaneuvered by the plague as the infected emptied their bodies of blood, their last strength pumped the veins dry. The more experienced caretakers blocked their emotions, pulled themselves back from grief and the patients. Others blindly ignored the hopelessness of the situation, lying to themselves and those stricken with illness. Many became withdrawn, insomniac, overworked to the point of angry exhaustion, their focus narrowed to the raft of the patients’ medical charts. A few doctors and nurses turned to vodka or morphine or opium as a charm, a way to cope.