Jody Shields - The Winter Station

Nestorov whistled, and his astonishment was convincing. “There’s no cure?”

They waited for Wu to speak but he only shook his head.

“Why wasn’t I notified sooner?” Nestorov stared at the doctors, one by one. “The city will starve without supplies. The CER railroad operates with certain principles. Serving the czar and the people. I can’t allow the railroad to lose money. Not deliberately. I need permission from Russia, not China, to make any changes. General Khorvat, can you give this order?”

Khorvat laughed. “Imagine how the Russians will react when they learn there’s no escape from Kharbin. They’ll push the locomotive from the station with their bare hands. By the time their complaints reach St. Petersburg, our city will be a graveyard. And I’ll be one of the early burials.”

Wu’s posture indicated his disagreement. “Your plan is unacceptable. Let me speak plainly. If the trains shut down, it implies we have no control over the epidemic. There will be international panic. This isn’t to China’s benefit. Our standing in the world would suffer. There are also political situations—threats from outsiders—that are best avoided. The trains must continue to operate. Put more soldiers in place to screen the passengers.”

“Thousands of Chinese passengers?” Nestorov’s voice slowed to a patient drawl to tamp down his anger. “There aren’t enough soldiers at Central Station to control the situation. It’s already chaos. They bring pigs and chickens on board. There will be riots unless you provide more soldiers.”

It was Khorvat’s turn. “What kind of vise do you want to use? My soldiers are deployed at all major roads. They’re at the barricades inside the city to arrest the sick. Our good Russian soldiers keep order on the train and in Central Station. Where do I get additional troops? It’s hazardous to cross Manchuria in the middle of winter. We function on a thread and with God’s grace.”

“Lock up anyone who wants to leave Kharbin in quarantine. After five days, they’re no longer infectious.” Wu was exasperated with the conversation. “We issue them official travel passes after quarantine.”

Zabolotny agreed. “The advantage to quarantine is that everyone is released after a few days.”

“Or they’re dead.” Wu had the last word.

“You’re mad with your petty travel passes.” The Baron’s voice was heavy with scorn. “We already shelter nearly five thousand people who were exposed to the plague. They’re shut up in boxcars, for God’s sake. There’s no place to keep even another thousand people in quarantine.”

“Only the cemetery can accommodate thousands of people.” Zabolotny’s temper rose.

“He’s correct.”

“Quarantine them on boats.”

“Boats?” Khorvat’s fingers stroked his beard. “Ridiculous. The Sungari is frozen. Even Chefoo has a seven-day quarantine for ships. Why not use spare rooms at the foreign embassies for quarantine?”

Wu smiled briefly. “The viceroy wishes to avoid alarming the foreign embassies.”

“China can’t stop this epidemic alone. It’s useless to pretend otherwise.” The Baron folded his arms.

“Pity that the weather is against us. Otherwise, the quarantined could be put in tents. Surely there are military tents left over from Russia’s unsuccessful war with Japan.” Wu mocked the military.

Nestorov called the boychick to bring tea. The men waited in uncomfortable silence.

Then they worked out a strategy in a few hours. Money was the solution. During the period of the Chinese New Year, first- and second-class tickets would became hugely expensive. The cheap third- and fourth-class train tickets would be eliminated. The poor and those most likely to be infected with plague would be unable to travel. Doctors and soldiers would patrol the train cars every three hours, searching for sick passengers.

Nestorov brought out pertsovka vodka to celebrate the plan. They’d nearly finished the bottle of peppercorn-flavored liquor when, as a joke, they splashed a little vodka over their fingers as disinfectant, a strange ceremony under the wild animals’ heads, Nestorov’s trophies.

Afterward, the doctors walked through the Central Station waiting room in their face masks, surrounded by others with masks or rags over their noses and mouths as protection. From habit, the Baron searched the crowd for anyone with the spasmodic shake of a cough, the hunch and gait of ill health. He had developed a rogue eye. Outside the station, he caught a droshky back to the Russian hospital with Zabolotny.

After pulling the fur rug over his legs, Zabolotny attempted a cigarette. “I need to smoke. I’m removing my mask. Don’t you dare cough.” He was noticeably tense.

By silent agreement, the two men fixed their gaze on each other, avoiding the windows and the chance sighting of a body or a group stripping a corpse on the street. Yesterday, the Baron had watched from a doorway as a solitary figure staggered the length of a building across the street and collapsed in the snow. A moment later, a woman and child calmly walked around the fallen man. He’d wished a death in bed for the stranger, the blessing of a raft made by men. He’d used up so many wishes.

“All the patients admitted yesterday will likely be dead when we return to the hospital.” After a pause, Zabolotny added, “God forgive me but my hands are never clean. Never clean, never completely disinfected. Not in the hospital, not away from the hospital. Not anywhere. Not at the table when I eat. When I can manage to eat.” Exhaustion had subdued Zabolotny, stripped his confidence and the need to challenge others.

“You’re not alone. Dr. Broquet stopped shaving.” The Baron was ringed by hazy cigarette smoke. “He’s afraid if he cuts himself, bacilli will enter his bloodstream through broken skin.”

“A beard is prudent. Tamara, the new nurse, will only open doors with her left hand.”

“To avoid infection?”

“For luck.”

At the hospital, the two men found a group of doctors, nurses, and interns standing listlessly in the third-floor corridor. The Baron stared at their faces, stern and lean as if the masks they wore had gradually altered their appearance. A tearful nurse in possession of a telegram told them Dr. Jackson had died in the Mukden hospital.

No one had met Dr. Dugald Jackson, since he’d arrived in Manchuria only ten days earlier. A twenty-two-year-old missionary doctor with the United Free Church of Scotland, Jackson had been monitoring passengers in the Mukden train station. Feverish on Monday, he died Tuesday evening. A stone marker would commemorate Jackson in the church where he’d worshipped twice. Viceroy Hsi Liang, the Chinese representative, had sent condolences.

Some of the staff had already decided to quit the hospital even before Jackson’s death, fearing for their own lives, unable to face the constant threat. Chiku nailao, endurance in hardship. It was a virtue to even remember the words.

The Baron noticed Messonier had joined them. His sorrowful expression was unchanged even when he was away from the patients. Messonier closed his eyes and the Baron knew he was praying. Messonier surfaced from his devotion and signaled the Baron.

They met by the samovar at the nurses’ station. Messonier poured vodka into teacups since someone had stolen the glasses they’d hidden in the cupboard. They drank a salute to young Dr. Dugald Jackson.

The vodka was sharp, purposeful. The Baron found its clarity a relief. “Dr. Jackson’s death affects us although no one knew him. You wonder what mistake he made. Was he careless, overconfident, too young and untrained?”

“Haffkine’s response was to ask if Jackson had been vaccinated.”