Jody Shields - The Winter Station

The Chinese shouted that it was sacrilege to burn a body.

Zabolotny’s arm jabbed at the Chinese. “Who will bury the bodies? You? The Russians? Japanese soldiers? There are no workers.” His angry response didn’t need translation.

“It would take months to bury thousands of bodies in these conditions.”

“There are thousands and thousands of frozen bodies here. They’re eaten by rats and wolves. The animals become infected and bring plague back to Kharbin. When the weather becomes warmer, the situation will be worse.”

No one responded. The silent Chinese officials moved closer together. The wind flattened their thick fur coats in one direction as if smoothed by a giant hand.

“A petition for permission to cremate the bodies will be sent to the Imperial Throne and the governor of Kirin. Everyone here will sign it.” Wu had forced their participation by bringing them to this grotesque stage. A brilliant strategy. But for the Chinese, the dead had been deprived of burial rites. Their spirits would never rest.

The Baron remained after the men departed in the sleighs. He lit incense and burned paper offerings. He was reciting the Russian and Buddhist prayers for the dead for his teacher when a pounding noise and the sharp crack of wood interrupted him. He turned to see the corpse bearers hammering a frozen body, breaking its arms to fit it into a coffin.

The snow broke crisply as lacquer when hundreds of men crossed the open field to the miles-long wall of the plague dead. During the few hours of available daylight, the laborers would dismantle the wall to prepare it for the mass burning. Under the pressure of its own weight, the terrible wall had compacted into a frozen mass, the bones of the dead hard and resisting, cemented in place by the filler of flesh and snow.

The wall was clawed and chopped apart with saws and hatchets. Huge sections were looped and bound with chains and ropes, then pulled by horses until they separated. When the temperature plunged well below zero, the wood and ice were wrenched apart with a shattering high-pitched noise.

Load after load of massive trees, timber, and logs were hauled in, bringing the raw scent of the forests in northern Manchuria to this bleak landscape. This new timber and the corpses were piled into twenty-two enormous pyramids, temporary tombs of gray and black, threaded with dirty tangled shrouds, white in places where fresh snow had settled. There was enough space for teams of horses to pass between them. From a distance, the jagged structures appeared to have been created from the ruins of many other buildings by a mad giant.

On a morning of unusual brightness, doctors from the hospitals, Russian and Chinese officials, and the curious arrived at the pyramids in the field. They waited in their sleighs, black droshkies, and carriages, warm under fur blankets, the white evidence of their breath hanging over them like a canopy. Icy snow struck their vehicles in scratchy bursts.

The Baron stepped down from the droshky, an anonymous interloper in the crowd, unrecognizable in his furs, only a small circle of face exposed through the porthole of his hood. He scanned the crowd, although he didn’t believe any families of the dead were here to pay their respects. He overheard strangers joking about the weather.

“Thank merciful God, no snowfall blocks visibility.”

“The light is perfect today. We’ll have a good clear view.”

There was General Khorvat in his distinctive white fur coat, his wispy beard unruly in the wind.

“Good morning, General.”

Khorvat didn’t recognize the Baron until he heard his voice. “You’re here?”

“A witness, like you.”

“A cold morning for a display. But the city will be rid of this pestilence.”

“You mean the evidence of pestilence. Nothing’s been cured.” The Baron regretted his words. “Where’s the priest from St. Nikolas?”

Khorvat was puzzled, but then his expression smoothed as he understood. “No priests were notified.”

“No?”

“This isn’t the place for a religious ceremony. We aren’t holding a funeral.”

“A strange claim, General Khorvat, since thousands of bodies are stacked right before our eyes. There are Russian dead among the timber. Our countrymen.”

Khorvat’s face, surrounded by feathery fur, appeared almost regretful. He understood the mechanics of an official operation. “Baron, in the midst of war—and we are at war—some details are overlooked. Survivors will mourn in their own way.” It was as close to an apology as the general would deliver.

The Baron released the burden of argument. He was aware of someone next to him demanding attention. A slight man in a fox coat addressed Khorvat, his eyes darting back and forth to the pyres.

“General Khorvat, we’re ready to set up the cameras. We need direction.”

Khorvat indicated the nearest pyramid. “Stay back at least two hundred yards.”

“We need more distance. The light will overexpose our photographs. It’ll be brilliant as a desert here soon.”

Khorvat addressed another aide and the Baron turned away to search for Messonier. The crowd slowly began to leave their vehicles and gather around Khorvat, sharing a tense excitement, the anticipation of a performance that held the risk of injury or disaster. They loudly greeted one another.

“We couldn’t have a better day for the spectacle.”

“This isn’t the launching of a ship. Show some respect, gentlemen.” Messonier quietly reprimanded the group of men. He touched the Baron’s shoulder, and they clasped each other with surprising emotion. Only the pantomime of large gestures worked in bulky winter clothing.

“You’re here, Baron. Still the outlaw at an official occasion.”

“I’m a witness to this strange ceremony for the dead. Our patients.”

Several fire trucks and wagons moved around the closest pyramid. Dozens of men filled buckets from the fire-truck hose and passed them hand over hand to others, who struggled to carry them up the dangerously unsteady piles of timber and coffins. Unskilled mountaineers, many slipped and fell before dumping their buckets and slowly descending. Someone shouted at them in Russian and Chinese to hurry and get down.

“What are they pouring on the wood?” The Baron was mystified.

“Kerosene. The fire trucks carry kerosene, not water.”

Fire trucks circled a pyramid. Spray from their hoses was directed in a high arc over its sides, a bright veil that didn’t freeze. The trucks moved on, spraying other pyramids along the row.

At a pistol shot, a crowd of men carrying burning torches, dots of light like a moving necklace, surrounded the first pyramid. Another pistol shot and pale flame spread quickly as wind over the huge pyramid. A great shout from the crowd. The fire’s hunger increased and the color of the flames deepened. With a roar, the heat reached them, hot on their faces. Fur coats were opened and hats were abandoned in the searing cocoon of heat.

A man, drunk, ran to the flames to toss a vodka bottle on the pyre but was tackled and dragged back by his laughing friends. There were cheers from those watching.

Flames rose from the second pyramid. The photographer and his crew jerked the camera tripod from the snow and fled, comic silhouettes, hobbling figures weighed down by their awkward equipment.

The wind changed. Smoke rolled toward them, carrying a blizzard of particles, twirling specks of paper, bark, leaves, twisted threads from shrouds and clothing, an odor of wood and something foul. Panicked, the watchers pulled masks over their faces, fearing the spread of bacilli from the burning bodies. They fled as snow melted around their boots, trampling the sodden discarded clothing. A swarm of red sparks followed them like vengeance, directed by xiefeng, the evil winds that could strike mind and body.